a shtick

Haunted is the right word.

I was awoken today by thoughts of that day in New Orleans. I was probably dreaming about it. Just remembering it. Certainly my conscious knows that I need to deal with it. Face it.

I just remember thinking I wanted to look, so badly, but I didn’t. I’d promised her I wouldn’t.

I’m glad I didn’t for her. I wish I had for me.

It seemed to cold. Too clinical. Uncaring.

He deserved better.

I should be extremely tired right now. Instead, I’m well rested.

My nights should be short and interrupted. They’re not. They’re endless.

Should we have done what we did? In hindsight, no.

Were the doctors setting us up for the inevitable, but not telling us flat out? I believe so. And I hate them for it if it’s true. I won’t bother with finding out, because I don’t need another source of hatred in my life. It’s wasteful feeling any hate. But very few people actually pull that off.

I wish I had a way to figure it all out. To make sense of it. There’s a reason behind it right? Probably not. We just end up the way we end up. Choices, yeah they play a role. So does dumb luck. So does genetics.

We’re all ticking time bombs. Some of us wake up and become millionaires or porn stars. Some of us wake up and buy a gun to blow our own heads off, or maybe strangers sitting in a movie theater or walking across a campus somewhere.

All of us have great ideas. No matter where we are on the food chain. It’s what we do with them. Some jump full hog into making the idea come true. Maxing out their credit cards, borrowing from friends, eating Ramen noodles and then – BOOM! – the idea either blows up successfully, or just in your face.

Others have an idea and tell someone else. That person takes the idea and runs with it. Leaving the idea person behind in the dust.

Some, we just burying them in words. Layer upon layer upon layer piled on top until the idea is lost in the mass.

I wonder sometimes if going to church really helps folks. I mean, if you can choose a religion, choose a God, why does it have to be some wise, old man? Why can’t it be some frog-looking dude. Or William Shatner? Or a vagina? They all make as much sense. And hell, wouldn’t you rather die and wake up in the arms of a vagina? Well, some of you no.

KISS founder Gene Simmons probably wouldn’t mind. He’s been in more vaginas than most gynecologists. It seems odd. Such an ugly person – inside and out – gets so much pussy. Further proof of the thesis that people are plain stupid. Me included.

At this very moment, Stouffer’s frozen meals popped into my head. They’re always bland, they’re always under or over cooked – never just right. Yet at some point that Stouffer guy made a lot of money off of them. I’m sure if any Stouffer’s are still involved, it’s just cashing a check now. Investing what grand-dad did, or great grand-dad. I’m sort of glad I wasn’t born into money, it gave me my independence. Of course, I took my independence and swiped it all away. So, maybe being born into money isn’t so bad.

Most of those folks don’t go to a job they hate every day. They may go to a club or a country they don’t like much, but all things are relative.

Do you have any more gum? More gum? More gum? … Do you have any more gum?

I used to think a little bit of Billy Madison could get me through anything. I was wrong. Mainly because Adam Sandler has become filthy rich by playing Billy Madison in every movie  he’s made since.

Here comes the jibberish part! Oh, he’s going to be some kind of man-child, redeemed by a child.

Fuck.

I need a shtick that makes money.

Or at least gets laughs. You know, laughter does help.

Unless you’re one of those people who laughs at everything. Nervously. As a defense mechanism. You might as well tell people that your either not listening or you don’t understand.

I can’t hear much in crowded places anymore. I’ve destroyed my hearing. Too many days with headphones cranked all the way up. Too many Lucero shows in the front row – never with earplugs.

You don’t get smarter. You get wise.  You don’t get dumber. You just stay put.

Ranting McRanterson

Ranting mcranterson….

Why do shitheads throw cigarette butts out their car windows? Why the fuck do shitheads who smoke leave their windows down to smoke? If you like smoke so damn much, keep it inside. And stop throwing butts on the ground in this hot, windy, dry weather. You’re going to cause a fire. And you … N.C. fire department license plate in front of me on N.C. 58 today outside of Emerald Isle … Fuck you for doing it. I hope you’re beach house catches on fire. Ok, I don’t really, but damn, you’re a fucking hypocrite.

