Howdy Blogulites. Sorry for the extended hiatus. Its been a rough two weeks around the homestead, beginning with the passing of my step father's father, and ending with the death of my grandfather. So, yeah, things have been a tad odd. The death of a parent is a bit of an upender. My father died a couple years back and it really brought mortality into light for me. Plus he had the same name as me so it really creeped me out seeing the tombstone and funeral announcements...but ANYWAY. I know what my mother and step dad are going through right now. I just wanted to stop in here and spill my guts for a moment about my grandfather so if you have a second, read it. If not, I'll be back to normal posts in no time flat!
Charles K. Will, my gramps, was born in 1923. My Mom put together a DVD slide show of his life that basically served one initial purpose; to choke my heart like Tyson on a first date. But after I got over the initial shock of emotions I started to look deeper into the images. First off, a lot has changed in people in general. My sister and I sat down the other night and read some of the letters he wrote to his friends. World War II was raging on and America had just gotten involved. All his friends were either in Europe fighting or at one of the military camps waiting to be sent off. A motorcycle accident had sealed my grandfather's fate. No, he wasn't riding it...as family luck would have it, a motorcycle struck him as he was riding a bike causing severe damage to his knee. This, in turn, ruined his chances for the draft. So while all his friends were in their olive drab uniforms, my gramps, in a bitter-sweet turn of humor signed all his letters to his friends "Charlie 4F." (4F was the designator for folks that were ineligible for the draft).
This got me to thinking about how people today are so different from the folks of his era. It made me realize what a different breed my generation is to his. Nowadays, kids would jump up and cheer and go buy a hooker if they found out they were ineligible for the draft. But my grandfather was completely heartbroken that he couldn't go. Maybe its just a matter of folks taking their freedom for granted or maybe its just plain old self-centeredness, but either way my grandfather and his pals were willing to put themselves in harms way for the cost of freedom. That was something that I'd never known about him...something I'd wish I'd known before he passed away.
I could sit here and type about how great of a guy he was or go into detail how much of a public figure he was in my home town but that's irrelevant. I could mention his love for making folks laugh or how he would sit up all night with his friends playing cards. But that doesn't matter. As I stood at the funeral (with the DVD movie streaming on repeat) it hit home to me. My grandfather was a good man for two reasons. He loved his family and he had respect for people. Those are the two building blocks. Those two things are the foundation. He had a great foundation and he built a wonderful family on top of it and I'm lucky to have been a part of it.
So I'm just going to say thanks, gramps. Thank you for the foundation you built. We'll do our best to keep it sturdy. I hope that the card games up there are long and loud and that you come out smelling like cheap perfume.
Side note: My grandmother told me that everyone who went with my grandfather on the day he got rejected from the draft got sent to France. None of them came home.
Happy Birthday Bubba. On this day a star was born.
LOS ANGELES, California (AP) -- Audiences feasted on zombies as the fright flick "Dawn of the Dead" ruled the box office, debuting with $27.3 million and bumping "The Passion of the Christ" from the top spot.
Well, they are kinda the same movie. Over-The-Top violence and creepy people rising from the dead. Only I"m betting that "Dawn of the Dead" is more entertaining.
What really makes me laugh is that a majority of filmgoers out to see Passion are Christians...right? Okay, and these are the same folks basically screaming to get violence and nudity and wrong content off the air. YET, when I went to see Passion a pretty large majority of the crowd were kids under the age of 12. What makes THIS movie any different from the other run of the mill violent popcorn flicks? Hypocritical if you ask me. There are better ways to teach your children about religion. You don't have to scare them into a submissive stupor. Check yourselves, FOOLS!!!
Well, I realize now that I have no willpower whatsoever. zilch, nada, ZERO. Why, you ask? I'll tell ya. My girlfriend is currently on a fitness kick. Taebo, Aerobics, Body Flow, Swimming, weight-lifting, cow pushing, midget tossing...ANYTHING that will help her to get in shape. So last week she comes home talking about diets. Okay, first off, she weighs 85 lbs wet, and second off, diets suck. But she comes home talking about diets. Okay, I'll bite...what diet are you interested in?
"The Adkins diet," She replies.
