oh, you're still here?

Wow. Still this blog exists. I wish I could be a blogger. Maybe when I grow up. Maybe someday.

This charming charlie

I'm saddened this tumblr blog is being removed after barely a month. Combining morrissey/smiths with the peanuts. Perfect. And it's ending too soon. But you knew it couldn't last. Legal reasons. Petty reasons. You knew it wouldn't last. But it was nice while it lasted. Brilliant. And in apparent closing fashion, she exits stage left with a nice little fuck-you post to the suits in a new post after being shut down. I wish the best to this artist. Such a great idea. She'll have more. And we'll all be fine. Pity the suits. Heaven knows they're miserable now.

Sigur Ros

We saw our favorite band tonight. Sigur Ros. To say it was beauty beyond words would only cheapen the magic. It was impossible. And I'll leave it at that.

Welcome back. He muses to himself.

I somewhat casually realized that I began this blog mostly for myself, for my own amusement, about four years ago and have proceeded to casually neglect it for more than  the past two years. That and I fancy long sentences. Who knows why we start blogs. And why we abandon them. Because we have something to say and then we don't. I read something once about the quantity and/or percentage of blogs begun/forgotten. I don't recall the source or specifics but the numbers were large. So I'm no different.

But I am now typing with two untrained thumbs on my wi-fi but not-new OS phone. Since two years ago when I most recently abandoned this little blog, I have a different job, a fledgling business, a third perfect child on the way, and an overall sense of being closer to where I felt I should be by now. But, it's just a blog. A blog for me. By me and for me. I'll pass on twitter, mostly pass on tumblr and facebook, and have no use for google plus. So we'll see what happens.

slo mo

I often whine and mumble and complain that time goes too quickly, just as my clairvoyant mother said it would the older I get. Being in my mid to late thirties, I don't particularly enjoy the idea of time moving too quickly. I'm not certain what's occured the past fifteen years to take me from twenty three to my current dilemna of this thirty eight business. I've never felt that old. And I recognize that thirty eight is not really at all "old". Nevertheless, time moves quick and I am often guilty of not looking around a while and appreciating it, which only makes it move that much more quickly.
So this morning it was rather odd that things seemed to be moving in slow motion for me. Water out of the faucet - rather the slowness with which I ran the water. But I had to. I was running water from the Brita filter and the thing kept popping off the faucet. So I had to run the water very lightly. A step beyond a drip really. Then the coffee brewed much slower than usual. Not sure why. The ceiling fan seems to be moving in slower circles above my head. It's already about 82 degrees and I'm a delicate flower that wilts in the heat. The Betta fish aren't even bopping around with their usual verve. Plus I'm wearing my Union City All Stars band tee, above the name it reads "a little slower". Sunday morning. Coming down.

the nat'l futbol leeg (NFFL)

So, so sick of the NFL talk. Lockout, canceled season, spoiled imbeciles arguing over their toys. Both sides of the argument hole up in luxury hotels in various cities - a new one every other week it seems. Cameras everywhere. They're working so hard to hammer out a deal. They're just going at it, trying so hard and working so diligently. Assholes. The lot of them. I don't care about the upcoming pro football season. I really don't. Ray Lewis said without the season there would be an increase in crime. That's absolutely true, though in a different way than how he meant it.

Play, don't play. I don't care and I hope multitudes of football fans - which I cannot personally claim to be - come to that conclusion. I realize there are many issues of great importance, matters of consequence. I get that. But strip away all the tiny and endless details and it's a matter of millionaires and billionaires arguing over their money. About nine billion dollars of it. They can't figure out how to split nine billion dollars. It's a bit sickening.

What would be really sad - or funny if you're a nihilist - is to see these children have to work for a living. Even for a week. A day. Work a real job. Read a book. Do a good dead. Do something thankless and meaningful without the cameras. See, I'm pissed now and over-generalizing. That's wrong, I know. But facts are there. Millionaires and billionaires bickering like spoiled brats over the best way to spend nine billion dollars. Sickening.

words matter...

