I Suck.

Yea, I suck.

It's hard to write when you're neck-deep in your plan of attack for life. "Wth?" you ask.

My plan of attack on life involves traveling my face off while incorporating wonderful things that I love into my travels. Great food, different corners of the country, fly fishing, things and deals abroad, delicious beverages, interesting people, my beautiful wife, maybe a kiddo or two, writing bunches, and so forth and so on. In order to get that ball rolling, I had to put an immediate stop to my at-the-time current profession. So I went ahead and did that.

Now, I'm much more in line with the direction that I need to be headed. I'm tuned into fly fishing, travel, and although I've slacked on my own blog...writing. Things are swell.

I am now practicing patience and slowly directing my dream. I realize that I'm being vague on what that plan, or dream actually is. That's because I'm not 100% positive what it is just yet. I just know that it involves traveling, fishing, experiencing, living, and writing.

So, with that said, I'll try and update this site on a more regular basis. If anyone out there is interested in offering me a substantial amount of money to do the aforementioned things listed above, facebook me or something.


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D'nF'nD '11

Wow. I can't believe this time of year is upon us again so soon. It seems like just yesterday that we were all preparing for the celebration, the togetherness, and the warmth.

Yes, Dokken Day 2011 is only 78 days away! Yep, I'm talking DD, not X-Mas. I zigged just when you thought I was going to zag.

2010's celebration was ridiculously awesome, and 2011's is going to be even bigger. The party plans have yet to be hashed out, but I can assure you that you're not going to be disappointed.

A quick recap to inform our friends new to the holiday: In 1988, Tom Bradley, the mayor of Los Angeles, proclaimed January 27 "Dokken Day" and presented the 80s metal band, Dokken, with the key to city. Not sure why, but I'm glad the drunk bastard did.

The way I like to picture it is, Tom Bradley got shit-hammered drunk one night with Don, George, "Wild" Mick, and Jeff (Dokken, Lynch, Brown, and Pilson, respectively) You've got a white-collar , African-American politician decked out in a neck tie and penny loafers hanging out with the fellas from Dokken. Tom lives down the street from the bandmates, who all live a nice, ranch-style subdivision home together. They've all been bowling and have had several Busch Lights and Rumplemint shots. Don, decked out in full spandex, teased hair, chain belt, silk headband, and a bowler's wrist guard, rolls a strike. Tom Bradley yells, "Don, you lucky fucker! Roll another one! If you don't get a strike, you have to take a shot of Schnapps for each one of us here!"

"You're on, T.B.!" Don retorts in a playful manner, "If I get it though, you're drinking them, cocksucker!"

Don positions his stance, slowly brings the bowling ball up to his chin supported by his non- bowling hand, and with an intent focus on that center pin, takes a deep breath and shoots one down the center of the lane. Crash!! All ten pins explode with the force that only a metal god can conjure.

"Drink up, bitch!" Don laughs.

Tom gracefully accepts his end of the bet and throws back five shots of Schnapps in quick fashion. His eyes instantly glaze over and he stumbles a bit while finding his way back to his plastic chair with his penny loafers stowed neatly under it.

"I tell ya what," T.B. suddenly says, "you roll a third strike and I'll give you the key to the goddamn city! You miss it, and I take over as lead singer and namesake of your band." he states confidently.

Don, who never backs down from a challenge--especially in the presence of his bandmates in the middle of a bowling alley--calls Tom on his ante-upping.

Once again, Don positions the ball in front of his face just below his eyes. Focuses on the lane, the pins, the encouraging words from Jeff, George, and "Wild" Mick, "Don...you can do this." they softly say. Nervous thoughts of his amazingly talented metal band changing it's name to BRADDLY. Don clears his head.

Then, with the determination that only an entertainer--a man--of Don's caliber can attain, he bowls that third strike. Don succeeds, as he has countless times before.

Mayor Bradley, with a defeated grin, reaches into his briefcase and removes a solid gold key the size of a ukulele. As the four band members stand in front of Tom with a confident swagger about them, they remain good sports and give a Tom a pat on the back and assure him that this gentleman's wager will not effect their friendship in the least. In fact, in a beautiful act of sportsmanship, George Lynch graciously asks Mayor Bradley and his wife over for a Sunday pot luck dinner to the band's house. "Wild" Mick Brown quickly offers his famous Chipotle Potato Salad for a side dish! This was well before the word "chipotle" became a popular culinary term. "Wild" Mick is considered a "trail blazer" in the art of fine cooking.

The next morning as the band members awake from a slumber fueled by the ravages of a night of pure rock and roll bowling alley debauchery, they start to piece together the events that transpired. They manage to remember the ultimate wager that evening, and while feeling triumphant that their leader once again came through for them, they couldn't help but wonder how their close friend, Tom Bradley, mayor of Los Angeles, felt that same morning. It brought a sense of concern to all four roommates.

Jeff flips the TV on to break up the worried feelings in the room, and to the band's amazement, Mayor Tom Bradley was on live television, holding an impromptu press conference. He was announcing his decision to proudly give the key to the city to the greatest rock and roll band the world had ever seen--as well as great friends and neighbors of his--Dokken. Mayor Bradley then ends his press conference by proclaiming that day, January 27, from that day forth, "Dokken Day".

That morning Mayor Tom Bradely proved to his close friends, Dokken, that being a gracious loser, actually makes you a triumphant winner...

The band and the mayor celebrated the following day with jello molds, casseroles, salads, and a delicious main course prepared by who else, Don Dokken.

That's kind of the way I envision the whole thing happening.

At any rate, I'll get back to you on the bad-ass details of DD'11. I'm guessing that although we'll all celebrate in our homes amongst ourselves and our families on the day of the 27th, the actual festival won't kick off until the following Saturday, the 29th--just so you know. So mark your damn calendars!

Thanks Mayor Tom Bradley! You won't be forgotten in this celebration of 80s metal wonderment!




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Way To Go, MO.

I'm a dreamer. But I dream about realistic, achievable things. I have a very crisp and vivid mind's eye, and sometimes what I'm seeing in my head is more romantic--more desirable than the reality of doing it. I tend to dwell on a memory or idea that is--in my head--exactly what I have to do right now.

For months I had envisioned going back home to Missouri. It was to be a perfect visit--obviously, seeing as how I'm dreaming about it. There was to be fishing at my favorite old spots, seeing friends that I used to get into trouble with, grilling meats and frying fishes in the parents' backyard, and spending very necessary time with my family. I had grown homesick. I had started to yearn for the things that used to be everyday life for me years ago. The visions of all these things in my head made me even more excited and ready to embrace my roots once again.

Well, I went. And with very few exceptions, it was absolutely perfect.

The visit started out swell. A good friend of mine, Bryan, took my dad and I out on his boat (my dad and I sold our boat, seeing as how I moved away) to our favorite launch on Stockton Lake. Since I cannot travel well with my conventional fishing tackle which is now in my garage in Colorado, my dad purchased a new $30 spin combo for me at the Bass Pro, or Pro Bass, or "Probe Ass" as it has become so affectionately called. After we arrived at our old honey hole, my new rig backfires before I'm able to make one cast, thus creating what us boat anglers call a "fiddle dee wa". It was an annoying beginning, but after 5-7 minutes of untangling my line from around the inside of my spool, I make my first cast towards this hallowed bank. On my second fling, I lace into a sizable white bass, the very species that we were hoping would be hungry this particular day. You see, white bass to some are a dirt fish. Possibly not a sport fish, and some do not consider them good eating. Those people are wrong and ignorant.

