John Lennon- Thirty-Five Years Later and His Evolving Legacy

    December 8th marks the 35th anniversary of the gruesome murder of John Lennon. The Beatle, the Hollywood Vampire, the lover of sort-of-creepy Japanese Avant Garde artists, was gunned down after being hunted on the streets of New York for a week by an obese lunatic with an enthusiastic esteem for J.D. Salinger. Such a pathetic tragedy...

    On December the 8th, 1980, the world found itself without the likes of John Lennon in it. The knowledge coming in the form of a grizzly scene in the front courtyard of The Dakota on Manhattan's Upper West Side. The world mourned, the tributes came, and life began to carry on without John Lennon...

    Ever since I first got roped into the rabbit hole that is the music of The Beatles, I was always a "John guy". He was a middle-of-the-road guitar player but could sing the holy Hell out of rock and roll songs, both of his own penmanship and covers of some of the best Rock and R&B to come out of the fifties and early sixties. John's history of thumbing his nose at establishment-types is something that millions, if not billions of us humans can relate to.


  Some people are a "George", some are a "Paul", and weirdos like my mom are "Ringos", But me, I proudly wave my JWOL flag high-always have, always will. But it was most definitely my parents and aunts and uncles that turned all of The Beatles, their arc, the demise, and continuing mythos, into modern day legends of music.

   An article circulated around the interwebs a few months ago, obviously written by people who never sat through 'The Beatles Anthology', touting, "shocking footage of John Lennon mocking persons with disabilities, outraging his fans." The volcano-like eye roll that occurred in my skull nearly caused a brain bleed and my early demise. It was then that it finally hit me, that the saga of The Beatles and John Lennon continue to evolve with each generation.

    Over the better part of 20+ years of my John Lennon fandom, I have dipped in and out of trying to align my sense of self into a crunchy, hippy-dippy, make love not war, guy. I have tried and failed several times to maintain a mindset that believes "All you need is love."  John always seemed to be the guy that lived at the absolute pinnacle of a peaceful, zen existence. Then one starts reading the autobiographies of his friends and lovers from the sixties and seventies, and some truths are given...

    By the collective accounts of Cynthia Lennon, his first wife, May Pang, a former mistress, and other fellow musicians, Lennon could be a not-so-peaceful dude. He basically traded a healthy relationship with his eldest son, Julian, for sex, drugs, and rock & roll. He could be a nasty, violent drunk who choked women- a real monster.

    It down right stinks to learn of these things being a Lennon-lifer, as I am. I try and justify a lot of John's darker side to an artistic temperment or perhaps his having coming of age in a different time. I realized a few years ago that my maternal grandparents are only three years older than Lennon had been. A generation born at the beginning of World War II, inventing rock & roll, and many turning into full fledged hippies. Not my grandparents, though....nope. They are as conservative as they come, without a hint of patchouli oil anywhere near them.

John and Yoko

 
    I thing to keep in mind: his was a generation that grew up with "retard" being a medical term, okay? Women stayed home and knew their place, and martinis better be mixed when the man walked in the door, dammit. It was an archaic way of life for awhile, there...John was born into it. Hippy, zen, house husband or not, he still carried the weight of being raised at a time of outdated social norms.

   That isn't in any way an attempt to gloss over shitty behavior- because if you hit a woman, or abandon your kid, or turn into a raging alcoholic, you are most definitely an asshole. Which, as it turns out, John Winston Ono Lennon most definitely could be one. But so could I, and YOU most definitely can be an asshole sometimes, too.

    So where is it that I stand in my reverence for John Lennon? Honestly, I'm not entirely sure anymore. He still wrote the lion's share of my favorite Beatles tunes, he still fought the swine Richard Nixon, and rallied for peace. Lennon is still a poet and artist of the highest caliber to me, but the idolization has waned a bit.

    A man that can be well-placed in the "do as I say, not as I do" category, Lennon is still definitely among the most interesting of Mother R&R's bastard sons. An angry man in search of peace, a junkie in search of sobriety, and an artist seeking truth.

    I just want to remind all of you rational-minded folks out there that it is okay to seperate a flawed artist from the art that he produces. Can we possibly leave John and the rest of The Beatles in a place without trigger warnings about being offended by "new unreleased footage (that has existed for 50 years)" of John Lennon making fun of disabled people? Can we let it slide? Can we see the flawed humanity in one another? I think I can, but I'm not so sure about the generations to come.

   John Lennon left millions of fans wondering what the world would be like if he still inhabit it, myself included. I hate to feel as if he'd be jaded by all of this violence in the world, but my feeling is he would be. I bet he would have hated 'Dubya', though, and that kind of makes me smile.

    Rest in Peace, John Lennon. Most of us down/up here still miss the crap out of you- even those of us who were born after you were gone.

    Happy Xmas (War is Raging).
 

Eagles of Metallic Death: Facilitating Our Own Demise

                                      

    By now, the majority of the world has learned of the savagery that took place in Paris last night. Bullets and suicide belts ripped through the city at nearly 10 p.m. local time, sending the metropolis into a frenzied chaos of terror and pain. 