As I inquire to said diet she informs me that its a high-protein, low carb diet. What that means is lots and lots of meat, zero starches, zero sugars. So i'm thinking, hmmm, I like steak, like chicken, I like steer. And in the immortal words of Homer Simpson, "I could even eat a baby deer....la la la la who's that baby dear on the lawn today." Sounds like a man's diet to me, right? Lots of dead animals and few green vegetables thrown on top for garnish. A little color to spice up the cooked flesh. So I muttered five words that I should've left in the back of my throat.
Sure Honey, lets try it. We decide to start the diet on saturday morning. I wake up feeling positive about my new choice of lifestyle, cause its not a diet...its a lifestyle. I entered into the kitchen, bed head in full affect, and broke out the frying pan. Eggs and bacon...both perfectly fine on Dr. Atkins' list. Easy...no problem.
For lunch I had roast beef, cheddar cheese, celery, and a diet Pepsi with lemon for that extra ZING. Dinner was an order of one of man's favorite staples. Matter of fact they should be their own food group: Hot Wings. And again hot wings are cool on the list.
What isn't cool on the list are the following items which I completely need to survive: Sugar (pretty big one there). And in the sub category of sugar we have: Turkey Hill Iced Tea, Girl Scout Cookies (and i had 4 boxes just staring me in the face in my cupboard), brownies, bar-b-que sauce, Pasta, rice, crackers, pretzels, chips, popcorn, potatoes, did i mention pasta? soda, beer, tortillas...
OH MY GOD What was I thinking?
By the third day I was cussing people out at the grocery store who were cool enough to be able to shop in the snack aisle. Walking down the aisles past the cookies literally caused me pain. I caught myself staring in awe at a box of pancakes. WHAT in the hell had I become?
So last night after a dinner of beef tips and vegetables (which was perfectly fine in my book) I stumbled upon the four boxes of NastyBitch Scout cookies. I opened the cupboard door and there they were...standing in unity. The horrible little wenches on the boxes smiling back at me as if to say "C'mon wit....you knooooow you want to." When had I become a sugar junky? I stood there looking at the cookies as they mocked me, dreaming of tossing a troop of girl scouts into a giant mixing bowl and making my very own batch of home made goodness. And it hit me: Why am i doing this? I enjoy eating. I am somewhat comfortable with myself. I may not be the perfect male specimen (not by a long shot) but I have a cool pair of shoes and I can run pretty fast. So there i was standing in the same spot on which I'd originally told my girlfriend I'd try the diet and I utter five words again...
You know, FUCK this diet!!
And from inside my snack cupboard the girl scout cookies cheered. The tortilla chips were doing a little mexican hat dance for me....VIVA LA FAT ASS!!!! Oh, I'm still down for the steaks and the wings and the roast pork and chicken and all that. But i'm going to be a normal person and add some pasta or rice or even a piece of chocolate cake afterwards, thank you very much. Because my luck, i'd be on this diet for six freakin' months...thin as an ethiopian horse jockey and strutting it down the street proudly, smiling from ear to boney ear and I"d get my ass run over by a Chips A'Hoy Truck.
Its friday. Isn't friday cool? I don't know about you guys but fridays produce a different mindset with me. Makes no sense but its true. I can have 3 hours of sleep the night before and I have no problem getting up for friday work. Maybe its the fact of the looming weekend. Maybe its the fact that Friday is our corporate dress-down day (whoopity doo, right?). Either way, I love fridays. I think folks are a little different on fridays too. I'd love to hear your comments on this one cause maybe i'm just insane...haha
I was checking out CNN.COM like I usually do, taking in the world events. Big in the news right now are the Madrid Bombings, the Democratic Campaign of Senator John Kerry (who you all should be voting for if you ever want to be able to truly have a say in your own personal life), and of course the hullabaloo over the same sex marraiges. Its all crazy stuff right now. The real life news is overshadowing the drama in the movies and on TV. But ONE item is standing out in the forefront of all the muck. One item is more shocking than any lesbian love partners marching on the capital. One person is driving us back to rethinking the way we judge the media and entertainment. Is it Howard Stern? Mel Gibson? Spaulding Gray???? NOPE! Brace yourselves folks...the image may scare you.
Meet William Hung. For those of you who missed the auditions for American Idol on Fox, you missed something quite amazing. Now before we go much further, I'd like you to take a moment and watch this performance...click on the link ---->
Let it all Hung out
Now just let that sink in for a second. I really love to watch this guy and he is having a hell of a time isn't he? Guess what? He just got a record deal. No bullshitting. Not only that but go to Yahoo or Google and do a search for "William Hung." You'll be AMAZED at the fan sites this guy has. This is another testiment to the GRRREAATNESS of the American Idol. The show is a train wreck. Its one of those things that just sounds like another boring Star Search. But once that show comes on I can't take my eyes off it. I feel so guilty. But it is proving something to me. If William Hung is getting this type of attention then obviously something is wrong with what is being toted as "popular music."