They really do. Words are not so much quantifiable. They can go on and on and lose meaning and honesty. But words matter. I was just reminded of that so simply. Reading comments of strangers, comments on a short, sincere blog post an old friend wrote about the recent devastation of his hometown. His words meant something. Yes, he's a writer and a good one from what I've imagined, and somehow just know, but this was not fiction. This was remembrance and history and emotion. Not filtered. It meant something to most who read it. Words can do that. Words matter. Choosing them wisely, with great care, great expectation, that's another topic for another day. They can come quick and hard, soft and benign. However they find the page, they can stop a storm. Words matter. They just do.

song opening

"she folded the napkin lengthwise"

I'd love to begin a song with that first line. I do not know why. But it sounds like a song of hopeless apathy. I'm not uncertain Elliott Smith once thought of those words. And obviously the song would have to have the word "harbor" in it. Harbor - my favorite lyrical word in the English language.

random thoughts, gibberish and the stress of writing

Everything I attempt to write comes out about the same. Actually, it's not just the writing that's pretty much the same. Consistency is good though. You have to love the consistent nature of a poor man's sympathetically morose aura and being. Yes?

I started writing when I was about 14 or 15 years old. Probably did it more frequently in my early 20s. Now, even the thought of writing wears me out, mentally and physically. I sweat, I curse and get the urge to hide under the covers. That's overly dramatic but more embellishment than fiction. The less I write, the less I'll screw up the story. Or script or poem or whatever it might be. Why would even the thought of writing give me such stress? When I'm not at all a writer anyway. I'm gonna think about that absurdity a while. While not writing.

blogging

Sometimes I just don't get blogs. I like the idea of it, for me personally. But truth is, I just don't have that much to say. Most anything I have to say I'll say to my family. It's in a moment, it's said and we move on. I'm talking about everyday stuff, casual stuff - stuff I might otherwise relay to a blog. Try as I may, I just don't see doing it with any regularity. It's too journal-y, too diary-y. Not me. Now if I had a wealth of interest and knowledge, maybe I'd be more willing to post a regular and ongoing state of my mind. But I haven't those things. I'm not unique. I'm not special. I'm just a guy. A father. A normal dude. I'd like to have more to say but I just don't. Sometimes I think it's better that way. Sometimes I wish for more words but then, often I'll wish for less.

25 January

January is an odd looking word. I just realized that. The spelling does not look quite right. Lots of words of that way. I'll never understand "conscience" - con science. No way that's a word. But it is. No way Hunter would have been 31 years old today. But he would have been. Five and a half years. Long time, but not really. One of those always / never; sometimes / maybe things. Like the Goddamn shadows and flickering lights and pennies and inconsistencies I cannot comprehend. January 25. Once each year. Carry on my brother.

Hunting is not a sport

It's just killing. I saw on Facebook some lunatic posing with his "trophy", grinning from ear to ear. What type of weapon did the deer killer's adversary carry? Sickening. A deer killer once asked me if I was a vegetarian, noting that if I'm not, I'm a hypocrite. Not true. Sure, I'm a hypocrite on many levels, sure, but not this. If I want meat, I go to the store. And I've heard the argument that without "hunting season" the deer will starve in the winter. Bullshit. Shooting an animal, a deer, is just mean and simply wrong. To pose in a photo with the newly killed "trophy" is beyond sickening.

Living through a lens, mic or pen

I like to write. Rather, it's something I am compelled to do from time to time. But it seems the more time spent writing, the more of real life is missed. Perfect example is anything involving the children. You have the camera, video camera, you want to capture this moment. But in the capture, you lose the experience. I'm not sure one is worth the cost of the other. Does this experience - be it monumental or ordinary, either of which defines beauty - matter most on film or in our hearts and conscious mind. Rhetorical ? there, thus no question mark. As with most anything, balance is generally the answer. But what the hell do I know.

Waiting for the next big thing

The problem is the Next Big Thing just isn't coming. You can apply this to really anything - art, poetry, fiction, music, especially music. But it's movies I'm thinking of now. I'm an eighties kid. Grew up with eighties and I'm damn happy about that. I love the eighties. Loved pretty much the entire decade as a teenager. I love the nostalgic thoughts those times give me still. Problem is, I want more.

But there is no more. There can't be another Bull Durham. There will not be another John Hughes. Cusack is older and makes generally lame movies now. The cool kids that shaped my fragile upbringing for better and worse are now middle age dads and soccer moms. It's pathetic. And I'm not getting any younger either. But I do want and almost expect more greatness from film that I just cannot find. I am aware of good films, great ones even. But it's not enough. It's not the same. Even with the age of Say Anything and Ferris and Breakfast Club and Field of Dreams - eighties films all - they still ring true and show beauty and truth and passion and move me to tears. Am I a nancyboy for stating such? Sure, I guess I am. But those films meant something and they mean something still. I'm still waiting for my next soliloquy from Crash while ironing, Annie busting in the front door. I'm still waiting for Dobler to tell me what he's not looking for in a career. I'm dying for another tough girl drummer with bangs and black gloves.