    When I came across the newscasts at about 4:30 C.S.T. yesterday, the state of disbelief that came over me was swift, nearly paralyzing, and fleeting. Bombs, bullets, blood, and the deaths of the innocent are so common now that the world, I fear, no longer can remember a time without such things. My first gut reaction to these atrocities are pretty common, I imagine. "Enough of this horse shit. Muslims are nuts. Carpet bomb the Middle East! Kill all of these fuckers!"

    Enter my overt pessimism and cynical train of thought. As the events continued to unfold, I realized a couple of things:

1) The only thing the United States has left to do in the Middle East is to leave it behind. These savages don't really hate us because we eat cheeseburgers, drink booze, and let women drive. They hate the fact that we meddle in every country in the Islamic world. We have our greedy little tentacles into everything over there. In a statement released by the Islamic State taking credit for the mayhem, they say that "the smell of death will never leave their noses as long as they lead the convoy of the Crusader campaign, and dare to cures our prophet." In other words, "We will kill you until you get the fuck out." I believe, it is high time for us to am-scray. You can read the entire translated statement here.

2) Bombing religious freaks back to the stone age won't do anything, even though this is the knee-jerk reaction that seems the only way to get through to this ilk. We aren't battling the Nazis anymore. Dwight Eisenhower and Indiana Jones took care of that shit already.This is an ideological hydra we are talking about here. We know this already. Close the bases, bring our guys home, and point our armaments outward. Our resources and citizens are spent. It is time to walk softly, carrying a big stick made of enriched uranium.  

3) Attacks like this should be pinned on all of us. Hear me out...

    Psychopathic religious cult behavior is the fault of its leaders and the dumb-shit simpletons that follow the message, let us get that straight, first and foremost. But when you keep poking the murdering religious psycho with a large stick, they eventually snap. We continue to vote into office maniacal fanatics of other religions that refuse to leave these people alone because of all the sweet, sweet black gold underneath the brown people's feet. If you don't vote, as I am guilty of from time to time, you let these cretins take over the world, feeding the fires that forge these disgusting stains on humanity. We need to put an end to voter apathy, but we also need to put an end to voting in trigger-happy, nation-building, "democracy"-spreading "Christians". Right wing evangelism can no longer steamroll our political discourse. Humanity can't afford it.

    We must also take serious aim at the countries in Europe and the Middle East that time and again refuse to clean up their own mess. We need to let them fight their own civil wars. We need them to fight for what is best for their people. Our government should have the backs of those countries who care about the human rights of ALL of their citizens, not just the ones that have penises or aren't queer. But support does not equal boots on the ground and it certainly doesn't mean cramming democracy down throats.

    Joann Sfar, cartoonist for Charlie Hebdo magazine, had what I feel to be the best response to the carnage. One drawing in a series of reactionary cartoons said it best: "friends from the world, thank you for #prayfor paris, but we don't need more religion! our faith goes to music! kisses! Life! champagne and joy! #parisisaboutlife"

    I personally do not find it wrong to keep the affected in your mind or to send positive vibes in that direction. But I find what Sfar is saying to be quite poignant. These wolves roaming the street supposedly had God on their side. They prayed while preying on the unsuspecting lovers of life last night. Parisians historically do their damndest to live life to the fullest, freest extent possible. No more praying for things to change, actions are what will save us now.

   
    Where do we go from here, folks? First, we vote, vote, vote. We vote ONLY for those who seek to get us out of the Asian land wars. We vote ONLY for those that stand up to the disgusting Saudi Arabian government and their abhorrent civil rights record, as well as their promotion of this sort of radical violence perpetuated by those across the globe. Second, we cool it with the memes, the phony internet outrage. We do realize that most of us are putting in the same effort over the nearly two hundred dead in Paris as we did bitching that ignoramus fucking dentist that shot Cecil the lion, don't you? We need to get serious about this yesterday, ya dig?

E.O.D.M.

    Hold your kids and hug your friends because there are monsters out there, folks. Monsters that we may not be able to vanquish and monsters that we can only push back so far.

    On a related note and not to be relegated to the back burner, I am delighted to hear that the members of Eagles of Death Metal made it out of there physically intact. Although psychologically, they're probably pretty shredded. I also hope they become the biggest band in the world after this mess- they friggin' rock.

   

Bernie Sanders: A Man on Fire

     

      Tuesday night's debate on CNN with the Democratic Presidential hopefuls proved to all of us many things. It reminded us of Hillary Clinton's experience in today's political game; a verbal Jiu-Jitsu artist of the highest caliber. We were also reaffirmed of the fact that candidates Lincoln Chafee, Martin O'Malley, and Jim Webb, are absolutely nowhere near contention for our land's highest office.

      Another thing that became abundantly clear tonight, was that Bernie Sanders is truly a man on fire. Like him or not, the buzzard is passionate. He chose to use his opening statement not to introduce himself and his record like the previous candidtes, but to reiterate what he has being saying for years. The rich are getting richer, the poor are getting poorer, and the middle class is disappearing, yadda, yadda, yadda... I agree with Sanders on many fronts, but he is far from perfect. His near-unelectability is severely depressing. The world needs to change in a big, bad way and this man is saying most of the right things. But alas, he calls himself a Democratic Socialist, and people are pissing their pants and grabbing their guns.

