Parent Music

When I was young, I guess around 11 or 12, I began to fight the status quo I found around me. Classic rebellion of youth I guess. Anything my parents were into and that I had also been into, became a target to remove with prejudice as Old People Bullshit. I wasn't a kid anymore. Of that I was sure.

Outwardly, I appeared to be that cool kid who was hip to all the other hip kid shit my hip buds were into. We thought we were so cool, I did not appreciate the fact until much later, we weren't cool, we were just fooling ourselves like every generation before us had; we were the hippest and coolest generation in our minds only. 

While I was busy trying to fit in by talking back, breaking hard and fast rules and packing that surly punk attitude, I had cut out of my life so many wonderful things my parents had made part of our lives. 

Parent music, one of the pleasures I used to enjoy so much, I dropped in the dust behind me as I hurried to grow up. And now, I am only just really appreciating the musical foundation my parents gave me by exposing me to the music of thier lives. Dad was into Classical, some Jazz. He thought the human voice just got in the way of good music. You can imagine what he thought of opera or musicals, one of my mom's favorites. I think she maybe forced the musical/ dance experience on me just to piss off my dad. They had that kind of relationship; one baits, the other would bite. They did it so much, I figured it was just part of their normal at home leisure time.

Now that I am on my retirement cruise, I have actively attempted to dredge up as much of my past as I can. I wanted to examine what turning point moments or mindsets brought me here; the seminal moments, the eureka moments, the deep despair moments. No, in the scheme of what's important maybe, looking back has little use in the here and now. I'm fuckin retired. Recalling my past surely beats sitting on the couch, sucking down Live Stream on Netflix.

I used to rock out to my mom's swing music and tunes from the musicals I watched on the Early Show on rainy afternoons. I also experienced classical music at home and in person. When my mom was not home, my father would blast Classical or Swing Jazz throughout the house. I think he did it more because he built many components found in every common room. The amps, the speakers he built were powerful and huge. He literally liked to feel the house shake. At age 9, I loved it. At age 73, I still love the house rattle but I do it quietly now. I use headphones and jack it up to WOW.

Actively looking for the music of my past now for well over a decade has taken me to places I remember, but more importantly places I have never been. It is only now I can say without a doubt in my mind, every genre of music has something for everyone. Japanese Metal, Swiss yodeling, and Mongolians beating on drums next to their camp on the Gobi Desert; there is something there that can entertain any one of us; if we take the time to look for it. I will admit I had to dig deeper into some genres than others to find tunes I could connect with. But they are there.

Which finally brings me to the point of this post; Mixing genres, Mashups, and covers. Not only has the collection of musical genres increased because they have finally been discovered, now the creative folks are mixing them together and creating sub genres that are a hoot to listen to.

Without any more words that don't matter, please enjoy this Swing cover of the Spice Girls tune, "Wannabe", as performed by Postmodern Jukebox.

Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad. You put music in my life.

Later ...............................

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Fire and Drum - Flash Fiction Challenge # 451

The beaters were off to his left. Their drums did not worry him; they warned him.

Fires they touched off scared him though. Fire was so unpredictable.

His tail flicked.

He had figured it out. Today, they would pay for her death and the litter she carried.

Today, some of them would become prey.

This prompt lead me to the Indian Tiger hunt movies and Tarzan jungle movies of my youth. The movies championed men who hunted for sport and took unfounded pride in their trophy kills. When I was a kid, I rooted for the tiger, the lion, Hell, pretty much any beast they found in their scopes.

Sammi Scribbles - #451

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I remembered a song I thought would be a good fit with this post. It is a classic folk tune from Africa. No, it is not a Tiger song, it is a Lion song; still a big cat song carrying similar concerns.

The first version I heard long before The Beachboys made it hit in the mid 1960s, was on the first LP I ever bought with my own money. "The Kingston Trio from the Hungy I". As it turns out, this particular song is one of the most covered tunes on the planet; especially for A Capella groups. Pleases enjoy this version of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight", performed by one young woman who records it in 4 and 5 different takes, Very clever and well done ...... Enjoy.

Rudy

This is an entry into a Flash Fiction Challenge I participated in in 2011. I pulled it from my other Blog, the llittle used "Lost in the BoZone - Too". I always liked this story. The image of the Hat was the inspiration.

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Five years in a row Rudy had been voted the best Red Cap on the line from Grand Central Station in New York City right through to the LaSalle Street Station in Chicago.  His behavior, like his uniform was always spotless.  His smile was dependably quick and pleasant.  His ability to solve baggage problems became mythical tales told in station break rooms from coast to coast. He remembered all the regulars by name and treated the many travelers just passing through like old friends.

Many times early in his career, the company had offered Rudy the opportunity to leave the baggage to others and step into a management role.  Rudy refused.   More than one train executive had tried to steal him for their own station.  Rudy would not budge.  This station was his home and for the brief moments travelers came thorough his house, they were his family.

Rudy plied his trade for 52 years.  He never called in sick nor was he ever late.  He worked whatever shift needed working without complaint or excuse.  He was the perfect employee.  That is as much as anyone ever knew about him.  His time away from his job was a mystery.  He never talked about family, home, or what trouble his kids might have gotten into.  Everyone assumed he was married with children.  Rudy refused to confirm or deny any conjecture he was faced with.

It was four or five years after Rudy had retired and the old LaSalle Street Station was empty and waiting to be torn down that a son of one of the railroad executives decided that he would become a writer.  His first work would be a history of the railroad he remembered as a youngster.  He would look up old employees, try to find famous travelers, and seek information from company archives so that he could write the grandest train tale of all time. 

The young man’s father, now retired and living far away in warmer climates, told him he should stop this writing nonsense and pursue a life with more predictable rewards.  But if he was going to insist on this writing stupidity, he needed to find Rudy.  Rudy would have more stories than one book could hold. Suddenly, the old man became silent.