The really good musicians out there today, the really INTERESTING ones are getting sidelined for whatever reason and its NO WONDER that album sales are down and people are pirating music off the internet. They dont' want to pay for a whole album of crap for one or two decent songs. So I say this, "Milk it, Brother Hung...take it as FAR as you can go because your success will just confirm what I and a bunch of other people are complaining about." We dont need another boy band or another hooker in short clothing. We need artists who are going to put out good album. Music with content. Did you know that U2 had to loan the money to their record company to put out their award winning "All That You Can't Leave Behind?" Did you know that Dave Matthews basically funded his own record releases and TOURS not only at an early stage but even later on in his career. Why? Because these bands are not quick sells but they are musicians. That's why you can't hear Rhett Miller or Ryan Adams or Far or Radiohead or Damien Rice or Thursday on the radio. The labels aren't into development...they're into get rich quick.
Hope everyone has a super weekend. Let it all hang out...not literally i hope.
Man I just love people. Aren't people just the fucking greatest creation in the world? Seriously? They are so complex. What other animal is there that can bring a smile across your face. What other species do you know of that can so easily ruin your day? I can't think of any. Dogs come in second on the list but they're waaaaaaaaay behind the homo sapien. Hell, there are some people in your life that all they have to do is walk past you and look at you and BAM, you're pissed off. Like that special co-worker who just slides on by like he's got Crisco shoes. Or that nosy neighbor who thinks that you can't see her dumb ass as she's peeking through the vertical blinds. The one who is on the phone with child services cause your kid likes to eat dirt. We see you, bimbo, and your house coat is fucking ugly...why don't you spend a little more time on the thigh master instead of worrying about our children's eating habits. It isn't' our fault that no one is brave enough to knock your overbearing ass up.
I mean we all have "special" folks in our lives. The button pushers, the smiley fucks, the glowing folks, the jesters, and the whogivesashit...now you're going "what the hell is he talking about?" If you haven't figured it out by now, I have my own little manual for life and everything has a term or a title or designator. Button pushers are the folks who know the EXAAAACT words to say to make that forehead vein pop out and start doing the Irish Spring Dance inside your head. Smiley fucks are the ones who walk around with that cheery verging-on-disturbing smile regardless of the situation. Your house could be burning down while someone runs off with your wife right after a tree fell on your brand new car and there they would be. SMILING. Offering their little quips of positive nonsense. Your pants could be on fire and Smiley would chime in with a "ohhh...lets roast marshmallows and sing campfire songs." Usually he/she has some catch phrase up his sleeve. And Smilies ALWAYS refer to you in third person. "So, how wit doing today?" "How's life treatin' the ole' witser???" "What's going on in wit's world today?"
WHY DON"T YOU FUCKING ASK HIM, RETARD??
Glowing folks are the people who just bring light into your world. Depending who you are they could be anyone...your children, your lover, your mailman (if you're waiting on that Green Lantern Decoder Ring), your grandparents. They are the type of person who has that uncanny ability to wash the weight of the world off your shoulders, if only for a brief moment.
The Jester. Ahhhh the jester. A male fills the Jester role about 90% of the time. Some Jesters try to be jesters and some don't. The ones that don't are usually the ones who just can't seem to get it right. The kinda kid who somehow manages to teeter on the edge of destruction but somehow manages to pull himself away from the brink and garner a laugh at the same time. A perfect example of a Jester would be my nephew Chance. This kid is straight-up born to lose. I swear he is. Even when he's TRYING to not get in trouble, he still gets in trouble. So its one of those situations where you simulaneously feel sorry for both Chance and his parents cause you know they're losing their rocks one marble at a time. Chance can leave the house with a perfectly good cell phone and return with a mangled up ball of broken plastic, circuit boards, and wires. He has no idea how it happened, nor can he explain it without the inevitable shoulder shrug and a "It wasn't my fault." But it still happens....and we all laugh like hell at him sooner or later. I've seen Chance ride his bike STRAIGHT into a wall. That's right. Why does he do it? "I don't know" "My friend told me to" "It wasn't my fault." And of course we all laugh.