The candidates: Webb, Bern, Hill, Baltimore, and Chafed

      Sanders and his views for our nation are without a doubt, highly idealistic. It is the United States living in an alternate reality of no war, fair trade, cooperation between every and all countries, and a fair shake for all- a world without terror or greed. We do not inhabit that place in the space-time continuum.

      The moderator of the event was CNN's own Anderson Cooper, who I felt did a fantastic job seeing over the dog and pony show in front of the Washington elite. The front rows filled with the candidate's wives foaming at the chance to be First Lady. Cooper's first questions for each Democratic hopeful went for the jugular of each candidate. He may not have had a hand in writing the questions, but god dammit, the man is earning his money over there at CNN.



Jim Webb

      Bernie proved himself to be a class act in choosing to condemn the distracting questions about Hillary's emails, which prompted a fairly awkward handshake from Clinton amongst the raucous applause. If she broke the law, she should go to jail. If bi-partisan committees keep finding nothing on her, quit spending the money and let's move on to more important issues.

      I must say, though, that Jim Webb is beyond underrated. There is something about a decorated soldier that pursues peace- something that is difficult to describe at the moment, but it hits me right in the cockles. Despite coming off as a bit of a "Hank Hill", Webb would be a solid choice for Veep.

Lincoln Chafee

      Lincoln Chafee, a cross between Steve Doocy and a ventriloquist's dummy, seems like a nice guy. He gave a better showing tonight than I would have thought he had in him. He defended himself well when asked why he's changed political parties so much- he's actually competed the trifecta by going from Republican to Independent to Democrat in his political career. But Chaffee's skittish demeanor makes one feel that his voice may nervously crack while sitting in high-level meetings. He means well, cabinet material maybe, but he's out.

      Martin O'Malley was the Mayor of Baltimore. It is in my opinion, that a Democratic Socialist like Bernie Sanders has a better shot at being elected to the White House than a guy that once ran the city that turned into Kabul this year.

Martin O'Malley

      It hurts me to say it, but the clear front-runner for the Democrats in this "Definition of Insanity" race, is Hillary Clinton. She is a master of such an odd mix of spin, deception, and like-ability. She knows this maze; she has balls that are probably bigger than mine. Clinton is on home field with the scandals, the haters, and the praise. Clinton sparred with Sanders like a true master of her craft. She will more than likely grab the nod for the presidency and if she goes up against a guy like Donald Trump, she'll have it. It hurts to say, but I fear it may be true.

      With nearly all questions lobbed at him tonight ranging from the middle class, the wars in the Middle East, and economic and social "justice", Bernie Sanders had one hell of a fire under his ass and in his eyes. You can tell that the man really wants things to be better for people, regardless of how you feel about his methods for achieving such loftiness. His hair is fucked and he is an articulate bastard. He gives a damn about the environment and working people. I only wish we could find ourselves living on a version of Earth that these ideals are pushed to the forefront in debates like these. Sanders' political party title scares people and it may take the dying off of a couple more generations to get us there- that is if ISIS doesn't get us first (el oh el).


The Hill and The Bern

      Bernie gets himself in hot water when he is pressed on his true feelings of our capitalist society; not willing to say that he considers himself a capitalist (shriek!), but also echoing the populist feelings that today's capitalism sticks it to the little guy and disproportionately favors an elite class of money hoarding beasts.

      Like him or not, people, Bernie Sanders talks a big game and has a lot of people behind him that hold many of his same ideals. Never underestimate a determined man with crazy hair and an army of hippies. The country is inevitably going to need to move more to the left on many of these social issues in order to survive. We need a strong middle class and a clean environment, which is possible to achieve without becoming crazy commies like the devil Scandinavians.

      Get out there and vote, people. Use your brains.

Foo Fighting with The Sword: 24 Hours That Restored My Faith In Music

           

            Fridays this summer have been my longest days of the week. First, I work the day job at the hospital. I start at 6 a.m. and by 6:30 I might be escorting the dead out of the morgue and into the clutches of a morose funeral director; or playing dispatcher to a small, semi-autonomous city, from the bowels of the medical center campus. It isn’t the dream, but it (almost) pays the bills and I am typically home by three in the afternoon, which is nice. Usually after a short nap, my night as a driver for the rideshare company, Uber, begins.  

            
           This past Friday went exactly according to the usual scheduele. I picked up the kids from school, headed home, and made the kids a snack before we put a movie on while I began to doze. My wife was home almost an hour later and after hearing her come in, I let my brain turn off fully for another hour or so. I awoke pretty groggy, similar to that of a smacked-out Grizzly bear waking from hibernation. With a quick bite to eat, I was out the door. Another Friday night of Uber-ing has begun.