Here's a quick side note on the perception of certain fishes: Where I'm from, people love crappie. They are supposedly the most delicious fish, outside of the walleye. I disagree. Crappie do not have much taste, so most people--who likely don't like fishy tasting fish, prefer crappie. White bass, on the other hand, very much so have a fishy taste to them. Not overpowering, they just taste like a fish should. So me, and my friends and family who appreciate fresh, fishy tasting fish, prefer the white bass over the crappie. Hell, you're coating it in flour, cornmeal, salt & pepper, and cayenne--then dumping it in oil anyway, so a little fish taste certainly complements its crunchy, seasoned exterior. I do not turn my nose up at a crappie, mind you. I simply find it less tasty. Walleye are still the cat's ass when it comes to delicious fish sides. That can't be denied.

Okay, the white bass is tossed in the live well, and from then on we accumulate many, many more to accommodate the boat. The predominate species is the white bass--some in the 20 inch range--but also largemouth bass, walleye, and yes, crappie are added to the mix. Even a couple big, nasty catfish are thrown in. Several keepers are actually tossed into the boat by way of my fly rod. It's a little more work--especially when your fly line keeps getting tangled in the trolling motor foot controls--but well worth the effort!

A day and a half of this results in over 60 kept fish between the three of us. This is going to be fine fish fry.

The second day of fishing ended earlier than the first, due to the amount of fish that needed filleting and a few friends coming over to drink some beer with us. The picnic table was positioned just right in the back yard, two cutting boards placed on it, one electric fillet knife and one conventional for cutting rib cages out, cold Budweisers within arms reach, and country music cued on the CD player. Not pop country--I don't listen to that crap. No, good country. Our traditional fish cleaning country artists are BR5-49, Ray Condo and His Ricochets, and Willie Nelson. Any mention of Rascal Flatts and someone's getting a fillet knife in their thigh.

During the two hour process of preparing fish sides for the following day's fry, my good friend Jeffrey shows up with his Weber grill and three slabs of spare ribs.

Now, earlier when I said that I have a vivid mind's eye and dream about realistic things that make me incredibly happy--this is certainly one of those things. But it actually was better than how I envisioned it. Hickory smoke and fish stench in the air. BR5-49, sizzling ribs, and an electric fillet knife providing the soundtrack. Comrades that I see way too little of these days. It was one of those times that I have to take moment to absorb it all in. And I did. And then grabbed a can of Budweiser with my red, slimy hand and took at hearty quaff, and grinned in satisfaction.

The following evening was perhaps the crux of the visit. After a couple preliminary beers during the Nebraska/Mizzou tackle football contest with some old friends, it was time to prepare for the evening's festivities. 60+ fish equals 120+ fish sides. These were to be fried. Bryan, who has become an avid hunter, supplied venison loin that my dad was to hickory smoke on the grill. After old friends pulled into the gravel driveway one by one, Bud Lights were inhaled like the good old days and stories of the past were repeated like they are each time we meet up. A competitive game of horseshoes quickly led to further preparation for the night. We instinctively split into groups. Some get wood ready for the large fire, some help prepare the grill, and some assist in creating a fish frying station in the backyard.

Like usual, there was more food than all of our hearty appetites could consume. And like usual, an S.O.S. went out when the beer supply became thin. The crisis was quickly averted when my best friend, Kevin, showed up fashionably late with two cases of cold beer. To my recollection, there was much beer and laughter alongside a blazing campfire. Pickup trucks and lawn chairs circled the pit, and sing-along 80s metal provided a familiar backdrop.

It's different now, yet the same. My parents' backyard has always served as the stage for incredibly successful get-togethers. My friends and I, once being the kids that populated these shindigs, are now much more few and far between. People grow up. They move away. They move on. But there are still a few soldiers that carry on. The parties are less--especially now that I live 700 miles away. But when word gets out that a fiesta is in the works, there is always a swell crowd that delivers. My parents' backyard now has less of "us", but more of our offspring. 4 year-olds chasing each other around and playing tee-ball has replaced 22 year-olds doing keg stands and running through the fire. We still get together, though. We're not as rowdy, but we still have just as much fun.

Nice job, Missouri. Way to come through.






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Twitchy Left Eye.

I try not to talk about work too much on this thing. When I get home from a trying day--which is most all of them--the last thing I want to talk about is work. But there are some real characters out there that I just have to bring to everyone's attention.

Let's recap on what exactly it is that I do. I sell coats to dipshits. The end.

Sure, I've got to put up with a boatload of totally unnecessary micro-managing and bullshitting just to keep the corporate jackweeds off my back--but apparently that's not too uncommon.

Let's get back to the dipshits.

Now, if you've ever worked a job in the service industry--a job where they really emphasize the term "customer service", then you may get my drift on this bit. If not, please take note so you don't fall into this category of dipshitness.

I'll start with a fairly minor one. This happened today.

Loud, annoying phone-talking guy decides to walk into the store while still on his incredibly important and loud phone call. I make it a point to greet everyone who enters the store while on their phones just so they have to acknowledge me for one second during their cellular conversation. Sometimes it takes more than one greeting to get a reaction, but it's worth the effort because I get satisfaction from interrupting them. Loud, annoying phone-talking guy walks right up to me, puts his index finger out, as to say "Just a sec, chief.". I am in a not-so great mood to begin with--mainly because I hate my job--so I give him a "go to hell" scowl that was more genuine than he, or anyone could have known. He finishes his conversation with an "I'll have to pass this time, big guy, but maybe we can---blah blah blah (he started talking in frat-boy golf lingo that I don't understand).

This champion finally ends his cell phone conversation that he obviously wanted everyone within earshot--and then some--to hear, walks up uncomfortably close to me, and states, "Let's do some shoppin'!" My scowl increases to where no man in his right mind would think that I am even minutely happy at this point. While he stands there smiling, I stand with a look that all but screams, "Are you fucking kidding me? I don't get paid near enough to deal with fucktards like you." That's exactly what my look said...and then my left eye started twitching.

After I stand there, in dipshit-shock, he says, "What's your name?" Then he looks at my nametag ( I hate...once again, I hate...wearing a nametag) "Matt? Craig. I need to buy a casual, but cool jacket that I can wear if I want to learn to ski, but that also looks good with a suit, like if I get off work and meet some clients over at Elway's. Also something that I can run or ride my bike at night while it's snowing. I just moved here from Cali, lost 40lbs since February, and I'm out shopping like a chick!"

No shit. Nice job, Craig. Way to suck at living.

This brings to mind the man-shoppers that I have come in the store. Now, this is not intended to poke fun at gay dudes--that would not be as big of a deal. But I have a substantial amount of seemingly heterosexual men that enjoy spending a Saturday afternoon not playing basketball together...not drinking beer together...not watching baseball together...but shopping for clothes together. Yes, they carry around their little bags from the mall that have Aeropostle--or what the fuck ever that place is called, The Gap, The Navy, The Puma, and all the other mall stores that cater to man-shoppers.

"Hey Vinnie, you got Saturday off? Sweet! Me too! I realize that there's a game on TV, or we could head up to the mountains for a little fishing, or hell, we could even just spend the day in a bar tying one on.......but I'm wondering if you would just like to go to the mall, do some shopping? You know, for clothes and stuff? The two of us. That sound cool?"

Then some crazy lady comes in to the store, wondering if we sell body warmers? I don't know what a body warmer is. There is no such thing, so she's probably confusing it with something else. "Are you talking about hand or foot warmers? You know, those packets that you put in your gloves or socks in cold weather?" I ask.

"No, god no! It's a body warmer! You know, a piece of clothing!" Like I'm the idiot.

"O--kay. Like arm warmers for runners? Sleeves?" I'm at a loss.

"No! It's armless! It's an armless body warmer! C'mon!! I see them everywhere! Don't tell me you don't have them!" She's almost yelling at this point.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. I have no idea what a sleeveless body warmer is." I say while keeping my cool and appearing completely genuine.

"Here! This! This is what I'm talking about!!" As she grabs a hold of a garment on a rack.

"A vest??" I say in utter amazement.

"Yea, whatever! Vest, bodywarmer...whatever! That's what I need!" still talking like I am a complete moron. My eye: twitching.

One more. Stay with me on this winner.