And finally the whogivesashit. The whogivesashit is basically the person who you just can't seem to remember. You know their face, you know their voice. But for the life of you, you never remember their name, nor can you remember why you're talking to this person in the first place. And the average whogivesashit usually has a tendency to go on and on and on and on about shit you just don't...er...give a shit about.
SO that's a generalized break-down of the people in my life. But it works for the most part. Feel free to adopt this method of categorization in your daily life. Have fun, chitlins. Talk to ya later.
Part III - Bubba, Master Story Teller
Bubba slowly turned towards me. The look on his face told me he was about to do the techno-color yawn...about to hurl chunks all over his sneakers. His Dad was enroute to the scene where his car, still wedged against the broken tombstone, sat in a mangled mess. He couldn't even look at his car. I went back to survey the damage again. The broken shards of red and yellow plastic that were once the turn signal covers. The puddle of anti-freeze pooling on the grass, already causing an environmental incident in my head. I was sure that some poor defenseless shrew or field mouse or tombstone critter was going to gulp the green stuff down and die in writhing jig of pain.
"What are we gonna do, Wit?" Bubba asked. There we go with the "we" stuff again. He was still not taking his eyes off the barren road. Any moment, headlights would rise over the crest and Bubba's bladder would let go in a warm embarrassing rush.
I took a deep breath and let it out in a noisy whoosh. "Look, he already knows you had an accident, right?"
Bubba nodded in agreement but I was sure his mind was elsewhere.
"But you didn't tell him HOW it happened, right?"
Bubba finally turned away from the road, his forehead scrunched in a questioning scowl. Maybe it was the tone of my voice or my false-confidence, either way he was intrigued.
"So don't TELL him you were too busy looking in your backseat to pay attention to which way the road went."
He ran his hand through his hair all the way to the back of his neck. His hand worked his neck as if trying to rub out a kink. From the back of his throat came a grunting, gravelly sound. "What the hell am I supposed to tell him?"
"I don't know," I shot back trying to hide my frustration, "tell him you swerved to miss something. Like maybe a car or a kid or a dog or some shit."
"A kid," He said with wide eyes as if saying 'yeah, that'll fly.'
"You know what I mean," I said now sounding full of frustration. "Just tell him anything but what really happened. You tell him that shit and you'll never drive your car again."
"Shit," Bubba moaned and kicked at the grass. "Shit shit shit!"
"Did he sound pissed" I asked gingerly.
His face was chalk-white with a blue-ish tint from the lights over the parking lot. I was sure that if it had been daytime, his facial tone would've been pretty close to the same color. "What do you think," he cried.
I already knew the answer. Bubba's Dad was the perpetually grumpy sorta fellow who was happy sitting in his lazy boy infront of the TV. Hell, I was lucky if I got a hello from the man on the rare times I got anything at all. He wasn't a mean guy by any sorts, just his own sort of gentleman. Before I could answer, Bubba interrupted me.
"Oh fuuuuck," he said pointing down the road. Headlights. Coming our way. I was sure it was Bubba's Dad. I was sure he was going to smack us both around. Bubba for being a moron, and me just cause I was there. I realized that I myself felt a little sick in my stomach. I also realized something else.
Bubba was laughing.
It was the kind of laugh you'd expect in a horror movie or a movie about an insane asylum. It was a laugh that said he was on the last bus to Nutsville and his ticket was already stamped. "Holy shit," he said through his unnerving laughter, "here he comes, Wit. Here he comes." And in that split second I was suddenly so sure that he was going to bolt off into the cornfield. I was positive he was going to leave me standing next to his broken down car and the broken down tombstone. Standing in a torn up cemetery as his furious father looked down at me and blamed me for everything. Bubba was pacing. He was chewing his fingers and pacing and mumbling something that was close to hysteria. He was gonna crack harder than Theisman's leg and I was gonna be left holding the bag.
"Look," I blurted, "tell him this..." But in that moment of fear my mind was blank. The portion of my brain that had become so highly developed in the art of bullshitting suddenly shut down on me. I sent the request for a bullshit story and got nothing back. Holy hell I was drawing a blank. Zilch. I'd worked so hard at the art of flowerful storytelling...of excuse making...of downright bullshitting. That part of my brain was normally like lightning. And now, my brain just left me hangin'.