            The riders for the night were your typical fares. Young couples out to eat for the first time since the baby was born, out-of-towners headed from the Loop back to the hotel, etc…But as the night wears on, my least favorite faction of the masses begins to call for rides- the early twenty-something’s. The vast majority of the riders I pick up from this millennial bracket tend to make my skin crawl. They bitch about the Friday night traffic in the busiest areas of the city like it was my fault; or is if it should be a surprise that there is such bustling life on a warm weekend night in the city by the lake. Their estimated pick up time was four minutes, you showed up in five. Spoiled rotten in the city. Ignorant senses of entitlement spew from their orifices.

            My last fare of the night was a group of young professional women (girls). They nearly blow the speakers out on the truck with whatever bull shit EDM they insisted on listening to. Not much of a bother to me, though. I mean hey, it’s their dime- and they’re just young and part of a generation I’ll never understand. I’m 32 and already and 80 year old curmudgeon…life rolls on. It was nearly eleven by the time I dropped them at a generic club on the corner of God-Knows-Where and Who-Gives-A-Fuck Avenue, and I was shot. Chicago’s best and worst had worn my synapses thin, so it was time to head home and relax my body and brain. I had a weekend to try and plan for, after all. At that moment, I had no idea that this weekend was going to restore my faith in something that I felt might have died a long time ago…my faith in music.

            I get home and my wife is crawling into bed, the kids already passed out. I give them kisses on the forehead as I always do, and say goodnight to my wife. My initial thought was that it would be a good night for Netflix and a beer or two, but I’m anxious and I need to have some down time before the 46” electronic sheep starts lulling me to sleep.

            Like so many others out there, the garage is my refuge. It is Shangri-La. It is sanctuary. It is dusty and cluttered and the air circulation stinks, but I have a table, a chair, and a radio, which is all one really needs. I grab a couple cans of Modello from the fridge and head to my island of brick and mortar in the yard.

"The Box"

            I grab a chair among the clutter of the garage sale we never had and take a seat. It was then when I remembered the birthday gift I was given by my good friend, Nick Caines, was sitting on the shelf. It was a wooden cigar box emblazoned with the logo for a new album, High Country by a band called The Sword.

            There is good chance that most of you have no idea who this band is, but if you like good old fashioned hard rock, you should. The Sword has put out a few albums over the years that are heavy on Sabbath-esque riffs and muted lyrics. It is a brand of “stoner metal” that I really dig. Just straight forward jams, a bit repetitive at times, but solid music- great albums to listen to  from start to finish. 

            I crack a Modello, light some smoke, and hit play on the shitty little ten year old juke. The next forty five minutes or so, were filled with me audibly saying things like, “Huh?”, “Really?”, and “I can’t believe they’re doing this!” All of these things being said in a positive fashion, of course. I am not going to get into a track-by-track breakdown of the entire album right now, (maybe a topic for another day), but I will tell you this: if you love heavy guitars and existential lyrics, grab this sucker. This album is like Deep Purple and Black Sabbath had a baby and then that baby grew up and started fooling around with Pink Floyd.

It is an awesome album that even seems to touch upon some blues and even grazes up against some neo-white boy hip hop for a song. I know, I know…it sounds bizarre. But I found myself thinking that I was so glad that there are people out there somewhere, making music like this. It’s old, it’s new, it’s metal, it’s blues. It was a much needed rejuvenation after a night of EDM and horrendously overplayed Top 40. I began to feel better about the world. 

A few more cigarettes in the ash tray and the album nears completion. It is then that I realize that I am supposed to hit the Route 66 Car Show with my aforementioned sage and confidant, Nick Caines. I had never been to a car show before and I never really had the desire to, but it seemed like a decent enough reason to get out of the house, meet up with Nick, and maybe grab a beer or two in the daylight hours. The time careened towards two a.m. and the watered down buzz that I had started began to wane into an irritating small headache. It was time for sleep. I was feeling good after my listening session in the garage and the car show would begin in a few hours. Nick and I would get an early start on the weekend.

We arrived promptly on Ogden Avenue at one p.m. There was a misty rain and a thickness in the air, but the turn out seemed to not be affected much. We begin the show by heading to one of our favorite bars in town, Cigars and Stripes, which has a tent with live music, as well as beer, wings, and Bloody Mary’s. As we hop on line for drink tickets, we see the owner of ‘Cigars’, Ronnie Lottz, the man who had been embattled with members of the blogging community over his “pro two-way mirror in his woman’s restroom” stance. Lottz vowed to burn his place to the ground before the mirror came down. The mirror is gone, the bar is not a pile of ash and broken dreams. I really like the man. The whole mirror thing was pretty creepy, but I sort of give Ronnie the benefit of the doubt on this one…God dammit I hope I’m not wrong.

After grabbing a Bloody Mary and listening to the band, it began to rain relentlessly. Nick and I sought refuge inside the bar, where the other street mutants were getting the same idea. Luckily, we find two stools and begin to bull shit. The weather was crap and the sky was gray, but all in all, the people inside the bar were in good spirits. Loud laughter and clinking bottles reverberated off of the freak show décor of Cigars and Stripes. Today was already a pretty good day.