Guy is looking at luggage. I ask if I can help. He says, "I bought this piece of luggage yesterday, and I'm wondering if it's going to be big enough."

"Okay, I gotcha. What are you planning on packing in it" I reply.

"I've got six reels that I'm traveling with, and that's all I'm taking in this piece of luggage." he states.

"Alright, have you tried packing them in there yet?" giving this yutz the benefit of the doubt thus far.

"Yea, I brought 'em. They're in there." opening the carry-on to show me that all reels fit perfectly.

"Okay, so you bought this yesterday, and decided to bring your reels in to see if they'd fit in this exact same piece that you just bought?" Trying to make sense of it.

"Yea, I'm just not sure that they're gonna fit." he says, revealing that he is still uncertain that his cargo will fit into this piece of luggage that they are, in fact, fitting into right in front of both our eyes.

"Well.......it looks as though they fit in this piece....that you have already bought, pretty well....." I say with a hint of caution, in case I'm dealing with a mentally disabled person, or there is possibly something obvious that I'm overlooking during this conversation.

"Yea, I don't know if they're gonna fit, man."

At this point, I am completely speechless. I throw my hands up, as to say, "Sorry bud, I don't know what to tell you. You bought this same piece of luggage yesterday, but decided to bring your six fishing reels in here to see if they would fit in the display model--which they obviously do, without a hint of doubt, instead of....................." My left eye starts twitching. I walk away.




Please, please, please....stop being so goddamn stupid. Thank you.






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half-drunk ramblings after a bad day at work.

A Type A personality is described as a business-like, aggressive, controlling workaholic. Basically an asshole.

A Type B personality is the polar opposite. Easy going, relaxed, "whatever" types.

I am neither. Or quite possibly, lots of both.

I am not a workaholic, in the dramatized sense of staying late at the office, burning the midnight oil. I suppose you could classify me as a workaholic, though, seeing as how I am constantly trying to find a way to enjoy my profession...which hasn't happened yet. Controlling? Aggressive? Nah, not really. Asshole? Probably.

One main characteristic that I do share with these Type A jerks, is that I stress entirely too much over my job. It's really not that I care about it that much, or I strive to be the best so much that my ulcer starts bulging. It's that I dislike it (and every other job) so much that my left eye starts twitching, I grow a pain in my side right under my rib cage, and my chest becomes extremely tight.

That's my Type A bit.

In order to correct--or counter-balance my Type A tendencies, I immediately go Type B, to the point to where it probably hinders me.

There is no happy medium. If I become too stressed out over work, or the frustrations that lie within, I can't just "not let them get to me" in a grown-up, adult, professional manner. No, I have to say "fuck it, man"--sometimes aloud at work--and let any ounce of maturity that I've ever gained go straight down the shitter. It's either, or.

That's been my struggle. I get to the point of unhappiness with my career that I allow it to effect me physically--then I throw in the towel and don't give a fuck to cure it. It's kind of the two extremes of both Types of personalities.

I dwell, and I dwell, and I dwell. I am constantly unsatisfied, and want something different, something more, something now. There is no sense of patience--a trait of Type A-ers. But then I get to my boiling point...

That's when immaturity rears its ugly head. It's kind of cool, though. It's a little embarrassing at times--saying 'fuck it' to most everything and acting like I did in high school. But it's also liberating. It's nice to have that release. More times than not, I wish it lasted longer.

If I could choose one of my extreme personality traits, it would probably be the B. Mainly for health reasons. Of course, I would basically be a couch-draped hippie. But I suppose that beats a near heart attack on a weekly basis caused by stupid shit that revolves around selling coats and the jack-offs that surround that world.

The answer is simple, but acting on that answer is not. Do what makes you happy. Sounds great on paper, but it's not an easy feat to perfect. If I did what makes me happy, I'd probably be a bum, 'cause I don't want to work. At least not a "job".

I want to travel, experience, explore, taste, teach, and learn. Nine-to-fives do not interest me. That's where my stress comes in to play. Trying dearly to figure that puzzle out.

The older I get, the more stressed this makes me. Frankly, because my time is quickly getting measured. My time with friends, family, and hopefully kiddos one day. I don't want to be an angry, disgruntled coat salesman. I want to be utterly pleased and content with my career and the direction it's going. I want it to be meaningful, and gratifying. Selling coats to dickheads is not.

Hopefully I'll be able to figure this $47,000 question out for myself sooner rather than later. It's probably something that doesn't affect too many of you out there--I seem to be in the minority when it comes to making it one's life-long mission to find the perfect profession. I hope it's possible. I hope I'm not fucked.

But that's my personality, I guess. Type F.




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Hagar or Roth? Good chance you're wrong.

Earlier today, while half drunk at 11am on a random Thursday wine tour with my wife, I asked via the facebook: Hagar or Roth?

Some responses were alarming.

I understand that is a subjective question, to a point. So let's discuss this in an adult, open-minded manner.

My initial question, obviously, was referring to the frontmen of the rock and roll band, Van Halen. Outside of Van Halen, I really don't care about what either artist has accomplished. So let's start there. And in addition--remember that I have been drinking all day. So that means that I am uninterested in Googling facts and "researching" any written or recorded proof that may lead someone to lean towards one lead singer or the other. I'm simply writing what I know. And I know.

I'll start with saying this: I do like Sam. But he has no business being in a band called "Van Halen".

The name Van Halen was born from, of course, the brothers Halen--Edward and Alex, along with Michael Anthony and David Lee Roth. They were all formerly called Mammoth, back in their house party-playing days and then moving up to the L.A. club scene. Roth, digging the way the name, "Led Zeppelin" sounded, suggested the band be called Van Halen. This name would also counter-balance Roth's enormous ego, centering much of the attention to his highly skilled guitar player and equally adept drummer--the Van Halens. Roth would later create his own niche as one of--if not the, most extravagant, entertaining rock and roll frontmen in history.

After being discovered by The Demon bass player for KISS, Mr. Simmons, the Halen quickly gained a reputation for being a hard rocking party band referred to as "mighty". After this point is when the general music-listening public may start to become familiar with VH.

The first sound you hear on Van Halen (the band's first album) is a car horn that will make you frantically look in your rearview mirror, followed by Michael Anthony's low bass thump in "Runnin' With The Devil". From that point forward, this album takes you on a rock and roll journey that was, and is, different than anything recorded prior. Sure, the handsome, boisterous lead singer coupled by the quiet, classically trained guitar player had been done--Led Zeppelin. But with VH, you got an entirely different mood...and sound. The "brown sound", as some of you may have heard, is what Ed's guitar creates when he feels like playing it.

Okay. So meanwhile, you've got an established "Red Rocker", formerly with a band called Montrose, who has found himself enjoying a very successful (and deservedly so) solo career. "Heavy Metal", "Crusin' and Boozin", "There's Only One Way to Rock", and of course the classic-rock radio hit to this day, "I Can't Drive 55".

I'll be honest, I never listened to much Hagar. What I heard was pretty cool, but it didn't blow my skirt up. I liked "Heavy Metal", which was the title track of the animated movie of the same name, which is equally as cool. I miss you, John Candy. And then he had some radio hits that were kind of poppy, but not bad.

But let's get back to band that my question revolves around.

Van Halen, or Van Halen I, as most call it, was ground breaking. Sure, I was four when it came out, but that's beside the point. The diversity of the style of tunes, from Ed's solo, "Eruption" segwaying into the Kinks' cover of "You Really Got Me"--to the end of the album with "Ice Cream Man" to me is not only ballsy, but confident. It shows equal parts of Ed and Dave. Another track, of Dave's persuasion, was "I'm the One", which is a "boogie" style of a tune, as the band describes it, and would later be the foundation for "The Full Bug" and the more popular "Hot For Teacher"...as well as others that I'm probably forgetting. Remember--been drinking.