"Tell him you had to swerve to miss a dog." *siiiigh* Yes, I know. I suck. Even as the words came out of my mouth I wanted to kick my own ass for being so lame. A DOG??
"Huh?" bubba asked, slightly more puzzled than I was.
"Y-Yeah...just tell him a dog shot out onto the road and you turned real hard to miss the damn thing."
"A dog ran out in the road," bubba said, testing the words for validity. His hand placed thoughtfully on his chin as if he were pondering his own existence.
"A dog," he repeated, looking to me for support.
"It'll work," I urged, noticing that the headlights were slowing as they approached. "A dog shot out from the field," I instructed, pointing towards the tall cornstalks, "you didn't see it at first cause it was dark. You jerked the wheel to avoid hitting the the thing and KAPLOW the rest is history."
"...and I swerved..."
"YES, SWERVED DAMMIT!!!!" I wanted to hammer the words into his forehead. It wasn't that hard of a concept to grasp was it? Little did I know. I was foolish to not realize how far into the proverbial horse dung we were. Bubba was no better at concocting a story than I was at bending spoons with my mind.
I heard Bubba's fathers car door clunk shut. "Be cool," I whispered out of the side of my mouth, more for my own sake than his. His father had this strained look on his face as if someone was driving an invisible pool stick right between his eyes. I'd seen that look before and I knew it wasn't a good sign. There was no look of concern, no look of relief that his son was okay. Only....
"JESUS, MARY and JOSEPH!!!!"
...anger.
"What in blue freakin' blazes happened," Mr Wise barked, his face strained as the invisible pool cue dug deeper into his skull. I looked over at Bubba. His mouth was moving but no sound came out. Maybe he was praying. Under the circumstances I didn't think it was too bad of an idea.
"How the..." Mr Wise started but his words were choppy. It was as if his anger was choking off the words as they rose in his throat. Sentences would form never to be finished.
You've gotta be.... This is some screwed up.... I can't goddamned believe...
I could easily fill in those blanks.
He marched around the car, spouting out his half sentences, veins bulging out on his forehead. He cussed and spat as he noticed more and more damage. The tire tracks, the crumpled front end, the destroyed tombstone. They all got their own creative cussing exercise. Had it been a different environment, I'd have been taking notes. After his third or fourth lap he must've ran out of swear words, either that or realized he was on holy ground and began to fear for his soul. Either way, the damage surveillance ceased and he turned his attention on his son. And this, my friend, is where the magic of Bubba kicks in.
When you're a teenager, you live your life making excuses to cover your ass. Its a fact of life. Anyone who says differently is either an only child (who can you blame?) or a girl. You have to literally build your whole existence keeping up this chain of fairy tales because its gotten so bad you just don't' remember what the truth is anymore. So as your ability to spin yarn gets better you have to take stock in your surroundings. You have to know who your fellow bullshit artists are and who were the kids you told to stand there and nod. Bubba was a nodder. Never trust a nodder to hold up his end of the yarn.
"What in THEEE hell happened," Mr Wise said, his eyes drilling holes in his son's stomach.
Dog dog dog dog, I thought. I closed my eyes and clenched my fists. I wanted to send bubba my thoughts. I wanted to talk to him through telekinesis...enter his mind...take control of his body. ANYTHING. I forced my thoughts so severely that I was sure my head was going to explode. But Bubba made no sign that he was receiving anything from me. He stood there, for what seemed like three hours, fidgeting with his fingers and blinking repeatedly.
"Well???" His dad demanded.
Like I said in previous posts, Bubba wasn't the quickest roach in the kitchen. And with his dad looming over him, veins bulging, face red, I didn't blame him. I was fighting the urge to curl up under a rock myself. Finally Bubba's eyes met his father's. He sucked in a huge breath. What came out next was a torrent of words. A hail of verbal machine gun fire that shot past both Mr Wise and I, leaving us semi-retarded for a split second:
"Weweredrivingdowntheroadandweweren'tgoingfastbutweweredrivingandwestartedgoingupthehilland--"
Holy Jesus, I thought...
"--itwasdarkandiwasdrivingandwitgotinthebackseatwithcrackersandhewascheckingitout--"
Dog, bubba....DOG!
"andilookeddowntheroadandtherewasthisdoganditwasrunningaroundandaroundand--"
Let me translate because to this day I still cringe: I looked down the road and there was this dog and it was running around and around...at this point the whole jig was up. Our train had derailed on its way to Happytown and we were stuck carrying the luggage.