To the bitch with the stringy blonde hair and the awful, awful, awful, ill-fitting dress at the unmentionable place today … Go Fuck You. If you want someone to do something – even when you hate their guts because they cuss, wear shorts and call you on your bullshit – ask nicely. It actually works.

To the drunk ass rednecks coming out of the shag bar across the street from my house. Shut up. You’re over 50. You shouldn’t be going “Wooooooooooooooo” in public anymore. Ok, you can do that, but do it less than you’re doing now.

Oh, and the bitch in the red Camaro… stop hitting my God damn mailbox. You need to get busted for a DUI. Drink, dance, then drive. Yeah, smart combo. Bitch.

Hey, guy who drives around Jacksonville with the giant, tattered Confederate flag. Stop it. You’re racism is showing. And to the guy who has the giant truck with the huge smokestack things, you stop it too. I don’t want to breathe all that fucking crap.

All the people – including my best friend – who posted pictures of the temperature either in their car, outside of their car, outside their office, or outside their apartments/houses today on facebook and twitter – I DON’T CARE. It’s 95 degrees INSIDE my house right now. I’m poor. That’s one of the ways I save money. But not foolishly cooling my house that I spend maybe six or seven hours a day in. Just ain’t worth it. I’d rather buy good beer.

Why do the grocery stores on the island close at midnight? It’s the summer. The tourists are here. Shouldn’t you be serving them? That way I don’t have to buy beer 30 minutes from my house and it gets hot before I get home.

And fuck you laws. I should be able to drink ONE beer while driving that distance. It will distract me no more or less, or make me no less or more of a driver (or writer) than a Monster energy drink or texting while driving.

The chicken in my fridge that went bad. Fuck you. I paid good money for you. And you spoiled. Yeah, it was my fault for not cooking you sooner, but shit, I really wanted to eat chicken last night.

And to my memory. Fuck you. I left my meal in the fridge and went out and spent 9 bucks on a meal. Dumb ass.

To the members of KISS. Eat shit. You aren’t KISS without Peter and Ace. And dressing up like you are Peter and Ace? Fuck off Tommy Thayer and Eric Singer. Fuck the fuck off.

To the NOLA Media Group. Eat shit. Those job descriptions you put out kept me from applying with your company. I know typing this means you’ll never hire me, even when your plan fails and you either go out of business and it won’t matter, or you go back to what worked. My new CEO says newspapers – the print part – actually has a future. I have no idea what he considers “a future” to be. A year? Ten years? One hundred years? But he spent a whole lot of money to prove it. But still less than your profits from the T-P last year.

Toby Keith fans. Eat shit.

Same for you, Brooks and Dunn or the song Mr. Roboto.

To me, for picking on that kid Ke-ho back in grade school. I was such a dick head.

To me, again, for spelling motherfucker mother fucker to make it two words instead of one.

To my teeth. Eat my ass. To me for the last 20 years, eat double my ass for not getting them fixed before it was too late.

Electronic dart machines in bars? Fuck you.

Internet jukeboxes that allow people to play anything by Slipknot or Stone Temple Pilots. Die in a fire.

The guy who dumped all the waste in the alley between my house and the hotel…I hope bats shit in your mouth tonight and you contract rabies. And I don’t even know if you can get rabies that way. Probably not. Maybe though?

To the people who talk to me in the bathroom. I don’t want to talk to you. I’m peeing or pooping. And yes, I called the shit poop, Adam Sandler. It creeps me out. And today, to the photog that did it, there was a guy taking a shit in there, and it smelled. Why the fuck did you stop me from leaving to ask me about 401Ks?

Lastly, to money. I’ve been bad to you all these years, and you in return have been bad to me. Let’s call a truce and forget about it…Asshat.

KISSmissed in 1979

I sometimes wonder how different my life would be if I’d gone to a KISS concert when I was 9.

The talk of it was big in 1979. This was the KISS on its last legs of being the “hottest band in the world” as they self-proclaimed endlessly. This was after the solo albums, and hot on the heels of the “disco song” of “I Was Made for Loving You.”

To me, the band could do no wrong. Ditto that my cousin, J.J., who like me worshipped everything that Ace, Peter, Paul and Gene did. Notice the order of the band members, it is no accident.