The rain begins to clear, our brains begin to haze, and the humidity rages. We finally take to the street at about two thirty to see some cars. What a strange sight this car show is; a boulevard devoted to clinging to the past, a dying if not already dead American dream. Cadillacs and Camaros, Fords and Hudsons, all relics from a simpler time…some say a better time. You know when cars were built in Detroit and those pesky coloreds couldn’t go to the same school as your precious little angels. You know, when America was great. Anywho…

It was actually refreshing to see the faces in this crowd on Ogden Ave. Hispanics, white trash, sleeveless motor heads, and biker toughs all walking the same streets, glued together by a common interest in all things steel-on-wheels. This crowd was America at its best and worst, including the Elvis impersonators. Pathetic creatures, really. Timid sheep living in the wolves polyester clothing; with no real personalities of their own, they adopt the life of a dead, bloated, philandering, drug addicted, Nixon stooge. But I digest...

illinoisrt66.org

           After some more car-gazing, we headed back to Cigars and Stripes for another beer. It was while sitting at the bar that I got the text. It was from an old friend, Steve, who I had not seen in quite some time, but kept semi-in touch with through social media. Steve and I used to haunt similar late night bars and blues clubs; anytime we would bump into each other, we would always wax ecstatic about bands and favorite musicians, trading war stories from shows we have seen. (Steve has way more stories and encounters than I could even count. The man should really write a book.)


           The text he sent was asking if I would be interested in seeing the Foo Fighters that night at Wrigley Field. He had a line on a pair of tickets, but the seller would only dump off the pair and Steve needed someone to tag along. I told him I'd check in with the Wife, but to keep me posted.

I started my negotiating via text (which is something you shouldn't do, fellas, f.y.i.) and I was not so sure how it would go over. Nick and I were done with cars, done with beer. It was time for tacos. Steve sent another text- he was on his way to pick up the tickets.

 
After a bit of back and forth, I was good to go. I stopped home, grabbed my shit, and headed for the el (the el is Chicagoan for choo choo train). It was still misting rain and the sky was the most depressing shade of gray known to man. But here I was, finally with my ass in a seat, on my way to see a band that formed out of chaos and desperation. Forming at a time when I myself was at my most formative as a young teen, learning guitar and playing in a band. Smoking cigarettes and chasing girls, and not realizing how bad I was at all of those things. Kurt Cobain was dead and the Foo Fighters were born. My friends and I religiously learning songs like "Everlong", "Monkey Wrench", and "I'll Stick Around". It was an amazing time to be that age, and The Foo Fighters were helping to write the soundtrack.

After a long series of delays, my Red Line train finally pulls into the Addison station, a block from Wrigley on the north side of the city. I'm anxious, a bit damp from the misting rain and sweat from the car show, but I move with purpose. Steve would be at Gate F waiting for me, and I had already missed the first two openers, Urge Overkill and Naked Raygun. I light a smoke and serpentine through the masses. Wrigleyville on the weekends is a horror show. I round the front of the building and through the gates I almost immediately see Steve. He looks just as he had the last time I saw him- he is quite tall, 6'5" maybe, with salt and pepper hair and glasses. It was genuinely good to see the man and I was pretty sure this night was to be amazing.

We find the seats just as Cheap Trick is taking the stage. I'm not here to see Cheap Trick, no offense to any fans out there, but I take this time to hit the A.T.M. and grab a round of beers. Ten bucks a piece for a shitty beer. Fucking capitalists...

Shitty pic of Steve, me, and Skicat.

It takes me so long to get through the lines for money and beer that I miss Cheap Trick's entire set. I will say this, "I Want You To Want Me" sounded exactly like it does coming from a backyard barbecue a few blocks away, so the band was pretty on point for the age bracket they're sitting in. I return to my seat and Steve and I banter a bit about "the old days" of four a.m. bars and who, if anyone, we run into anymore. The stage is being built and Foo Fighter logos popping up on the jumbo screens. An episode of the Foo's show, "Sonic Highways", accompanies the roadies at work. Before very long at all, sections of the house lights shut down. A guitar strums through the night, and one of the most metal screams reaches out and slaps the crowd directly in the face.


Our vantage of the stage

The band breaks into "Everlong" from The Color and the Shape to kick the night off. It is an excellent choice- the masses are ready, I'm ready, Steve's ready. A fan favorite since the nineties, this song roped everyone in hook, line, and sinker. The hair on my neck stands up just like when I hear the second solo of Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd.

The setlist runs the gamut of old favorites, covers, and newer stuff that might have passed me by over the last couple of years. Throughout, I kept finding myself panning the crowd, looking to the sky, trying to have one of those moments everyone tells you to remember to have. I realized many times during the show, I was genuinely happy to have accepted the offer of "the other ticket".

Throughout the show, Dave's mom and cousin came on stage, "Happy Birthday" was sung, and Coors Light was consumed by the band's front man. Grohl shed tears of joy while looking out at our faces, more than once. It came off as neither disingenuous  nor corny. I had many moments of feeling connected to the light, sound, and fellow man in those friendly confines that night. I am still struggling to shake it off- maybe, I don't really want to.  

