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.

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Another One By Lou's Tools