The following five albums released by the original members of the band would go on to be equally as fun, diverse, and entertaining--all in their own right. The band itself (like it or not) paved the way for essentially every 80s hair metal band to follow. VH was the main catalyst in creating a new genre of music--a genre that drank excessively, partied non-stop, humped a ton of chicks, and sang about cool shit like...well, all those things I just said. Spandex was also popularized around this time, quite possibly by Roth, which I do not have a problem with. For bike riding, no. For rock and roll entertainment, yes.

Roth, of course, was a major part of all of this. Roth-style VH was raw, energetic, and still poetic at times. While listening to Roth-VH on headphones, you can hear laughter, inhaling, exhaling, bottles clanking, and fuck-ups that went unfixed--all in the background. That, in itself, still portrayed them as real and honest to me. Roth himself--although undoubtedly an asshole--carried himself and his band to quick stardom by knowing exactly how to entertain an audience. I've seen Roth in concert, I've seen Van Hagar in concert, and I've seen the resurrected Van Halen (with Wolfie) in concert. For my money, I'll take Roth in a wheelchair over Sam any day of the week. But I digress, we're speaking only of these frontmen while with VH (albeit I may stop the conversation at 1995's (96?) Balance--Hagar's last bit with them. Then on to the Gary Cherone debacle.)

Here's the reality of it: I would probably get along with Sammy a hell of lot better than I would with Dave. Sam seems down to earth and easy to have a drink with. Dave is uber-eccentric and full of himself. So if we're all in a bar together, I'd probably end up having shots with Sam, and probably avoid Dave just to steer clear of disappointment. But that's not the premise of the semi-vague question: Hagar or Roth? The premise is, and I should have specified, who's the better frontman for Van Halen?

Let's take a look at Sam's time with the band.

As a 6th grader in 1986, I received the cassette tape, 5150 for Christmas. My parents, knowing that I was a young, but avid fan of "Jump", "Panama", "Hot For Teacher", and 1984 in general, bought me this as a gift. Granted, I did like it. I at least liked the first cut, I believe called "Good Enough"--the one that starts out, "Hello, baaaby!" Then came the synthesizers and some guy trying to sound like David Lee Roth. Although there were some decent tunes, this pretty much went on for the next ten years.

What Roth did with Eat 'Em And Smile was much more appealing to me. He kept a fantastic guitarist in Steve Vai, and added a substantial rhythm duo with Billy Shehan and Matt (Greg?) Bissonette. It was fun, kind of crazy, and ten times more energetic than 5150.

From that point on, there were three different bands that had existed. There was the original Van Halen with David Lee Roth; A band that created a new and powerful sound and image. A group that any other band in the entire world would hate to follow if on the same bill. And a band that, to this day, is considered part of the foundation of rock and/or roll as we know it. Then you've got Roth-solo; He had one, maybe one and a half good albums. I dig Roth, but don't care to listen to his solo attempts. After the 80s ended, he fell head-first into obscurity. Then, finally, you've got the second coming of Van Halen with Sammy Hagar; Hagar made a match with the other three members of the band due to the direction that they were heading at the time. Radio, synthesizers, over-production, seriousness, ballads--all unentertaining things to me.

It comes down to entertainment value. Sammy cannot jump over a set of drums on an eight-foot riser. Dave can. Sammy cannot hit that high note scream that defines the early Van Halen sound. Dave can. Sammy cannot write songs about wanting have sex with his teacher. Dave can.

As far as the singer for Van Halen goes, Sammy Hagar may as well of not even existed. If they wanted to call the band something else, like The Van Halenishes, or The Suckrealbads, or The Synthesizerballadqueers, then I'd be okay with that. But you can't continue to call yourselves Van Halen if you decide to stop having fun and start playing music that our parents like. "Why Can't This Be Love?"--jesus. And don't even get me started on that Crystal Pepsi song, "Right Now"--fuck. I'm just happy that they've decided to try and save a little bit of their pride by bringing back Dave to play the good stuff (after Dave splits for reasons still debated about, hiring Sam, firing Sam, reuniting with Dave briefly, telling Dave to go to hell, hiring the singer for Extreme, kicking him out, bringing Sam back again and firing him I think, kicking out Mike Anthony, hiring Ed's kid, then bringing Dave back once more).

The years 1978 through 1984 are Van Halen. If you disagree, then you like some other band.





whew!
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Love Creates Serious Blog Posts.

I've had a marvelous past few days. I've started some new friendships, rekindled some old ones, and created some pretty dang good memories. Last weekend is certainly not going to be forgotten anytime soon -- for many reasons.

My friends Andy and Katiy got hitched up in Estes Park on Sunday. It was a breathtaking setting, with wonderful people. My two friends are truly in love, and it certainly showed this weekend. Nice job, guys.

Friends and family from all over made the trek to attend, predominantly from the Kansas City area where my wife and I lived for a few years before heading out to Colorado. And it was great to see all the familiar faces from KC--some with new significant others that were welcomed into the old circle with open arms, much like I was about six years ago.

My wife, April, lived in KC for a few years before I made my way up there. She had a circle of fantastic people that she spent the majority of her time with--mostly co-workers. That's where she met Andy, as well as several others that were in attendance on Sunday. This group of friends has treated me with the utmost kindness and respect since I came into April's life. By entering April's life, I entered theirs. And although they were my wife's friends before they even knew that I existed, I honestly consider each of them my friend now.

Andy's dad, Mickey, whom I have met a handful of times prior to this weekend but never really got the chance to know, was Andy's best man. Andy has a very close relationship with his dad--obviously--much like I have with mine. Not only family, but great friends as well. I got to know Mickey over the weekend--several cold beers, a glass or two of whisky, a competitive game of washers, and some unforgettable comradary with Andy, Mickey, and their circle of friends. It was genuine, and appreciated.

Another old KC friend in attendance was our friend, Bob. Once again, April knew Bob as a co-worker well before I entered the picture. But like Andy and the other members of the KC circle, Bob welcomed me into the gang without hesitation. And although Bob and I probably didn't get to know each other as well as we would have liked to during my time in KC, when we do cross paths we're both genuinely happy to see an old face that we both consider a friend.

Bob's dad passed away unexpectedly about a week before the Colorado wedding. And for that--I honestly don't know what to say right now.

But I got the chance over the weekend to talk to Bob, and to express my condolences. He said that when he was young, one of the vacations his folks would take the family on was to Colorado. He said it's a wonderful memory. So, in a sense, Bob felt it meaningful--and possibly symbolic--to load up his beautiful family and come out to Estes for his friend's wedding during an incredibly difficult time. That, in itself, I find truly admirable. And I know for a fact, while watching Bob swing his two little girls around on the dance floor at Andy and Katiy's reception, with ear-to-ear smiles and laughter, that it was the right decision. Sounds like Bob and his dad had a close relationship--much like Andy and Mickey...and Matt and Rick.

Honestly, I'm not positive where I'm going with this story. All that I can tell you is, while wiping my eyes, is that the events over the weekend touched me in an extremely powerful way. Powerful in a sense that there was an incredible amount of love expressed by people that I know.

Husbands, wives. Old friends, and new. Moms...and dads. Celebrations of old memories. And celebrations of future ones.

Whether it's friendship, bonding, comradary, a great first impression, or a deep love and respect--it was all expressed over the weekend.

People reading this, wondering what the hell I'm getting at...

Don't take anything for granted. Not love, not your wife, not your kids, not your dad, not life...not anything.

Good shit, man. Good shit.




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I'm going to buy a pair of K-Swiss, even though I don't need, nor want them.

If my dad sees a terrible commercial on TV, he boycotts that particular brand. I think Hardees or KFC had a commercial a year or two ago that just sucked, so my dad refused to eat at these places.

If he sees a great commercial, he's much more apt to support this company.

I, like my father, appreciate a great commercial. So next time you see me, I just might be reluctantly wearing an ugly pair of K-Swiss Tubes...just out of principle.

enjoy.