I got the Ace, Peter and for some reason Gene albums. The Ace one is still in rotation today. The Peter one was cool, but didn’t stand the test of time. The Gene one? Dreck. I don’t think I made it to a second listen. The Paul one? I still have not heard.

This was after getting KISS albums for doing things. I remember when I was on the high dive board at the swimming pool. Scared out of my wits. I was offered anything I wanted to jump. I said “the new KISS album?” My mom said yes. Soon, I had “KISS Alive! II”. My sister already had “Rock and Roll All Over” and “Detroit Rock City”, which soon became mine. I had a poster of Gene Simmons behind my door. Behind it because it actually scared me as a kid. Ha! But I loved KISS.

“Dynasty” came out after the disappointment of the solo albums. Soon after, a tour announcement came.

The band listed its ”Dynasty” tour for 1979 and on it was the Hampton Coliseum. July 5, 1979 to be exact. This was, of course, in the minds of an 8 and 9 year old, the be-all and end-all of the universe. An occurrence that would never happen again.

Sadly, it would turn out to be true.

At this point, Peter Criss was saddled with drug-addiction. Ace Frehley was a drunk, who probably had other issues with drugs as well. The band was a marketing empire, but it was crumbling due. And much of it had to do with the fact that people like me and my cousin – little kids – wanted to go to see them perform.

I begged my mother. Pleaded with her. But she was adamant. When did my mother, who was so cool, become the mom that would later be portrayed in the movie “Detroit Rock City”? KISS wasn’t going to turn me into some demon. I wasn’t going to start smoking pot because I went to see them. I wasn’t going to get herpes from some slut in row 15. No, I was going to just watch them. And love it.

In the end, J.J. and his mom – my mom’s sister – went to the show. It wouldn’t be until 1985 that I was allowed to go see an arena rock show. Ironically, with my cousin J.J. and his mother when Van Halen with new lead singer Sammy Hagar took the stage at the Coliseum. I was so disturbed by the lack of one David Lee Roth, that a plan was hatched to sneak toilet paper rolls into the arena and throw them at Mr. Hagar. We succeeded. It was glorious.

But back to 1979.

This kid was now sullen. I have no idea if this was the moment where I changed. I think it had to do with other things, but this coming on top of it? Well, it wasn’t a help.

I had hoped to be able to brag to my classmates, including one little girl that I had a huge crush on, that I was going to see KISS play! Yes, the same KISS that was on the television with “KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park”! Coolness and awesomeness would follow.

Instead, I didn’t go. My cousin did.

I stewed all summer and into the next school year. The lovely girl I’d had a crush on was gone, moved away. Summer turned to fall and fall to winter.

And then the news came via the magazines – Hit Parader, Creem and such. Peter Criss was leaving the band. He was my favorite KISS member. Loved the cat theme and the #3 all over things. But now he was gone. The album “Unmasked” came out with a new drummer.

I hated it simply for that.

It didn’t help KISS’ cause that “Music from The Elder” was next. More dreck.

The final straw for the band in my mind was 1982’s double shot of awful “Killers” and “Creatures of the Night.”

At 11, I was done with KISS. My first favorite band. Certainly not my last, but one that I still have a soft spot for despite knowing how bad most of the music really was.

From a distance I watched as Ace Frehley was replaced. Had Eddie Van Halen or Richie Sambora taken the job, maybe things would have changed. I doubt it, though.

Vinnie Vincent? “Lick It Up”? Ugh.

Then the makeup came off on MTV. It was horridly sad. I watched, now an awkward 14 year old. The last KISS myth was now destroyed.

Mark St. John, I think, came next. After that, I don’t remember much.

Soon, I was listening to Metallica and Slayer or The Clash and Sex Pistols or U2 and INXS. My musical tastes and my ability to find it were expanding (nothing like how easy it is today).

When the original band got back together in the mid-1990s, I thought about going. I didn’t.

Each subsequent reunion tour has sort of made me want to go, simply for nostalgia, but I don’t.

Seeing them live from New Orleans this year via the Internet confirmed that I’d made the right call over the last decade-plus.

It just wouldn’t be the same, seeing them now, as they are. The wide-eyed 9 year-old is still in there, but it would have been the 30something or 40something me there. Much like if you see Star Wars for the first time now, not then. It’s just not the same.

And I’ll always wonder what I would have been had I seen KISS in 1979?