But they've all gone away. They've aged and they've died. Those who could have given more and should have given more have moved on. I may sound bitter because I am. I'm an eighties kid and expect to be entertained. Thank God the cable networks play some of these classics on an annoyingly semi-regular basis.

Columbus Day

I'm going to work on Columbus Day. It's one of those off holidays anyway. But even if it was a paid holiday, I would choose to work that day. There are only a couple people deemed worthy of a national holiday and for some bizarre reason, the great Chris Columbus is one. He didn't discover anything. To "discover" pretty much means to you know, discover something. What he thought he discovered was India. Hence, calling those already there - Indians. But then he chose to disrespect those already there, at the very least. And I'll stop there, because that's really enough. The rest is sickening. A drunken, ignorant, cruel and sadistic sailor who couldn't tell North America from India. And there is a national holiday in his honor. Yea, I'll be working this and every columbus day.

LeBron Needs a Hug

Bless his ignorant soul. He just keeps making it worse. LeBron James is just a kid who can play a game very well. That's it, a game. Off the court, he's lost. He's empty and shallow. He's a millionaire child, spoiled, entitled and sad. So he took his talents to South Beach. He cannot seem to comprehend that he's become a cartoon. He and his kiddie nation of handlers believe they're better than anyone else and act accordingly. But he's just a kid. Poor guy has never had to clean up his messes or get his hands dirty or learn how to treat others. Big guy just needs a hug. Bless his heart, LBJ just needs a hug.

Anyway, the always entertaining sports writer J Whitlock says it better. As always.

the little things

Always the little things. The little things that push you over the edge and make you so angry you have to punch a hole in a door or smash a t.v. The little things that move you to tears and make you believe like a child. The little things that make you laugh out loud and pee in your pants. Always the little things. The easiest to feel, the hardest to appreciate or even recognize. It's the little things I adore.

Olbermann

I'm torn. I really like Keith Olbermann. I loved his wit and humor on SportsCenter. He helped grow that network in the 90s. He was funny and clever and the smartest kid in the class. And I know A Sorkin modeled much of the late great gone-before-its-time Sports Night from watching K Olbermann. I only wish the guy would have stayed with sports. His smart-ass brand of humor just fits sports. When he talks politics he sounds too much like a pompous ass. I'm no Republican, but his bias is beyond obvious. I cannot agree with his take on political and social matters simply because he's so one sided. It's beside the point that I generally and oftten agree with his opinion. It's just that his show is set up as a news program. Call it entertainment and I'm on board. Totally. The guy is whipsmart and funny as hell. I just hope FoxSports can bring him back to his roots in sports.

REM

I got into REM around the early 90s. High school and into college. Eponymous was my first album. A good beginner's course, she said. I moved on to Green, then Pageant and then the earlier offerings. I was mesmerized to be sure. The voice. The lyrics I couldn't define. The sweetness of the Rickenbacher. This is about the time I started writing and playing guitar. No coincidence I'm certain.

After the massive success of Out of Time, that was about it for me. A few good songs here and there, then Berry's decision to become a civilian, and that was it for me. I just couldn't get the newer stuff - newer being anything after 1991. My younger brother at the time had the back of his car covered in band stickers. My favorite was the hardware store-bought single letters that spelled EARLY REM. And he was right. For me, "early REM" includes the trifecta of Reckoning, Fables and Pageant. That's when REM became REM. Chronic Town was impossibly good, but it was also the prelude to what was possible.

I put the Athens quartet on the shelf for many years as I explored jazz, folk, Pixies, Nirvana and indie pop. But then I heard - and I mean really heard - track one of Reckoning. That naturally led to Fables, which led to Pageant. These albums matter. They matter more now than when they were recorded. They're better now, to me, and for me. They speak and confirm and grace and hypnotize like so few pieces of music truly can. They inspire and delight. What was old, is new again.

autumn

Best time of the year. It lasts but a short time, a wrinkle really. Cooler temps, sweater weather. Baseball getting near playoff time. Leaves changing. All that crap. The best songs are written in the fall. They have to be. Summer is brutal and muggy. Winter is nice but obstructing and bitter. Spring is the time between two extremes. Autumn is the keeper of dreams.

that was waaaaay lame.