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dude on a bike has a bad day.

On my way home from work today through downtown Denver, I noticed traffic backed up more so than usual in the far left lane. The closer I crept past stalled traffic, I noticed a couple cars stopped, thus backing up traffic immensely. What appeared at first to be a rear-ending--which is a common occurrence during my commute--ended up being a hit cyclist.

The road biker, clad in red spandex from head to toe, lay on the sidewalk next to his bicycle grasping his knee while a concerned party (presumably including the driver of the car with the now dented front bumper) of three or four leaned over him in a worrisome manner. It had to of just happened, I'm assuming, due to the traffic not being backed up near as much as it probably was 15 minutes after I drove past the ordeal.

The biker, whom I guessing was "sharing the road" with thousands of rush hour automobile commuters, more than likely got his back tire bumped by a Chevrolet and took a pretty healthy spill. Obviously the accident was moved from the road--unless the sidewalk was where the victim ended up landing after the bump. People weren't running around frantically, screaming or anything of an extreme nature. I didn't see any spleens or pancreases on the sidewalk, and there was certainly movement from the biker--albeit a squirming, writhing-in-pain, oh why me God!?-type of movement.

Now, I don't wish pain and suffering on anyone..... Let me rephrase that. Now, I don't wish pain and suffering on too many people. I surely don't feel any sort of satisfaction from seeing that poor person rolling around on the sidewalk, unhappy with the result of his bike ride. But it does make me ask a few questions.

Allow me to preface my questions a bit first.

In Colorado, we have an abundance of folks that really, really enjoy riding their bikes on the road. I have friends that ride almost everyday. With my job, I converse and interact with serious cyclists on a consistent basis. Shit, Lance Armstrong trains in Colorado. You've got the climbs, the switchbacks, the altitude. So needless to say, where I live is a mecca for road cyclists. I don't have a single problem with people getting joy from riding their bicycles. I have a bike, and more times than not when I ride it, I enjoy myself.

But there are a few things that do bug me.

Sure, the spandex is a given. But I think the main thing is the attitude that non-riding folk are given. If you are walking or driving, you had better get the fuck out the road biker's way because they are road biking and they are serious! They will yell at you to "Watch out!!" while you are walking on the sidewalk or pedestrian path through the park. They will give you the bird while darting around you and shooting through a stop sign if you don't give them enough room to pass.

It's difficult , too, at times to socialize with a cyclist if you, yourself, do not cycle. They constantly describe their rides as "long rides" instead of just "rides". They speak of them in terms of calories supposedly burned, as in "a 4600 calorie ride". No arguing, it's science.

Of course, these acts don't reflect all road bikers--I don't think.

It's funny to me, but understandable too, I guess. All like-minded groups of people or enthusiasts or subcultures all talk in their own language. They all share a common interest. They all encourage one another. But there is also always an unspoken competition. It's that way in climbing. It's that way in fly fishing. It's that way if you're in a band. And it's definitely that way in cycling.

Back to my questions on the downtown bicycle accident.

Why, why did this person decide it would be a good idea to ride his bicycle on perhaps the busiest road in the state during rush hour traffic? Speer Boulevard is laden with stoplights, traffic jammed in-between stoplights, and zero shoulder. Let me also add that there is a BIKE PATH that parallels Cherry Creek which Speer is built along. The Cherry Creek bike path was mere yards from where said biker was rolling around on the sidewalk, looking like The Flash just got his ass kicked.

I realize that this person may have just been commuting, but commute on the bike path--or even the sidewalk. Worst that could happen there is getting rear-ended by a bum. But you know what? Even if he was commuting--why the outfit? Why the spandex? To make you go faster? On Speer Blvd? During rush hour?

Wasn't a very long ride, was it?

I beg of you, road bikers claiming ownership of Colorado's paved by-ways--please stick to your climbs, and your switchbacks, and your altitude. I know I would if I were of the spandex-clad brotherhood. Please don't put us poor souls that are restricted to automobiles in a position of swerving to constantly avoid you on our hour-long commute home.

Friends and business acquaintances who regularly cycle the streets--please do not take offense. This has been an ongoing battle for quite some time with the "bad apples" in your circle. If you know of these few that ambush pedestrians taking a leisurely evening stroll in the park...that scoff at the thought of traffic lights, stop signs, and all rules and regulations of the streets...that decide to "train" on very major Colorado roads during the absolute worst times possible--please tell them to stop.

Cool. Thanks.










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THE MOOD.

I don't get it. I was in the strangest mood yesterday--good strange. It's a mood that rarely visits me anymore, and I'm not sure why it decided to now.

I couldn't have cared less about anything at all yesterday. I wasn't to the point of endangering myself or someone else. I didn't drive with my feet or anything. But I very well could have lost my job, deeply offended a member of the consuming general public, or caused my wife to deck me in the jaw.

It was the type of feeling that is usually drug-induced (I'm assuming...), whereas there is a numbness and consta-smile attributed to it. Nothing at all was making me bristle, which is extremely odd. You see, I like to portray the type of cool individual that lets absolutely nothing get under his skin. But in all reality, I've got somewhat of a quick temper, a loathing and constant stewing for stupidity as I see it, and others would probably describe my daily persona as "grumpy", "cynical", or "always pissed at something". So this feeling that had come over me was obviously something to behold.

If you didn't already know, I work in the service industry--which is a nice way of saying "I deal with assholes everyday." Actually, I sell jackets...and other associated items. But yes, dealing with assholes is a daily occurrence in my profession. This is not only a contributing factor to my bitterness, but probably the root of it. Each day that passes, my employees place wagers on when I am going to snap, and who is going to receive the brunt of my well-thought out "I fucking quit!" exit routine. And sadly, it doesn't include an inflatable airplane slide.

So when I showed up at the store yesterday...whistling, singing, dancing to the muzak...people knew something was awry. I felt drunk, or high, or roofied. I actually had to address my mood to my employees just to cover the fact that I was NOT drunk, high, or roofied (nobody had access to any of my beverages prior to my arrival at work, therefore I dismiss being roofied). Customers would ask their same ol' ridiculous questions, and instead of staring at them, gritting my teeth, taking deep breaths through my nostrils...I laughed it off and answered their dumb questions--admittedly, with a touch of sarcasm though.

I laughed hysterically at non-hysterical things. I danced in front of employees and customers--not trying to be obnoxious, just felt like dancing. I did not bullshit one person the entire day, which is a very rare and gratifying accomplishment at my place of work. I was clear-headed and very aware, not cloudy or "off". If someone drugged me, please do it again.

The "mood" lasted the entire day. It was glorious. And I still can't understand where it came from or what triggered it. Did I have an amazing dream that had me waking up a new person? Was there some sort of residual effects from attending the Willie Nelson concert the night before? Was I just overly pissed that I had to work yet another Labor Day, and my psyche revolted? Did my stress level finally start an inferno and that was how my brain extinguished it? It's hard to say. All I know is, I want more.

Today was a different day. I still maintained a better-than-normal amount of perk, but nothing compared to yesterday. Today was back to reality. Back to fake smiles. Back to eyes that tell customers "My God, you're an idiot". Back to the mundane and the meaningless. Back to not much fun.

But I know that I've got it in me now. I just need to dig deep and harness the energy. And once I've learned to harness that power, I need to control it. Once I have the power and can control it, I've got to use it to fight evil. That's all there is to it.





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Today.

The humidity seems to be gone. Of course it is 6:30am.

The water droplets on the grass, the morning haze covering the sky, the birds already busy. I step outside to load my fly rods into the car before heading to work and am greeted by a clean, briskness that I haven't felt in months. My cotton t-shirt isn't an efficient insulator for this morning. So I put my fleece on. That's when I smile. Brisk morning, hot coffee, soft fleece.