Dave Grohl was an absolute beast on stage. Despite being confined to his "rock throne" due to his broken leg, this man was engaged, enraged, screaming his heart and fucking lungs out. As corny as it sounds, I knew he was there for US- the collective there in that stadium that Friday night, on the north side of this big-shouldered city, and we were there for them. The rest of the Foo's showed that they have refined their talents over these couple decades and are probably the tightest sounding touring band in rock right now.

As happens with all concerts, it eventually came to an end. The Foo Fighters played nearly three hours to a sold out crowd in the middle of which, stood a cynical guy like me- a guy that really has had little to no interest in big stadium rock shows or festivals. But as I sat on that Red Line train back home I felt a feeling of calm, laced with a drop of adrenaline, topped off with a pair of rocked socks.

Between hearing an album like High Country by The Sword and seeing the pure joy of putting on an ass-kicking rock show all over Dave Grohl's face, I just might be a skeptical believer again. There are newbies and veterans out there still melting faces, pushing boundaries, loving music, and most of all, giving a shit. It really is amazing what an effect one twenty-four hour period can have on your life. Get out there, people. Listen, learn.


 

 

"...A Worried Man With a Worried Mind..."

     As I sit at my desk to begin, I am finding it rather difficult to place my thoughts in order. I am inwardly seeking direction for this short piece, while also trying to avoid coming off as a sympathy seeker or an exploitative tool. I guess I'll just have to begin by telling it straight and hopefully, I can find a destination at the end of this dirt road. Here goes...
 
    About five years ago, I decided that I was going to self-publish some of my work. I have always been a slacker (hence the few postings here on the blog), but I decided that I was going to do whatever it took to put my head down, write like a madman, and get it out there. This included long nights of swallowing my weight in whiskey, listening to music that reminded me of my days on Long Island, and solo drunken crying sessions in the backyard. My wife hated me (as well she should have) and probably (definitely) thought about leaving. Looking back at it now, if she had actually decided to go, her justifications for doing so would have been beyond reproach. I had, in many ways, already begun to leave myself behind. Drowning with the demons, happily tying stones to my ankles.

    I found that the majority of the poetry that I had doused with bad scotch was absolute shit. Surprised? Neither am I. There are some pieces that were written in a half-blind stupor that managed to hold their own, despite the saturation level. I managed to find many sober moments to sit with myself and put to paper some pieces that I am quite proud of and the book was published in March of 2011.

    A sort of panic set in when I realized that it was all coming to fruition. I suddenly was panicked by the notion of people reading the work. Family and friends would tell me they liked it, whether they did so or not. I was publishing a book of poetry. There would be at least a modicum of snickering and jokes at my expense behind my back. All of a sudden, I wasn't ready for anyone to read the book. It was too late, it had gone to print. Fuck it.

    The reactions to the publishing had gone just as expected. People around me told me they genuinely enjoyed it. I, in turn, genuinely believed some of them. My anxiety and depression began to fluctuate on a daily basis. I was attempting to alter the debilitating patterns formed by my vices, all while poorly pimping out myself and my book, wondering why I could not even seem to sell a hundred copies. It was around the fall of 2011, that I received a message on Facebook that would lead me to writing this here today, nearly 4 years later.

    The name on the message was Tom Raymond. He and I had a couple of mutual "friends" on Facebook, including my father Jim, and my uncle Mike. He was an interesting looking character, with curly salt and pepper hair, with a sensitive angst in his eyes. He looked like an aging hippie; slightly burnt but teeming with life lessons.

    "Are you Jim's son or his brother?" he asked.

    I explained that I was his son, but that the beard and the build had gotten me the same question in the past. Tom explained that he had gone to William Floyd High School (like myself, my parents, as well as my uncle Mike). He also said that he had heard that I was a writer and that he himself, was also. Tom went on to explain that he had written some lyrics that my father and uncle set to music and recorded.

    "Are you Jim's son or his brother?" he asked me again.

    I could not tell if he was joking around, fucking with me, or if he genuinely did not remember asking me the question already.

    Tom either asked me where he could order my book, or he had told me that he already ordered a copy- I can't recall at the moment. Nevertheless, Tom told me he had ordered my book and that he was looking forward to looking it over. I'm not going to lie, I was a little dismissive of the man. I had no clue who he was- just another friend of one of my middle-aged relatives looking to be "in the know" by having a Facebook page and young "friends". Little did I know, I was dead wrong.

    Tom began to send me pieces of poetry that he had written and asked what I thought. Before opening the first one, I probably rolled my eyes and wondered how bad/weird this was going to be. About three lines in, my jaw slowly drooped open. His work was good....really good. I was completely blown away and instantaneously kicked myself mentally for judging him. Tom was a book with a rough and worn, slightly wrinkled cover, and there I sat, judging like a douche.

    We traded many messages back and forth over the next few years. I began to learn a bit more about Tom as a person and I found his story quite intriguing. He explained that several years back he had injured himself at work and was on and off disability. We also got into a familiar enough place with one another to where he explained to me his love/hate relationship with prescription narcotics, stemming from his injury. It is sad to say, but Tom was not unique in this regard.