"andIwasafraidtohititanditwasrunningaroundand--"
"BULLSHIT!!!" Mr Wise exploded. "HOW DAMN STUPID DO I LOOK???" He wheeled around and for a split second I was sure he was turning on me. He KNEW that somehow this was my fault and he was turning to clock me in the noggin. Shit, I deserved it for putting bubba up to story he just completely botched. Instead he marched over to the car, flopped down into the drivers seat and turned the key.
And of course, the car started. OF COURSE. God was up there smiling. He was a sick sumbitch when he wanted to be. But he had my kind of sense of humor. The car klunked and sputtered but it was running. He grinded the gears into reverse and managed to somehow back off the wreckage that was the tombstone. After piloting the car back onto the road he got out again.
"You," he said, pointing a commanding finger at Bubba who all but snapped to attention, "take this damn mess home and park it in the garage."
"But what about the tombstone, I..."
"MOVE IT," he bellow, "before the cops show up and haul you off."
Bubba jumped in his broken dream, hours before his ticket to freedom, now a jalopy that was on the verge of giving up the ghost.
Mr Wise turned towards me as his son's car smoked and klunked towards home. His face was still strained but a little less severe. The veins in his head seemed to deflate.
"C'mon, I'll take you home," he said with a sigh.
Bubba ended up having to pay almost $2000 for the tombstone on top of the costs to repair his car. He also had to pay for the damage to the cemetary yard and deal with the jabs and jibes from family and friends. Everytime he would go for a drive for the next 2 years he'd hear "watch out for dogs" or "stay out of graveyards, Bubba." My mom even threatened to make me help pay for the damage. "I know you had something to do with this," she'd said through suspicious eyes, at which point I'd find the nearest exit and run like hell.
But I can still remember the ride home that fateful evening.As I sat in the passenger seat listening to Mr Wise let loose on how he just couldn't figure his son out I began to think about what he'd said.
MOVE IT, before the cops show up and haul you off.
Bubba's father was in the process of spinning his own yarn. He was dodging Johnny Law in the same manner that we spent our teenage lives attempting to. It made me realize that you never really step out of the Bullshit business. You never really stop trying to cover your ass. There's always going to be another story to tell.
Unless you're a nodder.
Okay, I just got done bitching about FCC and I was going to take the post down and then decided against it. Why censor myself? hahah. Anyway, a lot of you know me personally. Those of you that don't probably at least know that I am a musician (if only at heart...bastard record companies!!!). I love making music, it can be one of the most uplifting things you could ever experience. There are times when you're playing with a group of people and everything just clicks for a second and its like a drug. Of course, we won't mention the times where you feel like pulling an El KaBong and whacking your xylophone player over the head because he can't hit the bridge with everyone else. But I guess that's what makes it so much fun. The sheer unpredictability, the power and almost reachable enlightenment.
But let me tell you what sucks huge seacow ass and I think that a lot of my musician friends will agree. Dealing with club owners. Club owners are a strange breed. They are in a species all by themselves folks. Somewhere in the same subspecies as a Used Car Salesman or a Purse Snatcher (I should probably be careful on this ground I be treadin'...cause there are always exceptions). They will hold a golden carrot in front of your face and then snatch it away for no other reason than the fact that he can.
And the worst part is that they are a necessary evil. I mean bands can't exist without the clubs, right? Not unless they want to be playing at back yard Bar-B-Q's and kid's birthday parties. We, as musicians, need a safe haven. We need a support group. We need a righter of wrongs. Someone to throttle the booking guys for better shows. Someone to kick ass when we get shorted on pay. Someone to help set up the drumset and make sure the drummer doesn't drink 12 beers before going on...hahaha.
Don't join a band kids...its way more work than it looks. Do something easy with your life. Become a doctor or a giraffe or something
Did you know there is a war going on? And no I'm not talking about Iraq. I'm not talking about Haiti. I'm not even talking about Coke vs. Pepsi. What I AM talking about is the FCC against the you. They are telling you what is right for you to watch or listen to. They're basically saying "you don't know what's good for you, honey chile', let us tell you." I'm not a huge fan of Howard Stern or any of the other shock jocks but I do listen to Howard once in a while because he is relevant, he's current, and when he's not being crass, he's entertaining.