“Dad, what’s up?  You okay?  Dad?”

“Uh, nothing son.  I was just remembering Rudy.  He saved my job you know.  If not for him and finding that briefcase when I was a wet behind the ears young executive, I wouldn’t be here in Florida relaxing comfortably now and you would have had to attend a state college.  Yep, Rudy was special.  Find Rudy. He’s the only person you need to talk to if you want a great story.”

It took some time and some digging through old employee records, but the young man finally had a last known address for Rudy.   When he visited the address on the south side, it was nothing but an abandoned shell waiting for demolition.  Just another tenement among many blocks of tenements slated for urban renewal.  The only sign of life was a trashed bodega a block down.

The old black woman behind the counter remembered Rudy.  She filled in a few blanks, but as to where Rudy was now, she had no clue.  She did mention that just before he had simply disappeared, he had begun to act oddly.  The young man asked her how.

“He stopped smiling”, was all she said.

The young man would not give up.  He checked the obituaries. No luck.  He looked up ex-coworkers.  They had nothing for him.  It was not until he found a sympathetic bureaucrat with the Social Security Administration who, against the rules, gave him two important pieces of information.  One that Rudy was still alive because he as still receiving a monthly check.  Second, was the address that check was going to.  The young man headed there the next day.

Pulling up to the St. Francis Home off Wabash, the young man was struck by how similar in appearance it was to the tenement that had been Rudy’s last known address.  It was not unexpected, but he had hoped Rudy had found better.  He walked in and the stench of old age almost knocked him down.  He collected himself and addressed the elderly woman behind the front desk.

“Excuse me.  Is there a Rudy Renfro living here?”

The elderly woman was busy with her pencil on a form of some kind.  Without looking up she pointed to his right, “In the Day Room most likely.”

“How will I know him?  I have never met the man.”

The elderly woman looked up from her paperwork.  Her hair, which must have started the day a neat orderly arrangement ending in a tidy tightly wound bun had come apart and she had to shift some escaped strands from in front of her eyes.  She looked perturbed.  “You a relative?”

“Uh, no ma’am I’m not.”

“Well young man, we have rules here.”  She looked as if her hard professional armor was being raised and then, “Oh go ahead, it’s not like anyone visits him anyway.”  She continued to point to his right.  “Just look for the old black man wearing a red cap.”

“Thank You.”  The young man walked down the hall towards the Day Room.

Entering the Day Room, the young man was immediately faced with a tall elderly black man wearing a well worn red cap like he remembered as a child traveling the lines with his father.  The black man smiled.

“Sir, may I take that bag for you.”

The young man looked down at his brief case.  “Uh, no that’s alright, I’ve got it.”

The old black man’s eyes lost their sparkle and his shoulders slumped.  The young man changed his mind, “ Oh sure, please take the bag.  I am here to see you I think.  Are you Rudy?”

The old man smiled.  It was a broad smile revealing the yellowed and cracked teeth that come with age.  He straightened as best he could and grabbed his hat brim between his fore finger and thumb.  He lifted the brim a tad.  “Yes sir. I am Rudy.  The best Red Cap on the line.  Where are you headed, West or back East?”

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I worked hard to find the exact song I wanted. My father had recorded it from an FM station back in the early 1960s. He transferred it to his "Swing" Reel. I could sometimes talk him into playing the tape. When "Choo Choo Ch' Boogie" came on, I would dance.  More to see my dad smile than anything else. He was going through some tough times at the time.

Loved that song. Here is the original version from 1946 performed by Louis Jordan & His Tympany Five.

Puttering

I wrote the title of this post on October 9th, 2025. I will often start with just a title and maybe or maybe not a vague idea of what I might want to write about. Start with one word and hopefully it will begin the flow.

Seems what I wanted to say on October 9th of last year was so vague, by the time I decided to to put pen to paper as it were, well, the notion was no longer vague, it was gone. Only the title remained of a draft that never got off the ground.

This morning I thought I needed some maintenance time to clean out numerous posts I started but never finished. I was determined to be brutal and remove them without emotion. After all, they are only words I never respected enough to finish the thoughts they started. Cut em out, delete them, toss them to the wind.

I came to this empty post with the title as the only clue of what I might have had on my mind that October day of last year........ "Puttering"? Just what had I had in mind, I wondered.

I didn't wonder long. As my goal was to be brutal with my deletions of unfinished posts; the rule being finish the post or shit can it. I poured another cup of coffee, contemplated my navel a moment or two longer. I decided to do what I thought the title wanted me to do.

I assumed I meant a post about puttering in the real world; maybe wax poetic about finding little chores to finish around the house or yard. Or finally take action on some Mad Max idea I came up with while baked. Then I thought:

"You know what, I can putter with words too."

When I finished that revelation and let it sink in, I realized that my blog is really just a puttering receptacle. The over 2 million words I have written in the past 21 years are nothing but the result of the puttering I wrote to soothe my mind and help maintain my healthy ego. Just imagine the horror of not purging those 2 million words. I am sure my brain would have exploded 10 years ago. "Mind Puttering" may have just saved my life.

Here we have another result of my word puttering; a finished post that says nothing meaningful, wastes some time and uses up a chunk of bytes that may help clutter the Internet ether for forever and a day. In other words, I have written the usual nonsense and am now happy as if I had a brain. After all, it's about the words in the end, not the point they try to make; Right?

Mission Accomplished .......................................

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Since I was such a slacker on this post, I will do my best to find some song that is just the opposite. A tune that is meaningful in some way. A song that stirs some emotions and tugs at either the Heart or the Funny Bone. Maybe a song that will surprise not only the 20 or so souls who read my drivel, but surprise me also. 

Or, since I seem to be sporting a lazy streak this morning, maybe I'll pick a song by some random means that is silly and makes no sense. Hmm .............. Let's get it on.