    The more I discovered about the man, he simultaneously grew more mysterious. Tom told me that he and his wife were opening a café in York, England and that things were starting to look up. But I would often get jumbled messages at weird hours of the day and night (even with time zones factored in). His messages were manic diatribes about anything from Orwellian conspiracies to the miseries of marriage and the dangers of homesickness. He quoted Dylan often and sent me links to his latest poem submissions. Tom was most definitely an odd bird- but then again, this a classic "pot and kettle" situation, if I've ever seen one. I took me some time to realize, but I had found a kindred spirit in this madcap unknown author across the water.

    Tom would often tell me how much he enjoyed my book and encouraged me to keep writing. The words were very encouraging during times when I really needed to hear them and I didn't really believe them coming from most anyone else. Tom would often ask me to look over his writing. It was quite flattering to be asked to do so by an author who had skills far superior to your own, but often daunting. He pushed me to publish more work through the inter-webs, though I never really took heed. Tom always showed himself, to me at least, to be a caring human being- inspiration mired in madness.

    Over the last several months, things seemed to be running off the rails a bit for Tom. I can't really say that I know for sure because I have never truly met the man. But Tom wore his heart on his sleeve and from everything posted online seemed to point in a fairly dark direction. His marriage was in trouble, he was headed back to the States. I figured that it would not be long before Tom and I actually met face to face, most likely in New York at some point. Before I knew it, Tom was posting on Facebook, back in England, and bluntly saying that he was going to off himself. The only thing I could think to say to his post was, "Don't."

    Many people responded to his posts, pleading for him to call them, urging him to reconsider. He would reappear digitally the next day and would apologize to the world, saying that he was okay. My fears then waned into a small fit of anger. I was perturbed that it had seemed that he used such a heavy threat to grab the attention of the world. I didn't reach out to him about it because frankly, I was not a fan of his "stunt".

    This last Saturday night, I read an ominous Facebook post from my father. He was wishing "fare the well" to someone that was a troubled poet. There were no names, no direct indication as to whom he was speaking, but I knew. Tom was gone. My innards sank down deep. My mind spun gyroscopically. What the fuck happened? I knew that it didn't really matter... my longtime pen pal was dead.

    All of the details are still coming to light at this time. All that I have really been told is that on Friday, Tom was found at the bottom of a set of stairs. I hope in some way that what went down on Friday was something beyond his control- a freak accident surround by the sheer coincidence of what he was laying on the world in the past few weeks. But then again, I really don't know...

   My deepest condolences go out to everyone that actually knew the man and knew him well. His wife, his mother, his sister, and all of his friends must be in a place right now that I would never want to be. I am so sorry that they are dealing with this loss right now. I wish I could have known the man better. I wish that I took the time to know the man better. Hug each other, people. You really never know anything about anything.

I guess all I really wanted to say here was, Rest in Peace, Tom. Thank you for being supportive at a time when I truly needed it. I hope they're treating you well on the other side...

Here is one of Tom's pieces that he wrote and published on forwardpoetry.co.uk

In The Scene

In the scene,

It was a rock

In the dream,

It was to roll,

How many mornings or laces

You tightened up

In Divine graces,

Every next door,

Was leaving traces,

Of Amour’

I awoke and the

Music was far off in the hills,

In the layers of mist’s

And haven taking my pills,

I was off again-

To sing and dance (write a poem)

And then turn it ‘round

Full circle in the hast of

Our wet mouths,

And blankets on the floor’.

Captured what was once free

I brought your shoe filled up

With me, and the Constellations

From which we navigated

And all could dream, of her beauty

Like Donna Summer, Johnny Winter

It’s a hard cold world of Blue’s

Sometimes sister,

You wonder who could have,

made these rules my head

is humming from the sweetness

you exude,

And I found the answer deep

Inside of you~

And in side of me,

You were there with your magical,

Mystical hypnotic stare,

All things come full circle

And land within

You,

A pyramid sister,

And yet sinister

And I’m just an old

Love Song Juke Box Whiskey man

Cigarette, In my hand~

Welcome to this NewLand, sister.

@T.Raymond 08/06/2014

   
   


   

Donald Trump: The President America Deserves

    So far, there are seventeen seats with asses in them on the 2016 Republican presidential candidate Whacko-mobile. Most are spineless cretins, hailing from across a wide spectrum of crazy that has become the modern day Republican party. Some familiar names have been tossed into the ring so far this year- former Latino Jeb Bush, Scott "Fuck the Unions" Walker, Rick "I Heart Glasses Now" Perry, Chris "Total Self Control" Christie, and the whitest Cubano to hit U.S. shores since Ricky Ricardo, Marco Rubio, just to name a few.
     
    Other than the "R" in front of each of their names, what do all of these so-called "contenders" have in common? I'll tell you: they've all been made a fool of by one man. They have all been steamrolled, outsmarted, out-dimwitted, and shouted over by none other than the grand poo-bah of creepy dead animal toupee enthusiasts, Donald Trump...and the media wants to make sure you hear every. single. word. Unfortunately, we're letting them do just that.

    "The Donald", as I and many others prefer to call him, by no purpose or fault of his own incidentally, has become the presidential candidate that this once-great nation has actually come to deserve. By all designs and standards, it is way too early to tell, but God dammit, I hope this weasel wins. Before anyone accuses me of completely losing my marbles, bear with me for a few paragraphs. Or, at least until your modern day attention span that is slightly akin to that of a ferret on heroin, wears thin.