Here's what is going on...and I'll use radio as an example. A majority of the radio stations are owned by one or two very large corporations. In this instance, Viacom and Clear Channel. Now what happens is this: a certain group of people, a minority group (I"m not saying minority as in race so put your race cards away, hair splitters) at that, decides that they've been offended. Who knows what happened. Maybe they saw a titty on TV or maybe someone was speaking to loosely about sex or God forbid someone said a foul word. Either way, they get offended. They become outraged and need to pull out their laser pointers and set their sites on someone who symbolizes the type of entertainment that has offended them. They rally and cry and the FCC starts handing out fines. In the end, the people who have some goddamned common sense in their head and KNOW when to turn off the TV or radio when they hear something they don't agree with suffer. The people who aren't afraid to hear something controversial or intelligent (granted Howard isn't always the MOST intelligent broadcasting but he tests you) are the ones who are paying the price.
And here is my second point to all this. I may be off the mark here but first, none of these shock jocks have really gotten any worse over the years. Its not like in the last few months they've stepped up their game and started raping calves on their show to see how far they can go. NO! What has changed is power that some of these groups and people have. I believe that they have a right to voice their outrage. They have a right to say whatever the hell they want to say. What they don't have a right to do is stop someone else from doing their thing.
It sure seemed like this media crackdown started after the SuperBowl...I call it Janet's Mammary Malfunction. Here is my stance on this one. Janet was way wrong to pull out the can during superbowl. You can argue either way...it was just a boob big deal. But the bottom line is this, it was unexpected, it was prime time family broadcasting, kids were watching and most parents don't want their kids seeing it. They would just rather not have to explain it. Was it shocking? No not really. Was it something that will damage young minds? I really doubt it. But regardless, it was during an event that really doesn't need that sort of thing. And that leads me to the third point: when you tune into Howard, or Rush, or Mancow, or Dave Chappell Show, you pretty much know exactly what you're in for. There's no guessing there. These folks are famous for racy content and we all know that so its not like these folks are invading your home. Its not like you can't avoid them. So I say this: Use your head...turn it off if you don't like it but don't be a stifler...its unconstitutional aint it?
I'm sorry to keep going over stuff like this with ya. I just think that we're starting to walk backwards as far as our Government telling us what to do. Personally, I don't want to be told who to pray to or what to listen to or who I can marry. I want everyone to be able to choose for themselves. You should too.
Part II - Cheez Nips and Gravestones
When we last left our heroes they had four wheels in the air, sailing across the graveyard of the Salem Hellers Church (true name, swear to God). The engine screamed as the tires spun without the resistance of the road to slow them down. We were the real-life Dukes of Hazzard. We were adolescent Evil Kinevil's in a duel with death and dismemberment. As the old Pontiac leapt across the manicured grass of the graveyard, flying over the corpses who were suddenly rolling in their grave, one thought crossed my mind.
I'm dead.
I somehow knew that this was the last ride. I was on the highway to hell and I never even put on my seatbelt. At least they wouldn't have far to carry my body.
The flight of the Phoenix (the Pontiac type) came to an abrupt halt as bumper met tombstone. In a cacophony of clashing objects, cracking marble, me screaming like a girl, and the protest of metal bending against its will, that sudden slow-motion world I'd been inhabiting suddenly left me. It was replaced by that tumbling breathless feeling that only happens in a vehicle accident. I was a rag doll in a shoe box and someone was shaking the hell out of it.
From our earliest elementary science classes we're taught that objects in motion want to STAY in motion. We learn that from our first encounters with skateboards and roller skates and falling down steps. But let me tell you, its a hell of a lot less fun when you practice that theory in a one and a half ton American-made automobile. When bubba's car collided with the tombstone it provided enough resistance to stop the car dead in its track. I, however, did not. I'm not sure how it happened, nor do I remember it, but I suddenly found myself in the front seat. My head was down on the passenger-side floor, wedged in there like a tennis ball in a chainlink fence. Cheez Nips littered the car. They were on the floor, in my hair, on the seats, the dash. They were crumbled on the side of my face as if I tried to eat them by shoving my head into the box.
I managed to un-wedge my head from beneath the dash and struggled myself back into a sitting position. By now it was dark, the only light falling on the graveyard was cast from the halogen lights over the church's parking lot. The hood of bubba's car was crinkled and pushed up. A bluish-white cloud of steam rose from beneath it. I couldn't think straight. I was dumbfounded. I couldn't believe it. One minute we're two kids, wanderlust between us, happier than we've ever been. The next, we're sitting in a graveyard in a cheez nip strewn, crippled car. I had to fight the urge to burst from the vehicle and run off into the night. We were in some deep shit.