I have been waiting for an opportunity to use one of these songs with a post. The problem was, neither was a good fit in any of the usual posts I come up with. This post however, with no point to speak of, is perfect for one of them. Without any more fanfare, please enjoy (or not), "Detachable Penis", by King Missle. It was either this song or Denis Leary's, "I'm an Asshole". It was a toss up at first, so I flipped a virtual coin in the virtual world I live in sometimes. The Asshole song lost.

The Problem is the Cult

"The problem isn’t Conservatism. The problem is the CULT."

When fringe minorities in any group worm their way into leadership positions, what we see unfolding on the Right is not a surprise. It is inevitable. Fanatics will burn down their house to make a point.

I grew up in a Goldwater Republican household. My mom called us Black Republicans (not a reference to race). My parents were not foaming at mouth wackos. Who did they fear the most? Not the Left Wing losers; not the Hippy Peaceniks, not the Civil Rights activists.

They were afraid of a group even further Right than they were. The John Birch Society is an ultra-conservative Right Wing cult that made Joseph McCarthy look like a Boy Scout. I can remember my mom telling me more than once, "Keep an eye on that crew, they will ruin my Republican Party."

That was in the early 1960s. Flash forward to today and who do we see as one of the main driving forces in the current effort to turn America into a feudal state? The Koch brothers, whose father was a co-founder of the John Birch Society.

Cults are patient. Cults do not care how long it takes. Until they self destruct, they will always be around nipping at the heels of any mainstream movement, political, religious, Hell, any group has the potential to be poisoned by a cult.

The problem is not Conservatism. The movement is hobbled by its own tenets; its own goals, aspirations and insistence on blind loyalty. They set themselves up in their very beginnings to become what they have become. By its very nature, the Right is a wonderful breeding ground for destructive ideals to become part of the program. 

The original idea of Conservatism appeals to me with its slower approach to change and pragmatic approach in theory to that change. That the Right stopped moving forward and is now trying recapture the worst aspects of the Past, make them an intolerable choice for me politically. Back when Reagan the Traitor ran for his first term was my last straw. Now, with their facist leaning membership setting policy and action, the Republican Party is more un-American  than any American who might have a few socialist bones in theiir body. 

The Left appears to be nothing but a group of loose dogs because that is just what the Left is, a bunch of loose dogs. Even with all the wokeness and PC bullshit they come up with as a group, they honestly care for everyone as a rule, not just the group they belong to. It is often easier to talk to a Libtard than anyone wearing a MAGA hat now days. That should tell us something. 

I would rather support a mom with three kids living in shitty conditions than hand out Welfare to huge corporations that consume more than they deliver in the long run. I would rather support fact over embracing lies others have fed me. I would rather support a view that supportd free thinking. At this point, the Right is failing on all those points.

I am a card carrying registered Democrat who has no problem being called a Libtard or any other chucklehead name a Winger might come up with. Their twisted vision of what they want for my country makes them my enemy. It is as simple as that.

Later ................

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Again finding a tune that seemed right for today was a struggle. It didn't need to be a struggle. I certainly test rode enough songs that any one would have done just fine. I think I just wanted to listen to music and not finish the job at hand. 

The wait was worth it. I came across an artist  from my checkered past. He died relatively young from overindulgence of everything under the Sun. He was unique and in your face. Please enjoy Root Boy Slim & His Sex Change Band and this tune from the mid 1980s that has been graphically upgraded with graphics from 15 years ago. Enjoy "Rich, White, Republican".

Tonk

I am already second guessing my decision to re-up my participation in the social media of America. I have only been back, what, a week or so? I had crawled into the shell I have always kept around when times were tough. It goes back to the days I needed to escape the alcohol infused dog fights my parents engaged in during the family's transition from a military life to the less structured life of the civilian world.

I know I won't escape; not entirely. I may have a chance, given enough time, to delude myself that the madness swirling around my small corner of Maine is nothing but a poorly contrived reality show. But that delusion is nothing but one delusion compounded into another. I'm not insane, though sometimes I like to delude myself I am. ...... Anyway, moving on now..........

This morning as I sipped some Yesterday Coffee, I half listened to the news folks droning on about the latest assholery foisted on us by Trump and his band of Brownshirts. My ears caught these words:

 The Sound a Flashight Makes When it Hits the Head of an Illegal

This perked me up; made me curious what that sound was called. My aging ears or lack of attention had missed that part. The definition of something without a name is unacceptable. I immediately snatched up my coffee and shuffled my way to what I call my office. I punched up the computer and spent some minutes determining the name the statement was referring to.

Apparently the sound is called a "Tonk". No one is exactly sure who created it, but we do know where it became popular. Years ago it popped up in the colloquial group lingo of the US Border Patrol and more recently embraced by the ICE thugs. It is so popular among them and their brain dead supporters that a T shirt was offered for sale. The term is also obnoxious enough that it is banned from use by those same agents. I am sure they, being the true professionals they are, strictly follow that rule. I mean look at the high level of competence they use when rounding up those damn furriners who want to eat our pets and rape our children.

Hmm ...........

This is what we have allowed our country to turn into. When the Trump Goons finish gathering up hapless folks from away, who is next? Well, it would seem to me their next targets would be any US citizen that looks at them sidewise................ Um, oh yeah, they have already begun that part........ Nevermind.

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I might be getting paranoid, or maybe just more paranoid, but I think Google and YouTube are no longer guessing what is on my mind, they know before I even punch them up what I want. Nevermind Artificial Intelligence. What we have today is worse. It's Evil Intelligence and it is being packaged and sold as Artificial Intelligence. ........... Anyway the song that was staring me in the face when I opened YouTube was this song from John Prine, "This is How Every Empire Falls". Recorded in 2005, its message is still applicable today. I am including the lyrics because John had a wonderful way with them.