    Trump has found the perfect recipe for playing in today's political game. Mix two cups Toby Keith-style "We'll put a boot in yer' ass/I hate Mexicans" redneck populism, with ten cups New York corporate elitism, and gently fold together with a healthy splash of "I hate the Chinese, though I'll gladly have their children make my clothing line". Bake at six hundred and sixty-six degrees for several twenty-four hour news cycles and remove from oven. Finally, let sit on any cable "news" window sill for a few nanoseconds before serving to the public. The end result is a foul-tasting, fresh-baked turd, wrapped in bull shit, lightly dressed in a perfectly acidic fecal vinaigrette, with a healthy sprinkle of Trump "hair" on top.

    Since announcing his presidential run on June sixteenth of this year, "The Donald" has made some astounding statements. He has said that most of the Mexicans that are coming to America illegally are rapists. Trump stated that Senator John McCain is not a war hero because he was captured and subsequently held as a prisoner of war by the Vietcong. (I just had a mini stroke from typing that sentence). He has most recently said that if it came down to it, as President, he would shut down the entire government over his anti-Planned Parenthood stance. Most laughably, in my opinion, he has made the claim that he is "the most successful man to ever run for President." Obviously success is measured by going bankrupt several times over and by how many dead baby fox hides you keep in your (H)UUGE, gold-plated walk-in closet. Who knew?

    In a recent CBS poll, Donald Trump leads the Republican nominee field with twenty-four percent of those polled wanting to see Trump crowned the nominee for the party. The runner up? Jeb "My Last Name Will Betray me" Bush, with a whopping thirteen percent. This, my friends, is nauseating. It is everything that is wrong with our nation at this moment. My mind is bent with disturbing images of President Trump, side-by-side with V.P. Bush, holding hands with Secretary of Interior Hunting Lodge Design, Sarah Palin- standing atop a 40 foot high fence on the southern border, all of them screaming "You're Fired!" as Palin pumps a few rounds into the poor souls trying to escape the poverty and brutal cartels. I'm sick to my stomach. As we all should be. But this is what we deserve, America. This is what we get for letting the corporate media swine hijack our minds, giving them permission to basically tell US who and what is important in the upcoming election season.

    It seems as if we as a society have decided that our middle class deserves nothing less than to be brought back 'round the barn and taken out Old Yeller style, despite higher productivity for lower wages. We don't really seem to give much of a shit about the environment, either. You don't have to be a stinky hippy who cries at tree funerals to know that pumping smoke, gas and exhaust fumes at astounding rates into the atmosphere is not really what our globe was built for.
     
    We let the freaks at Fox & Friends and the testically-deficient Chuck Todd of Meet The Press dominate conversations about what is important in today's America. For what? Ratings and advertising dollars? Is that what our future is worth to Fox "News", NBC, and C"N"N? Keep watching, everybody. Their ratings are through the roof with furry clowns like Trump and the other incredulous vermin of his ilk. The corporate "news" phantoms are winning. As an enlightened citizenry, we are circling the drain.

    The news outlets basically laugh at candidates like Bernie Sanders, (who probably can't win a nomination as a self-described, Scandinavian-style Democratic Socialist) but that isn't the point. Sanders champions for the waning middle-class. He also is the only candidate I hear talking about getting the corrupt money out of these election cycles, and the only one talking about putting criminal bankers in jail. Like him or not, socialist or not, issues like these need to be at the forefront of the discussion, not attention-seeking fuckbags like Donald Trump.

    We need to have a media that puts the focus on real problems that we all face together, regardless of political leanings. We need to fight for renewable energy sources. We need our troops to come home. Now, if you're going to tell me, "The Internet has plenty of news sources that tell the important stories"...stop. Just stop. Don't get me wrong, I somewhat agree, but it isn't enough. Online articles from "The Huffington Post" or "The Atlantic" are far too easily pushed aside as "partisan" or sometimes labeled as "conspiracy theory".

    We need Walter fucking Cronkite. We need to see the flag-draped coffins coming home every day from the middle-east. We need investigative reporters finally catching C.E.O.'s making the "elusive" quid pro quo back door deals with the politicians that are supposedly working for OUR best interests. There needs to be a countdown clock to the end of the polar ice caps. Well, let's maybe not go that far, but you get the point.

    What we don't need, is to know how many more redneck governors said something outrageous about how all of you evil homos are going to ruin the sanctity of their seventh marriage. There is no need for another hour-long segment about how one former congressman believes we are in the End Times. We DO NOT need Donald Trump ranting about how he'll basically beat the crap out of the Chinese if they don't get on board the 'Murrica train. We have real problems and too many distractions. Enough is enough. The media is not taking us seriously, it is high time we return the favor. Cut the cord, get rid of your cable and NEVER stop blasting these charlatans.

    Until we come together with the full fury and power of the many against the few that believe they rule over us, we will all get what we deserve...and according to the ratings, what we deserve is President "The Donald" Trump.