Let's put in a few hours at the office, then plan our escape. I'm thinking a three o'clock whistle, quick visit to the beer store, then meeting my wife and retriever at the lake in the mountains. Yea, that'll get me through the day.

It's going to be a swell Friday.



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I Almost Crapped My Pants Today.

I almost crapped my pants today. Literally.

Of course I immediately blame it on my morning commute. Each pothole, acceleration, turn, and brake magnified. Every stoplight seems like time is suddenly going in reverse. It’s been an hour since I left my house this morning – so it’s bound to happen one of these days. Neat, I manage to get behind the one person that decides to try parallel parking for the first time in their life this morning. “Jesus, hurry up!” Don’t lose your cool, man. You need to be concentrating. My toes are curling under and my feet start to go numb. I begin using muscles in my body that I didn’t know existed.

I try not to think about it. Go to your happy place, dude. Fishing. I think about fishing; how I’d love to be out on the water right now, alone, away from everything. The sound of the rushing water, cascading down… Stranded without facilities; bound by chest waders; paperless.

Okay, not helping.

I think of alternatives. A gas station? Man, I don’t know. I’ve been fucked one too many times by thinking that I’m home free at the 7-Eleven. My muscles start to relax the closer I get to the door. My sighs of relief and triumphant smile are suddenly washed away by the door being locked! “Occupied?? Shit! Hurry up, dude! Emergency!”

Or even worse, “Out of order?? Are you kidding me? S’cuse me, sir? Can I use it anyway? I’ll fix it! Shit.”

So no, I’m not going down that road again. I’d just be setting myself up for disappointment and possible disaster.

Okay, so what’s my game plan? We’re almost there….if this MORON would drive! Stay cool. Providing I can actually stand erect once deboarding my car, I’m thinking a swift, steady three and a half block walk to my employer’s front doors. Need to time the crosswalks perfectly so I’m not stopping. I’m walking, I’m walking, I’m walking. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. They’ll know.

Two blocks before, I’ve already got my key in hand, holding it exactly the way that I do when I unlock. I’m prepared.

An employee is waiting for me as I approach the door. When within earshot, I announce as a caution, “I’m two seconds away from shitting my pants.” He realizes the severity of the situation and gives me plenty of room for door unlocking.

Alarm off, briefcase down. My body knows what’s coming. The evil wants out. It wants out now. It can sense a john nearby. It has some sort of evacuational radar. I am actually alert enough to check the paper situation before the sit down. Focused.

The most difficult part is always the unbuckling of the belt accompanied by the simultaneous “pants-drop sit-down”. But it was executed flawlessly. Toes uncurled. Eyes rolling into the back of my head. My entire body quivers. And an over-vocal sigh to release every ounce of tension. It only takes a minute, then normalcy sets in. We did it.

I almost crapped my pants today. Almost.





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K-Powers, Made in Calipornia

Best fake commercial ever.

enjoy.

Kenny Powers Gets Signed By K-Swiss - watch more funny videos

I heart Kenny Powers.


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Blog Anxiety.

I can't get my shit straight, blog-wise, and it's turned into a catch 22. I feel like I've got so much to talk about that I need to have other blogs specifically geared towards these thougts (earljive and ramblin earl). But that overwhelms me, feeling like I have to keep up with all three of them. And I just ain't got time for that.

Well, the reality is that maybe ten people read this and it doesn't matter.

So back to basics. Earl's Brain is the only blog from hear on out. There will be a cornucopia of topics, a variety of writing styles due to my mood or alcohol intake at that time, and pictures ranging from beautiful, artistic shots that I'm quite proud of, to action photos of me drunk as hell.

Enjoy.



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Brand New Rant!

What's up, friends?

So I've been trying to feed my desire to talk about traveling and different excursions that I've been on. It ain't working. I sound like a douche bag. This is on my other blog, Ramblin Earl, not this one. On this blog, I can say fuck and boobs and crap. And I can write while five cocktails deep. On the other one, I sound like a pretentious dildo that is trying to sound like a professional somethingorother in hopes that someone from the fucking Travel Channel will discover me and offer me a billion dollars to travel around and rub it in people's faces.

Bottom line is, I need to write and this is my outlet.

But, ironically, what's on my mind is this whole traveling, writing, somebody please pay me for it thing. I've said it before, I'm not a great writer. I don't have an English or Journalism degree. I tend to write like I think, which is not unintelligent...but it's probably not professional. Adding that to the fact that I don't like working for people makes any sort of dream of writing for a travel magazine or someshit virtually impossible. See? Poor, unprofessional writing.

I tend not to talk about jobs or business or anything like that on this blog. But you know, a lot of us have dream jobs. We spend the majority of our time working a job we're not crazy about just so we can have those few precious moments at home enjoying our house and family and other fun things we have to work to pay for. But I am 100% not content with working for someone else doing something I don't really care about.

I don't really know what that dream job is, though. I see all these TV personalities like Anthony Bourdain and Samantha Brown and I think they've got a pretty sweet deal. They probably do, but they still have to work for somebody. That to me is not dreamy enough.

Ideally, my dream job would revolve around the outdoors, beer, food, music, wine, art, and/or possibly writing. I'm not sure what concoction of those things, but those things. I dig those things.

So lately it's been my life's work to try and figure out how to incorporate these things into a fun, self managed, money making venture for me to embark on.

I have noticed, though, that I am in the minority when it comes to this train of thought. At least within the people that I associate with. No one really even comes close to understanding my stressful desire to make this happen. Make what happen, you might ask? True, I haven't divulged any ideas or solutions in this post...and we're going to keep it that way. Point is, when you think like I think, constantly trying to come up with new ways to incorporate things that you are passionate about with making a living, it truly helps if you have someone to talk to...someone to share ideas, thoughts, and dreams. Not too many of you out there. The majority is content with a solid nine to five, okay benefits, fairly brainless work, and not a lot of fun.

Fair enough. Sometimes I wish I were that way. Being content with my profession is something that I have never felt. I've done the math way too many times...calculating how many hours per year I work, drive to work, prepare for work, drive home from work, stress about work, medicate because of work, and lose sleep from work. I'm not obsessive, just a realist. When I look at the number of hours that I spend doing all of this, it makes me sad. It makes me question why I do it. And it makes me try and figure out a way to make it worth a huge chunk of my life.

Sure, we all go through it. It's a part of life. Everyone's gotta work. I've heard them all. I realize that everyone has to make an honest, responsible living. I am just very particular about the way that I would like to continue making mine.

Okay, that's my speech for this evening. For those of you out there that are passionate about what you do for a living, or even content...I salute you.



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New Blog

Hey bitches. Haven't been writing much lately due to new financial endeavors on the horizon. Cross your fingers for me. I may yet be able to make my lifelong dream of ditching a real job and doing whatever I want come true.

Anyhoo, got me a new blog set up for readin'. It's all about doing shit. Yep, doing shit. Or as I like to call it, rambling. Going new places, eating new food, fishing new rivers, you know.

The act of rambling and the thought of rambling pretty much consumes me. Instead of working in between four grey walls, catering to the general public (which, trust me, all suck) I find myself day dreaming about going wherever I feel like, doing whatever I feel like.

Rambling, for me, revolves around traveling. Traveling to new or forgotten places and experiencing everything that I can possibly experience. Many times, the travel destination ends up being close to a river, lake, or trail. But sometimes it's just nice to meander across a new landscape, stopping along the way to eat some great food, sample some wine, take some pictures, and meet some new folks. All of that, which is the art of rambling, makes me grin from ear to ear.

So hopefully my new blog will help you get out and do what you can to experience what's out there. Whether you have kiddos or not, whether you live in an "interesting" place or not, or whether you feel consumed by the creeping death that is real life, you should make it a point to ramble around from time to time and see just what the hell is out there.

And if you feel like it, I would absolutely love for others out there to share their ramblings with me. You see, my new blog is not only intended to inspire y'all, but it's meant to motivate me to get out there and not let myself get caught up in all the day-to-day bullshit. I don't really have time for that, so I'm fighting diligently to replace it with fun and adventure. Join me, won't you?