John Prine's music hit me in the gut over 50 years ago. It seems he is still doing it from his grave. I did not know this song until YouTube threw it in my face. And yeah, it made me tear up.

It Seems Odd

It seems odd to me for a government to create a secret police force and use it primarily in cities in Blue states while essentailly ignoring the Red States. The leadership of the Federally sanctioned secret army claim their only goal is to protect all of us and our way of life.  Again I would counterpoint, why the selective enforcement? 

Their stated goal is to fish for, ambush and arrest illegal’s and others who fit an obviously racist one size fits all profile model. Seems to me, Intimidation of the American population is the primary goal, not the pursuit and capture of undocumented aliens.

Whose lives and whose way of life are they protecting? All Americans? Or just White folks? And who are they really protecting us from? Furriners? People of color? No, it appears they are intent in protecting themselves from us, the us who support everyone's right to coexist without being singled out for bullshit reasons.

It goes further than just being odd. Just the formation of this clandestine armed force of thugs goes against the very system that was set for our benefit in our early beginnings. And what is the GOP, the party of "Small Government and States Rights" doing while this over the top government interference in our lives goes down? The "Small Government and States Rights" party is standing around either cheering the secret army on or they are saying nothing.

The Right has abandoned America and is now openly supporting the owner and exploiter classes of America and the World, while turning the rest of our citizens into enemy combatants. 

It makes me sick and ashamed they consider themselves the only citizens of worth.

My fellow citizens?

No, the Right is not made up of fellow citizens, it is comprised of enemies and collaborating idiots who do their bidding. The Right is driving us towards a cliff of their making, hoping all of us will follow them over it.

I am well past being concerned what the rest of the World thinks about America's current woes. I don't have the time nor the energy to do anything but try to keep the USA from losing respect for itself. If we cannot recreate a political atmosphere that at least, pretends and sometimes works for everyone, well; we really will be living in a shit pile of a country. At the moment, we seem intent on becoming the largest Third World , banana republic on the planet.

As always, please try to keep it 'tween the ditches ...........................

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My tune for this post is a mashup of an old favorite from the 1960s. "For What It's Worth", written and recorded by Buffalo Springfield back in the days I was just finding my political self. The song did not need a "mashup" to be pertinent today. It is a timeless song about the value and pitfalls of protest. But I have to say, this version had me tapping my feet and wanting to shake a booty or two. Instead, I just butt danced in my chair. ...... Play it loud and give yourself some room to move.

Roadies Were the Heroes

Two images crossed my path in the last couple of days that have stuck with me long after I should have been done with them. Both were related to my days on the road as a super slab trailer jockey who was a legend in his own mind. As I remember those times now, that legend only grew to more unrealistic dimensions. After all, memories are wonderful at weeding out the uneeded, the unpleasant, and the puff n fluff of a time to remember. Kinda boils the moment down to what is/was the essence of the moment. Often times ego plays a big part in memory gathering, but sometimes, if we are being honest with ourselves, it doesn't.

The first image is one I snapped during my time hauling sound and light equipment for SHOWCO out of Dallas, Texas. It is an image I probably should have tossed, but didn't. I have kept it around, messed with it, tried to make something of something that was not there. It's very insistence on sticking around until now is probably a good reason to write about it. It somehow boiled down for me, just how fucking difficult it was to produce a huge Rock show. The sweat, the drudgery, the constant fatigue; this image said all that to me even though the original image was almost impossible to make out.

When I hauled RocknRoll in the 1970s, I had some seriously great times. I had some seriously bad times. Interwoven into those highlights, both good and bad, was the job; the day to day butt kicking struggle to keep my sanity and do my job effectively. And I had it easy compared to the Roadies.They were the real heroes of the job. Local stage hands were alright, but the roadies were the people who created the magic; made sure all the details were covered. The above snapshot is my tip of my hat to them.

This next Kodak moment crossed my Facebook page this AM. It is a pic of the same car stereo I carried with me as I hauled the music it played during those times with SHOWCO. I actually had two of them. The first one was ripped off from my truck as it sat parked outside a gig in Haight Ashbury. It was a three truck tour and the gig was in a high school gym if I remember right. 

We drivers came out to back in our trucks for stage call in the morning, as we had hit town the night before. Parked on the curb next to the gym, all three rigs had the driverside windows rolled down to what looked like the exact same level. Each cab had been ransacked. I lost my CB radio, that radio/cassette player pictured, my cassette collection and a half ounce of Doob (It was under the box of tapes). I remember the scramble that day in replacing all three before Load Out that night. I spent many dollars on a cab ride to procure the exact same cassette player. I was in luck. the store also had a kick ass CB radio that was the best I ever had. I still have both today gathering dust in the darkest depths of gathered remnants from my past.

Funny what things bring out memories. Smells, sounds, images or something someone says in passing can dredge up all kinds of moments we lived through. At my age now, I treasure each and every one, good or bad.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ................................

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I don't have to check Google for a musicaal inspiration to add to this post. Only two songs will do. 

There was one tour I missed that I always regretted. I took a vacation from SHOWCO and missed it. It was the Jackson Brown, "Running on Empty" Tour. I caught it when it hit Maryland. Much of the album was recorded on the tour. My favorite songs of course are "The Load Out" and "Stay". Enjoy the two fer.

No Yesterday Coffee

This morning was the morning after a night of whiskey on the rocks with a few tokes thrown in just because. It has been awhile since I tipped a flask over a small glass of ice. I will say, the best way to conserve a bottle of high end sour mash is to not drink it very often. When I do, it only takes a couple ounces on ice to cheer me up and only 6 ounces and a joint to kick my ass.........

This morning I woke up hard. My ass had been thoroughly kicked. I wasn't really hung over. I was dazed and confused. The first thing on my mind was:

"Where is the coffee and do I have any left from yesterday?"