"What the..." I started, "What the FUCK just happened."
Bubba moaned to the left of me. I looked over at him and noticed his face was bleeding. His face pounded the steering wheel so hard that his tooth punctured through his lip and the blood was flowing down his chin. He tried to mumble something through his swollen mouth that vaguely resembled a line from Fat Alberts Mush Mouth character.
"Oh my god," He said, but it came out
Ohm by dod.
"What the fuck," I repeated. I tried to open the passenger door but it was stuck shut. I leaned into it with my shoulder and the door broke free with a protesting groan and swung open. I jumped out, surveying the damage. "How tha....?" I asked, my question trailing off into the night.
"What are we gonna do, Wit," bubba asked through bloody teeth.
"WE????" I barked. How had this become a "we"? How did I suddenly become an accomplice in the murder of an innocent grave stone, which now lay in the damp grass in two pieces. Before I could argue more, I saw the look in bubba's eyes. It was a terrible look of pain, embarrassment, and fear all rolled into one. He looked on the verge of falling down into the grass and giving up. I suddenly had a dull fear that it would be bubba darting off into the night instead of me.
"Okay...okay," I said in a somewhat calmer tone. "Lets see if we can get the car running again." I had it in my head that if we could get the car running, we'd get the hell outta Dodge and stash the car at my house until we could figure something out. The car had other ideas. Bubba turned the key and the engine turned over reluctantly but never fired to life.
"Its dead," bubba said but continued to turn the key, hoping that the master of the house we just invaded would smile down on him for a split second and help bubba get his car going again. I think god was a little too pissed off at his broken tombstone and the huge tire marks in his front yard to grant us his forgiveness at this point.
"It ain't gonna start," I said. "We need to flag down a car or something. Can't walk home for christ sake."
No sooner had the words left my mouth and I saw lights coming around the turn up the road. A car was coming; the first car since we'd pulled our stunt. Who knew when the next car would come along? "Go down to the road and get that guy to stop."
As bubba trotted off to hail the driver, I surveyed the damage again in disbelief. I was trying to think of someway we could get out of this. It was hopeless. The tombstone was destroyed, the grass torn up in long muddy rutts, and the said tire tracks would lead right back to us. Again, we were screwed, we had zero luck, God hated us, and our parents were gonna chop off our heads and pee down....
"He has a phone in his car," bubba called, thankfully derailing my train of thought. Now you have to remember something. This was 1986. Cell phones were almost non-existent except for the techno-phobes and the well-to-do.
"A what?" I called back just to make sure I heard what I heard.
"A phone," He called back waving me over. I trotted over to the car. The driver had a look of confusion on his face that mirrored the way I felt. Don't ask, buddy, you wouldn't believe it anyway.
"Call my mom for me," bubba pleaded.
"Boy, you musta hit your head pretty hard back there," I said, wide-eyed. "I ain't calling anyone."
"C'mon," he begged.
"Screw you!!! Just call them and tell them you had a minor accident and you need them to come get you!!"
"They're gonna kill me," he replied, his eyes looking a little wet around the edges.
Well, yeah, I thought. That's probably exactly what they're gonna do. "No they won't," I said in my most confident voice, "its not even that bad." No, not at all...
"They're gonna kill me," he mumbled again as he dialed the number. I stood by, listening intently for screams of angry surprise from the other end as he told his parents about his "accident." I chewed my fingernails as he answered a number of questions I couldn't hear but could imagine. Are you hurt? Did you kill anyone? Are you freakin' retarded? Were you driving too fast? All answered with a yes or no or uh huh, all the while looking as sick as a new sailor. Finally, the conversation ceased and bubba handed the phone back to the nice gent who had the will to pull over and help us out.
We watched in silence as the Samaritan drove off, both wishing to be anywhere but standing here on the side of this farm road listening to the crickets chirp and our own dread set in. I looked at bubba. He didn't look back...just kept staring down the road as if expecting an answer to come...either that or a truck to come along and run him over.
"Its bad," he said, finally. The look in his eyes matched the tone or resignment in his voice. "My Dad is on his way."
Tune in for Part III - Bubba, Master Story Teller