Oh yea, it's http://www.ramblinearl.blogspot.com/.

Please enjoy.



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Green Fuzzies.

Every one of us has certain moments or feelings in our lives that we replay in our heads from time to time that make us grin and give us warm fuzzies. Our "happy place" perhaps.

I've written about some of mine on this website before, and luckily for me I was able to experience a few of them earlier this week during my St. Pat's celebrations. Allow me to foreshadow a bit...

My St. Patrick's Day festivities are very close and dear to my heart. I've grown up learning to treat St. Pat's as if it were able to kick Christmas' ass. March 17th is a day that you plan months ahead of time for...or at least the celebratory weekend preceding or following it is. At my house, there was enough delicious food to feed a fat army and our kitchen counter resembled a tavern.

You see, my dad graduated from the University of Missouri-Rolla, aka the Missouri School of Mines (mines, not mimes). It is a college where future engineers go, which is what my dad has been since 1969 or so. UMR celebrates St. Pat's unlike anyone else in the state, or possibly the Midwest. The rationale behind the celebration is that St. Patrick was the patron saint of engineers...whatever the fuck that means. So greenness and debauchery ensued every month of March in Rolla. After I was born, I was quickly introduced to this holiday and when I was "old enough" to participate, my friends and I joined my parents and family in this delightful, green holiday.

This year I was unable to attend the traditional St. Patrick's Day festivities in Springfield due to a lack of funds caused by back-to-back trips to Missouri earlier in the year. The success of Dokken Day followed by my Granny's death forced me to fly into St. Louis on consecutive weekends. I wouldn't have missed either one of them for the world, though. That left my wife and I a little light in the wallet, so we decided to carry on the tradition in Denver the best that we knew how.

I won't get into all the details and descriptions of my St. Pat's Saturday in downtown Denver. But it did bring more than one moment that made me stop what I was doing for a second and smile. Surrounded by good people, no inhibitions, beautiful weather, a fantastic parade, competing against my wife at chugging Car Bombs, drinking green beer, dressed like green royalty...

There was definitely one instance while sitting at the bar, extremely hazy from the marathon of consumption, I (along with our good friend, Sig, who lasted the entire 11 hour duration) just lost my ass for the eighth consecutive time at a Car Bomb race to April, that I smiled to myself, satisfied that although we were unable to be with our friends and family in Springfield that we were representing all that was St. Pat's in a city where we know few. The attached picture proves that.

Fast forward to the following Wednesday; actual St. Patrick's Day. I happened to have the day off, but instead of repeating my downtown Denver drunkenness, I opted for the mountains. My squirrelly friend, Ted and I hiked into the Williams Fork Canyon for a little fly fishing.

Now, this feeling had nothing to do with St. Pat's or drinking or anything like that. It had to do with what makes me addicted to fly fishing. It's the type of feeling that you envision when you have cabin fever, or when you start reminiscing about particular fish you caught. Not because they were big fish, but because you caught them the right way. You figured out what bugs were flying around and landing on the water, and then getting slurped from underneath the surface by a hungry, brown predator below. The angle, the cast, the presentation, the drift, the mend, all perfect. Then you are rewarded by a spotted mouth breaking the clean, reflective surface and inhaling your dry fly. It's not over yet, because the angle of the set was perfect, the head pull from left to right, giving her some slack, and then bringing her in delicately after a valiant fight to a soft net. A couple quick snap shots, then I help her regain her breath by slowly pulling her back and forth in the water to get the oxygen flowing through her gills.

Directly after watching her swim away free and unharmed, I took a minute to smile, laugh, thank greater beings (ie: fish gods) and enjoy a brief, but extremely deep and defining moment.

All that...all that happened in the matter of three minutes. And I immediately knew--I actually said to myself out loud, "I'm gonna remember this one." Yea, she was good sized, but everything leading up to the landing was what sticks.

This year I missed out on hanging out with my friends and family from back home. But I was generously compensated by having one the best St. Pat's weeks of my life. Yes, change is good. But I'll still be back in Springfield next March.




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Vague Ramblings on Happiness.

I'm happy as shit. I've got a lot of things to be thankful for, and I do not take any of them for granted.

But I'm ready to take happiness to the next level. There are certain things in my life that do not make me happy, and I am currently striving to take those out of my life and replace them with more things that make me happy. Selfish? I don't know, maybe. I really don't care. If I can incorporate all the things in this world that make me happy, then why not give it a shot?

The things that I'm not completely satisfied with are simple. They are things that we, as a society, generally put up with because they're "just part of life". I completely understand that. But wouldn't it be relatively awesome to just eliminate those things altogether so you don't have to worry about them anymore?

Obviously, working at a job that does not make you feel alive inside is one of them. Now, I've got a cool job...for the most part. Compared to other jobs I've had and jobs that some of my peers have, it's really not bad. But in all honesty, I put up with it because it's "just part of life". Well, the way I see it, my job takes up over 2/3s of my time on this planet. I've done the math. That's not including getting ready for work, commuting back and forth, any overtime, time worrying about work, time medicating because of work, and so on. So basically any of my free time is spent trying to avoid work and doing things to take my mind off of work.

"Jeez, get another job." you might say. I've had other jobs...about 70 or so other jobs. They are all the same, to me at least. I am essentially forfeiting approximately 80% of my time on this planet and dedicating it to someone else's business, so in turn they can pay me what they think I'm worth (which apparently has never been much) so I can afford to buy a house that I don't spend near enough time at (because I'm at work), gas money to get to and from work, booze to help me forget about work, and a little left over to cram some funness into my week.

I'm not bitching. Honestly. It's not my current job, or any other job I've had. It's just the mentality that I, and most everyone else that I know have. Thinking about that does not make me happy. But it motivates me.

I am currently motivated to completely flip this part of life upside down. The time that I spend working needs to be for greater reasons. Reasons that will also make me happy.

My motivation is to work towards being 100% happy, not continuing to talk myself into being 80% content. There are things that I want to happen, and they aren't just going to happen on their own. So in order to make them happen, I've got to figure out a way to make a substantial chunk of money in order to produce freedom for me and the people involved. But that means of making money has got to be very enjoyable as well...hence being happy 100% of the time.

It's not necessarily money that is motivating me to make an entrepreneurial leap, it's the happiness. Sure, I'm very happy now. We've covered that. But this leap is to take the happiness factor to the next level. I'm attempting to see just how much happiness I can cram into my life.

Just to reiterate; I am a very happy person. Could I be happier, though? Sure. So I'm going to make myself--and the people around me--even happier. Everyone I know could stand to be a little happier, so that's what is going to happen.

In order to accomplish this feat, I am going to have to travel, possibly extensively. You see, I am very close to my friends and family, but I don't live close to them. I live 775 miles away from the majority of them. "Then why don't you move back?" you might ask. Because I love the mountains and rivers of Colorado and I don't want to move away from it, that's why. So in order to split my time between Colorado and Missouri, I've got to make enough money and create enough time to allow me to travel back and forth. That, or incorporate the traveling into a career. That is precisely what I am going to do. Living and playing in Colorado makes me happy. But staying close to my friends and family also makes me happy, so I've got to do both. This is going to require money, and with any job I've ever had this is not going to be feasible. So I figure that I'll kill two birds with one stone. I'll stop working these low paying, pointless, mundane jobs that kill my soul and start paving my own path as a business owner...and with this new career path, I will be able to incorporate travel and make substantial cash--both, which will allow me to see the people that I love more.

So, right there are two things that would definitely make me happier.

Other things that I can think of might include traveling to places I've never been and experiencing things I've never experienced. Kind of like vacations. Well, I'm banking on this new endeavor to allow me to do that, too. Lots, hopefully. It'd be kind of cool to get paid for taking vacations, huh? It sure would.