I had no "yesterday coffee". Damn. I will have to brew some. I turned on the TV while the coffee press did what coffee presses do. 

While I waited, I decided the best way to turn off the after effects of too much alcohol was to spark up some doob to go with my morning brew. So I fired up some of my self made "Mutant Hash" and while the coffee released its magic into those freshly ground beans: in a few minutes I was baked and really Jonesing for that first cup.

"Morning Joe" of the newly formed, MS-NOW was all about the latest stupidity dreamed up by "Donald Von Head Up His Ass". A follow up of sorts , or maybe just a continuation of another stupidity of his regarding his Venezuela vendatta against President Maduro. I stopped paying attention a few days ago when I heard American troops invaded Maduro's country, killed 32 Cuban soldiers and kidnapped Maduro to face charges in the US justice system.

I was about to pay more attention again when I took my first sip of the coffee I had brewed only a few minutes previous. Any notion of whining and complaining about another stupid Trump moment I have no control over flew out the window once I swallowed that first sip.

It was a perfect cup of coffee. It was the cup of coffee my taste buds always yearn for, but are so often left disappointed. I brew decent coffee, but the perfect brew only comes around once a decade or so. Well, maybe 10-12 times a year, but shit, who cares anyway? My point has been made. I brewed a perfect cup of coffee this morning. Anything I encounter for the rest of the day will pale in comparison. 

I came to loving coffee the hard way. My parents ran through many pots a day of the stuff. They would never allow me to drink it as a child; they were convinced that little boys needed no such artificial stimulations to add more crazy to their mad hatter ways. Both drank it black, which made it an easy choice for me to not complain. I detested black coffee then and still detest black coffee now. If God had meant for coffee to be consumed black, God would not have invented cows.

It wasn't until I began driving trucks over the road that I developed a taste for coffee. When go fast pills were unavailable or I was out of them, I began drinking coffee with a copious amount of cream and sugar. Eventually I became hooked. It was desperate measures while a truck driver that led me to coffee. It was the first perfect cup that sealed the deal. I have been pursuing that same cup ever since.

Brewing decent coffee is not hard. Brewing perfect coffee is being lucky. But brewing perfect coffee to go with an early morning bake is heaven.

Keep it 'tween the ditches. ................................

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Once again the Google Gods and their offspring, YouTube somehow found the perfect tune to go along with that perdfect cup of coffee. Here is Little Stranger with their wake and bake song, "Coffee & a Joint". Enjoy.

I Blame That Last Whiskey on the Rocks

I was hoping my return to the cluster fuck that comprises the Social Media world would be more notable than just allowing a drunken loser back in who had nothing new to say because he has decided that there is nothing good going on worthy of note.

I was hoping, but well, as you can see, I failed big time. And to make matters worse, instead of stopping at two Whiskies on the Rocks, I decided that a third one might just improve my perspective......... Does not seem to be working........... Maybe some doob, a big pull from some righteous bud from my own garden would twist the moment in a positive direction. ......... Give me a minute.

As that toke slowly settles in and that last sip of excellent sour mash warms my belly, I will now search for the appropriate image to post alongside this awesome post I have decided to write that very well may fall short of "great" and be doomed to the ash heap of drunk and disorderly ramblings from a man who has given up fighting the slow mind numbing crawl of destruction closing in on what was in his mind before, the greatest country in the World. 

Every day, our current leader, "Donald Von Head Up His Ass", finds another nail to pound into the coffin we allowed to be constructed by idiots, nincompoops and really, really stupid amoral assholes who just do not care what a majority of us think. It's sad really. ......... It's sad that by doing nothing awhile ago, we created what is happening now. 

I could cast blame on specific people. But I am tired of that. They know who they are and what a majority of Americans think of their evil clown comedies. ....... They just don't give a fuck. They have the reins now and are determined to fuck up this country as much as possible before they get kicked out on their sorry asses. 

So, just to emphasize what we have done to ourselves, here is a wonderful example of the kind of leader we put in power.

In retrospect; as an afterword of sorts....... I had hoped to return to the Internet Jungle with a more positive outlook than the one I found myself in these past couple of months. I really hoped I could present a more postive Crum and hide the absolute disgust I have for where our culture, our society, our country is at the moment.

Hmm, seems my third whiskey on the rocks is now nothing on the rocks. I will have to remedy that. 

Give me a minute ........................

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Damn. I hate the self imposed rules I inject into my own actions. I guess it was a few years ago I decided that including some music to accompany each post would gussey up the overall impression each post offered. The jury is still out on that one; yet I still insist on following the rule I set down so long ago.

Lucky Day. I punched in "Whiskey Drinkin Music" into the YouTube search engine. And like magic from some place on high, "Tennessee Whiskey", by Teddy Swims came up. Less than a minute into the test drive, I decided this song was perfect for my half in the bag state of mind. ...........

But Wait! The next song in line was another great tune by Teddy, "Lose Control". Suddenly I was faced with music that related to me in so many ways. One helped me cry in my beer. The other one reflected my total loss of control when considering what the future might be that is gaining steam and heading right for us. 

So, here is a rare two fer from the same artist.

Teach Resistance

I ran across this image on a friend's Facebook feed at Dark Thirty in the morning; actually a few moments ago. Lately, when I can't sleep, I wander the Internet hoping the weight of no sleep will drive me back to bed. And if I can't, at least I have something to do besides laying awake in the dark.

I saw this image and it brought back the days of my youth when I was all in with that concept. The US was involved in a nasty war in SE Asia and people my own age were coming home in boxes in droves. We lost over 58,000 American service men and women to that stupid war. When it was over, I naively thought we had learned our lesson and from then on would practice at least a modicum of restraint before we put more of our young in harm's way as standard bearers of American Might. 

I am still on board with the idea, but let's just say, my total commitment has taken some hits over the years. The only lesson we pulled from the ashes of our defeat in Vietnam was, forced conscription did not create the army of killers the military wanted. They dropped the Draft which was a step, or so I thought, in the right direction. We have a volunteer military force now and the killing machine so many of the top tier leaders wanted is in place and ready at a moment's notice to go anywhere, any time and kill anyone at the drop of a hat. 

The nation's aggressive foreign position is so bad today, our current asshole in chief changed the name of the Department of Defense back to the old name. It is once again called the Department of War. Not a good sign, what with the most lethal military force the World has ever seen now under the control of a lunatic who has hired other lunatics to carry out his will.

I know war has been historically a way for politicians to bolster their positions with their constituency at home. Make up a threat, push it hard, and then send troops to fix the made up problem. No better example exists than the Trillion dollar, 20 year conflict Bush the Lessor got the country involved in the Middle East. I lost my nephew to that stupidity. 

The future is never a sure thing. But right now, we have even more uncertainty, as it has become apparent our current crew of leaders have finally sniffed out the possibilities of what military power can accomplish with the right kind of evil behind it; establish a dictatorship and conspire with other evil assholes across the globe to split up the world pie between them; their goal to bleed all of us dry. 

Currently,we are just standing around with our thumbs up our collective asses and watching it begin to unfold. Americans should be very nervous. And the World, even more so. Once Trump has our country under his thumb, he will surely be casting an eye eleswhere.The token threats of taking over Greenland or going to war with a Banana republic are minor issues compared to the Hell he can unleash on the rest of the World.

So, I am still on board with the notion that "Teaching Peace" is the way to go. Before we can do that, we need to "Teach Resistance". Letting the situation here in the states continue its spiral down the drain is getting to a point where the current policy of doing nothing will continue to change with or without our involvement. I know I don't want to continue being a victim. How about you?

Later Gators .............................

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The only song I would even think of including is a tune form the 1960s; specifically from Woodstock. Here is Country Joe and the Fish with "I feel like I'm fixin to die Rag". It's a rouser, makes you want to join the resistance. Sadly, its message is still relevant today, 56 years later.. 

A SPAM Call and Why I Donated $100 Bucks

I just hung up the phone after talking to Michael of the ACLU. He is a fund raiser. I was having my first day of semi good health after a major respiratory/cold. I spent the last 5 or 6 days wanting to die and hoping someone would rip out my throat. This, combined with 2 weeks of dealing with one the worst Sciata pain cycles I have had since I was a mover in my twenties, stripped away any positive happy go lucky attitude I might have previously exhibited.

So, I was feeling better but not in the best mood when a phone number that had been stalking me for a good week showed up again on my screen. I had been ignoring it as the little gnomes in the phone red flagged those calls as potential spam. Like I said, I was not in a top of the world is my oyster kind of mood.

When it rang for the 3rd time this morning, I was looking forward to passing my bad day along to whoever would be at the other end of that call. Imagine my disappointment when I discovered it was a one of my favorite causes, the ACLU.

"Hello", in an even voice, or as close to an even voice as I had in me.The hesitation on the line indicated I may not have projected a positive happy place frame of mind.

"Uh", ... a moment of silence. "Would Micheal Macrum be there?"

"What is this in reference to?" Again, I thought I was being not just civil but downright jolly. I was wrong apparently, as indcated by the moments of silence that followed. I repeated myself, only this time purposefully, not friendly.

"What is this call about? Speak up or I will virtually slam this phone down on the virtual cradle I have in my mind's eye." 

I did not cuss or yell as I just recently had decided to fight off the cranky old fart tendencies that have been growing inside me these last 5 or 6 years. It was actually my first test of my new effort at entertaining a more upbeat world view.

Then Michael made his 2nd mistake. After he gave me his bonfides; he was with the ACLU and working as a fundraiser for them. When he mentioned  the current Trump Adminstration's attack on our land of the Free and Home of the Brave cluster fuck of a nation, I cut him off.

"Let me stop you right there Bud. Trump is an asshole and I don't want to hear his name in what you may say next."

I quickly climbed up on my high horse and in 30 seconds, rattled off a vent in one breath that ended: 

"So, don't waste my time or yours trying to convince me you ACLU folks need money. You will always need money as long as evil jerkwads like Trump exist in our power structure. Don't waste your time filling me in on the daily Ethical and Moral trangressions and attacks on our Freedoms by Trump. I don't need a recap. Every day is a recap of how much of an evil asshole he is. Just give me the pitch."

I imagined later my rant may have made this guy's eyes open wider, but when I was done, hopefully made him smile. 

I have been an off and on check writer to the ACLU. I have been a fan since the days they lived up to their claim they did not play partisan politics. They were set up to defend the Constitutional rights of everyone, even the evil assholes who spoil our landscape on a daily basis.

This morning I gave them $100 dollars. Not much, but because it was one of those double the donation things, my paltry $100 turned into $200 dollars. I was certain my money would be used in a way I would most likely approve of.

In April, 1977, the ACLU was asked to defend a NAZI group in Skokie, a small burg outside of Chicago, Illinois. They rightfully claimed they were being denied their Constitutional rights of Free Speech after Skokie denied the group's request to hold a march/demonstration in downtown Skokie. That the local Nazi crew picked Skokie was on purpose. Roughly 50 %  of the residents were Jewish. The Nazis wanted to stir things up. Little did Skokie or the Nazis realize what would come of it.

It was a big thing back in the day. The court case lasted over a year with court filings all over Illinois, when it finally wound up in front of SCOTUS. A landmark verdict came down that supposedly cemented the notion of Free Speech being for everyone, including assholes.

National Socialist Party of America v. Village of Skokie -

"The Supreme Court's decision, per curiam, affirmed that the group's planned march was protected free speech under the First Amendment, and it ordered an immediate appellate review of the case."