So, to review: Taking out mundane, low paying job; lack of time to spend with loved ones, inability to travel and experience...and replacing it with new, exciting career path that includes travel, the outdoors, and potential to earn a fine living thus allowing me and my wife to visit out-of-town loved ones, experience new places and cultures, and ensure that the people we care about most are taken care of.

Money doesn't buy happiness? That's bullshit. But you have to first appreciate the small things and love what you have. Then I think it's fine to want to take it to the next level. There's nothing wrong with being motivated by money; as long as you are using that money to pay for plane tickets to see your family, or creating more time to spend with your wife, or making sure your kids get a great education. You've got to have the right things in sight. Not solid gold houses and rocket cars. Me, I want all the people that I dig the most to share extreme happiness with me. Like I said, everyone I know is very happy, very appreciative, and somewhat content with how the world works. But if I can provide time together, less worries, a more meaningful and enjoyable way to provide for your family, and more time to create more experiences and long lasting memories, then why not?

I might as well try.


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Dead Horse.

I've been really feeling the need to do quite a bit lately.

Yea, I know I'm beating a dead horse. I'm always talking about the "things I'm gonna do" and how "we're not getting any younger" and what not. Well, it's true goddammit.

At the ripe ole' age of 36, I'm already starting to feel the pressure. Sure, I wouldn't change a thing in my life. Everything I've experienced up to now has prepared me for whatever comes next. But it's time to start living.

I am trying to perfect the art of incorporating as much fun into my life as humanly possible without overkilling it. As I've explained before, I am a dreamer. I constantly think about all these incredibly cool things that I'd like to do. And for the most part, they're actually all attainable. So that's essentially what I'm going for; all the cool, realistic things that I'd really like to do while I'm a human on this planet. It's definitely a work in progress, though. I'm still trying to close that gap between dreaming about all these things that I want to do and actually making them happen.

And please understand, I'm not trying to be "Mr. Fun Guy" or what the fuck ever. Everyone has things they want to do, whether it's travel to New Zealand, have children, be content with their career, or care for others. I happen to have quite a few "things" or certainties of how I'd like my life to be that I'm hellbent on making happen. And yes, New Zealand is one of them. So are the other three examples...

All I'm saying is...even though you may not be a religious person, spiritual person, or otherwise, you have to appreciate the fact that we're not going to be here for much longer. Sad? No. Exciting. Because we are here now, and we have endless possibilities in front of us.

Me, for instance: I do want to go to New Zealand...I will. I do want children...I'll get 'em (providing my junk works). I want to incorporate my career with my real life and make a fantastic living...I will. I want to embrace friends and family and do all I can for them...I have and I will.

Deep, mushy, queer...maybe. But that's how it is.

I'm gonna go make a pizza now.





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Save The Day.

Today was a God-awful day. My customers and employees both were all fucktards. It was one of those days where I was on the verge of doing something. Nothing dramatic, just freaking out on someone or something. My neck hurt, my eyelid twitched, and my side ached all day. Crazy what stress can do to you. I had been planning on hitting happy hour with a couple buddies, but with the weather getting shitty and our moods spiraling downward we opted to just head home.

My incredible wife had been texting here and there throughout the day asking if she could meet us at our decided watering hole after work. After my day had turned to absolute shit, I let her know that I had planned on just coming home and staring at the wall, or something equally as brainless. She was cool.

On my way home, in the white-out snow and rush hour traffic, I decided that the bar was probably the place that I needed to go in order to salvage this horrid day. It's a shame to just wad up an entire day and throw it in the trash, so I texted April and we went to The Old Man. The Old Man is literally two minutes from my house, they have ridiculous bbq, and they always have 80s metal playing. Three things that are good, right there.

Today was Rib Tip Thursday. Yesterday was Wing Wednesday--or Wingsday, as some folks cleverly call it. Didn't make it there yesterday. But we did indulge in the $5 Rib Tip Tray and a few cold Coors.

We bitched about how stupid people are as a society, how we miss our friends back home, how our jobs were waring us down--all against the background of Guns 'N Roses, Bullet Boys, and KISS. Then some guy puts money in the jukebox and the music changes!...

It was a noise I had never heard before. It started out sounding like a Johnny Cash or Waylon Jennings tune...then it quickly got faster and started sounding like Glen Danzig singing over Testament and Motorhead...still with a bit of Cash and Jennings. I was intrigued.

I asked the fellow who put the nickel in the jukebox who we were listening to, and he told me a band I had never heard of. Volbeat. I thought that to be a stupid name, especially considering the mood I was in. But the longer it played, the more incredible it became.

This song became the savior of my day. It was exactly what needed to be played to salvage my piece of shit day. It was like God invented a song that sounded like Waylon Jennings, the Misfits, Johnny Cash, and Motorhead, all in one just to palpate my tender, frailed mind that stupid people had nearly destroyed. Classic country combined with punk-driven metal is the only thing that will cure a day like I had today. Trust me.

If you have had a bad day, please listen to this song. Don't bother checking out any of their other songs, they all sound like Godsmack.

Please enjoy.

I Like to Party.

Wow, I've really been slacking on the writing lately. That's okay, though. I've had a lot on my mind, just really nothing that I feel like sharing with the universe. Some business ideas are in motion, some party planning, and a few travel plans have been floating around in my brain.

With the enormous success of Dokken Day 2010, I have decided that not only will DD be celebrated every January, but more epic shindigs need to be thrown. It makes everyone happy. When you get to be 30ish to 40ish, just hanging out at someone's house and getting liquored up is not considered a party like it was when you were 17ish to 25ish. You really need a reason to peel yourself away from your job, your kids, your house in the suburbs, and make the effort to not only go to a shindig, but participate to the fullest extent. That's why I've decided to start throwing larger than average, epic shindigs a few times a year. My buddy, Bryan and I have decided that it's good for the soul.

And why not? Parties nowadays consist of either a couple couples going over to another couple's house and drinking beer and wine while the kids play in the other room. Or a kind of "date night", where said couples meet at a semi-fancy restaurant for cocktails and dinner. All fun, I guess in their own way. But let's be honest, they aren't parties. Sometimes a party just "happens", but not too often at my age. So they have to planned. And to plan a party at this age takes a very strong, determined effort. Dokken Day, which initially was an idea that my sister and I had, was planned out amazingly by my buddy Bryan whom we offered the responsibility to, and he ran with it. It couldn't have turned out any better.

So with that said, there's a new party in making. Everyone that was invited to Dokken Day will be invited to this one. It will happen in the summer, and it will happen outside. It will be very big, and very fun. Trust me.

The way I see it, everyone that I associate with, for the most part, likes a good party. So why not provide good parties for the people that I associate with? It gives us all something to look forward to. The parties are always going to be fantastic. And when they're over with, you have fantastic, blurry memories that make you grin everytime you think about them.

So, my good friends and participants of Dokken Day 2010, please consider yourselves cordially invited to yet another fantastic get together happening this summer. Please trust me when I say that it will be good times.

And just to let you in on a little secret, I've been throwing around plans for a fall shindig as well. If it ends up happening the way I'm thinking it will, it will also be an epic shindig for all of us to savor...

I like to party.


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And The Winner Is......

There were a lot of winners at Dokken Day. My friend Shannon rocked out so hard that she broke her foot. Some of the guys actually got their guitars and learned some sweet 80s metal ballads that we all sang along to. My brother and sister-law traveled three hours to party with people that they had never met. Very, very strong effort from everyone.

But my buddy Jason, he actually wore a pink cod piece with an iron-on of Don Dokken on it. To me, that's the big winner. To me, that's not fucking around. Jason did not fuck around when it came representing DD...he didn't have time for it. Neither did his wife, Kristy, who brought it full bore. They both showed up ready to kick ass. They were about to rock...and I salute them.

To you, Jason and Kristy, I have to say...fuckin' a. fuckin' a.

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