The ACLU took a major hit from the Libtards who had historically been their loyal base. It was estimated they lost over 50,000 members as a result. They were tarred and feathered in liberal op/eds coast to coast. Their power structure took it on the chin after the board chose to follow the suit to it's conclusion. It was not about the right or wrong of the groups beliefs, it was about their Free Speech rights as written down in our Constitution. Just this one case made me a fan and a more dedicated Libtard than I was ever before.

The People's Right of Free Speech has never been in more trouble than it is today. The ACLU is still working hard to fight the onsaughts on the 2nd amendment and the Constitution in general because of the shitstorm spun up by Trump and his drooling minions of big mouths with small minds.

It appears Michael's call this morning was just what I needed. I haven't coughed once or felt the pain that runs down my leg at all since I started this post. Just this respite by itself, is worth the $100 bucks I donated.

And Oh, By the Way -  The lead ACLU Lawyer in this case, David Goldberger is Jewish.

Helen Keller and Clarence Darrow were part of the group who founded the organization.

Ya'll have a good day and come back for another visit, ya hear? 

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Since this post started with a phone call, I knew immediately what song I wanted to share. Yeah, I knew the song in my head. I just could not remember the title. I strained a tad trying to remember. I gave up with shoulders slumped and let Google do the recollecting for me.

Here is a song from the 1980s that was silly and not very complex. It represents some of the best of the quality challenged 1980s music scene for me. Too bad the band seemed to fade away without much follow up.

Here is "867-5309" by Tommy Tutone. It will invade your brain. Play it loud. Then dance and have some room around you when you start.

Gout

Of all the Old Fart ailments I have to deal with, Gout is the worst of the bunch. Before I came down with it, came up with it, or found it, I knew next to nothing about it. All I knew, it was very popular in the olden days, the Dickens days, the Shakepeare days, back when Knights were bold and fair damsels were nervous.

Gout is a type of arthritus. It is caused by an accumulation of uric acid in the joints, usually the feet, but it can crop up in any joint apparently. Staying hydrated, losing weight, and avoiding purine rich foods like seafood and red meat are some the ways to mitigate it's flare ups. I have lost weight; 60 plus pounds over the last 2 years.. I drink a lot of water. Avoiding seafood and red meat though has been an issue. Regardless, the problem is nowhere near as bad as it was a couple of years ago. 

My first experience was twenty years ago. I had a very uncomfortable and painful week and then poof, it went away. Since it came and went so quickly, i stopped thinking about it. Apparently the earlier Gout experience was just a trial my body decided to run by me and see how I fared. It sucked, but it only sucked for a week or so. My feet were like new once it went away.

Flash forward to the here and now. Gout roared back into my life a four or five years ago. Since then I have had it in both feet, one foot or the other, my wrists, and recently, it attacked my right knee. I know it is gout because of the way it comes on and the way it punishes and then disappears so quickly. The joints affected may differ but the overall experience is the same every time. 

The Gout meds I have now do a decent job of keeping the worst of it at bay, but damn, when it hits now, it can still incapacitate me.

This brings me to how much fun being old is. Experiencing a body breaking down brick by brick and a mind begining to rust through has been and is a real hoot. Everyday I wake up to pain of some kind. And now I have learned to appreciate pain. It reminds me I am alive and at this point in my life that is a good thing. I am still enjoying existence on this side the grass.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ........................................

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To hopefully offset the bummer post I just wrote, here is a repeat from more than a few years ago. Please enjoy Iz and his medley version of "Over the Rainbow" & "What a Wonderful World". And yeah, it still makes me puddle up.

Coach Runk

I was quite a jock when I was a kid, right up into college. I moved around so much as a youngster, injecting myself into the various sports available in the new locations was a great way to become accepted. And I was good at sports. Not great maybe, but I had some moments in the Sun.

At the time of my participation in various team activities, I really did not have an opinion one or another about the coaches I worked with. How they paid attention to me on a daily basis dictated how I felt about them on that daily basis. I guess it is a kind of compliment to have a coach yelling at you every day. If they cared enough to scream at me, I figured I was doing alright, just not maybe at that moment in time. Besides, Fuck em if they couldn't take a joke. That attitude right there was probably why I only had flashes of being really good.

There were two coaches I had that I will always remember. They could both be assholes, but like someone said recently about Mike Vrabel, coach of the New England Patriots; "He's an asshole, but he's an aasshole you want on your team." Both of them managed to get out of me all I had and onto the playing field.

They were both Lacrosse coaches. Captain Mickey Dimaggio coached me in high school. Coach Carl Runk was my coach at Towson State College. Both of them were not bashful about getting in my face. And now, many years later, I understand why I needed the sharp words and sometimes the literal kick in my ass. I had not yet lost the chip I placed on my shoulder as a child. That took place sometime shy of my 28th birthday. A real or verbal slap upside my head often brought my focus back into the moment. I was a better player because of them.

Mickey was not only a player when he was a young cadet at the same school I went to, he later played in college and became an All American and was inducted into the College Lacrosse Hall of Fame in 1993. He was an awesome middie who could score on our team 9 times out of 10 from the attack restraining line. And he was ruthless on defense. Just an awesome player.

I wrote a honorific post about Mickey. Check it out.

Coach Runk's background I don't know much about. But he coached in a more cerebral way, or maybe it was we were college students and not children anymore, so it just seemed he coached our minds as well as kicking our butts at practice.

The day I told Coach Runk to go fuck himself was the day I experienced his potential for anger. He grabbed me by the neck with one massive hand, lifted me up and slammed me against the wall of the gym. I will never forget the look in his eye. I knew in that moment he could and might crush my larynx, drop me in a heap and walk away like he just swatted a fly. But then a few practices later when I took out his number one middie on a faceoff in a full pad scrimmage, he complimented me on my hustle and how easily I took out his varsity star. That day I was put in the 2nd middie unit on the freshman squad. Back then, Freshman could not play Varsity.

All in all, I chuckle at the whiners who complain about coaches. Sometimes it takes an asshole to herd a group of other assholes in the right direction. In the testerone filled arena of male sports, it takes someone who can turn on their asshole mode when needed.

Coach Runk I did not like. But he was a good coach. He did make me a better player. Mickey Dimaggio I liked. I liked him a lot. But then I had other interactions with him while at Charlotte Hall. He was also a teacher. I interacted with him on a daily basis throughout the school year.

Coaches are Teachers. Teachers are coaches. They come in all colors, sizes, areas of interest. No matter what else they may be, they all have vested interest in bringing out the best in you. Some do a better job than others. Some connect better with you and some don't. I found that if I listened, most of the time I saw some improvement, whether it was sports, math, or learning a new trade. Half of the enjoyment of learning is learning how to be taught.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................

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I decided to just find a song that has been an old friend since it was released in 1973. I liked Steely Dan before this tune came out. This song however, put them in my top tier of favorite music. Best studio band of all time in my opinion. Anyway, please enjoy "Bodhisattva", off their "Countdown to Ecstasy" album. 

Pleasure Makes Us Human?

It was all about Greed being good during Ronald 'the Traitor" Reagan's tenure as President during the 1980s. The Capitalists of the time took that as a license to do what they wanted with our economy. Things got way out of hand and the economic upheaval of 2008 was a direct result. Now, less than 20 years later, unbridled greed not only stuck around, it is now worse than it ever was. The national coffers are being picked clean by an elected government who is now out in the open doing the bidding of the Robber Barons from around the World.

Agree with me or not, there is no denying the fact that sleazy acts and despicable policy have once again put their stamp of approval on immoral and unethical actions from both the private sector and the government sector. There is no longer any pretense. The folks we put in charge through our votes and our pocketbooks are out in the open and in many cases laughing at us as they begin to pick our bones clean.

Greed and Hedonism have been normalized, mainstreamed, accepted.

I am no prude. I have and still incorporate what I consider a moderate amount of hedonistic activities into my daily consumptions. Of course now days, my hedonistic pleasures are vicarious mostly. And to be truthful, most of what I once thought were good times, now only bore me or often disgust me. So yeah, I guess I am becoming a prude of sorts. Assuming others my age are in similar circumstances, I would call my change, a normal evolution that comes with being an old fart. But I still look back upon the careless pleasures I partook in my young and numb years with fondness for the most part.

I found the kernels of this post in a commercial I saw on Morning Joe this morning. It was an ad about coffee, but when I saw the commercial, it meant more to me than that. In my mind, it represented the major shift in the morality/ethical index of our culture. The moral codes I used to laugh openly at and privately may have felt some guilt over; well, they are gone now like they never existed. Now the code of behaviors we used to often actually follow are nothing but lies that come out of two faced lips trying to convince us there is morality in greed; there is morality in exploitation, there is morality in hating anyone who is different. Not only is it okay, we are now allowed to derive pleasure from these previously immoral and unethical actions.

Just how the Fuck did we end up here?

I don't have an answer, but I do have an opinion on how we ended up here: Selfishness.

And as to the idea that Pleasure makes us Human, well, that is just advertising Bullshit. If you buy into it, you are one of the 8 billion reasons we are where we are.

Later ...........................................

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In a first for my blog, today I present "The Greedy Python", an animated audio kid's story I think. The connection to my post should make itself clear a moment or two into it. The whole time I was watching this, I kept thinking, this is a kid's story? Really? Wow! It presents an idea in terms all ages might enjoy. So enjoy.

For those millions of fans who stop by the BoZone for the music, here is also, "Greed", by A Killer's Confession, a metal band I have never listened to before; which just proves, there is so much untapped music out there, I will never hear it all.

Embarrassing Myself in Front of Myself

Not sure if I dare write a post this morning. My recent efforts at moderating duties some minutes ago were a real clown show. I thought I was approving a post for a group page I help moderate. Apparently I brain farted and sent it to Internet limbo instead of to the group page. Took me awhile to find it elsewhere again and repost it. I dutifully apologized in the comments and moved on.

I still felt my face flush, though no one saw the mistake or worst of all could not see my face. I hate embarrassing myself in front of myself. It is the worst kind of embarrasment I can imagine, ............ Uh well that is not exactly true. No, it is not even close to true. Over the many years I have been alive, I have managed to embarrass myself in front of others many times. It has been a chronic issue, always waiting just around a corner, only a misspoken word or misstep away. Some of those moments were definitely more embarrassing than the moment I suffered a little while ago.

As I grew up, I became used to my self inflicted uncomfortable moments. I considered them an integral part of my Life cycle. Some of us have to be the fools for the Hipper Cool Kids to maintain their aura of superiority.There has to be someone we they can laugh at. I stepped up and sacrificed my self respect like a good soldier many times. 

What I hate though is when I cause myself to flush red and no one is looking. It seems like such a waste if no one notices; especially since years ago I embraced my tendency to create laughter in others at my expense. Doing it solo does nothing for me. It just pisses me off.

So, today I decided to admit that I spent more than a few minutes floundering around and totally screwing up the job I had been tasked to perform. 

You can laugh now. It's okay. Matter of fact, I hope to see some laugh emoji's. I deserve them.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ................................

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So what song would drive home the point of my post? Don't know, but maybe my choice will add to the embarrassment I crave and deserve.

When I found this tune, I switched gears. I was going to offer up "Loser" by Beck. But then "Pepper", by Butthole Surfers crossed my feed. I have been looking for this song for many years. I just did not remember who sang it. 

Well on second thought. I am including "Loser", by Beck as a bonus.

Regardless, here is the day's offering.