Blessing in Desguise.

I'm not really sure why I can't stop thinking about it. I mean, it's a game.

But like so many other sports fans, it's more than just a game. It's more than just a friendly contest. It's loyalty and appreciation for a city, state, region, school, or tradition. I wish I were above this sort of addiction, but I'm not.

The loyalty that people have towards their team is pretty amazing. My wife, for instance--she is from small town Nebraska, went to school in Lincoln, and bleeds Husker Red. She knows more about the history of Cornhusker Football than anyone I know. She can talk Big 8, Big 12, SEC, whatever with anyone out there. But it's not that she loves the Huskers just because she feels she needs a team to root for. It's something that brings together family and friends; it's her history, home, and heritage; it's her alma mater; and no matter how good or bad the team is that particular year, you can bet that she'll be watching and rooting for the 'Skers.

I'm kind of the same when it comes to the St. Louis Cardinals. My entire family is from St. Louis, and as a little kid I was enamored with the Cards. I'm 37 now and nothing has changed.

And, like my wife and the Cornhuskers, it's not just a team for me to root for. I'm not a fan just so I feel like I'm a part of something. There's no fairweather rooting with us. No, I grew up watching the Cards with my entire family. My family is St. Louis, and the Cardinals are St. Louis. We knew every player and their stats, we took sick time from work to attend Opening Day, we knew when the Cubbies were coming to town, we worked at Anheuser-Busch, we applauded the visiting team, and we felt like we were best friends with Jack Buck and Mike Shannon. We appreciated the blue-collared mentality of coming to work and busting your ass--giving 100%. Running out grounders, diving for line drives, not showing up the competition. That's St. Louis baseball. And we embrace those that represent great St. Louis baseball. Not many teams have true Hall of Famers seemingly roaming around the stadium in their red blazers.

In this day and age, there aren't many players that stick with one team throughout their entire career. Players come and go, yet we still appreciate them and their time spent with St. Louis. There are certain, unfortunate situations in which a player leaves in a negative light. Scott Rolen didn't get along with Tony LaRussa, so he was traded. Jim Edmonds was on the downside of his career, so he was traded. Ozzie Smith ended his career on the bench, being replaced by the younger Royce Clayton (who?). It happens, but that's how it is.

So when you have a player like Albert Pujols, who came up through St. Louis' farm system and has had the career that he has had, the city is going to throw themselves at him. He is a god walking among mortals in St. Louis.

Then he splits. For more money.

And it bothers me a little. It shouldn't at all, but it does. I think it's bugging because it feels like a slap in the face. That guy could do no wrong in St. Louis' eyes. He owned the city. We let him get by with anything. And then after the Cards offer him ridiculous money over a ridiculous amount of time--just like he wanted--he walks.

Have you ever dated a girl that was just a little out of your league? When you first started dating, she was young and genuine. But over the years, her hotness increased. Now, she's incredibly attractive and amazing in the sack, and she knows it. And you throw yourself at her, you spoil her, you tell her she's perfect and can do no wrong. She never really reciprocates her feelings back to you. Sure, she says she loves you and will never leave you, but it doesn't really sound that genuine. Still, you keep hope alive. Then it comes time when you feel you really need to commit yourself to her and "lock her up". You ask her if she will be yours forever and give her a promise ring. She tells you that it's not shiny enough and gives it back to you. She says she doesn't want to talk about it while she's busy being hot for the next seven months. You say okay. During that seven months, she proves to everyone just how hot she is. You come back to her after the duration and ask for her hand in marriage. She tells you that she's met someone else. He's some rich guy that work for Fox Sports, lives in Los Angeles, drives a Maserati, and gave her a bigger ring. They've only known each other for a couple days. He's never met her family, and they've never even been to LA. It's a tough, confusing break up.

Well, even though that relationship ended with a kick in the dick, I guess we did have some good times together. She really wasn't my type anyway. Actually, I've got a couple other chicks I've been seeing, and they're pretty hot in that "girl next door" kind of way.

Yes, it's a tough break up. It's a bit of a slap in the face. But--and we all know it--it wasn't meant to be.

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Dokken Day 2.0

Look at the hair. Hair that says, "I like to party, kick ass, and fuck." Hair like this was once considered a symbol of power. Accompanied with ripped t-shirts, boots with buckles, various tapestries dangling, very very tight pants, and a little makeup applied to the face, this was a style that led 80s rock 'n rollers to the land of loud, obnoxious, sexy, big dumb rock. It was a glorious land.

This particular band pictured is, of course, Dokken.

In the year 2010, a party was held in Springfield, Missouri to celebrate the day that is, Dokken Day. The party was good. There was rock, spandex, heavy drinking, hot tubbing, an 80s metal kick contest, high-pitched vocalizing, and good fellowship.

Two years later, Dokken Day will rise again from the ashes like a glowing, fiery hawk--talons agape, ready to latch onto a hot pink Ibanez electric guitar and fly high above the horizon for everyone to see. 2012 will bring together the same band of rockers committed to celebrating not only one of the greatest 80s Metal bands with two "k's" in their name--but every band that donned the perfectly hairspray-teased mane; the denim, spandex, and leather; and the attitude of excesses.

Dokken Day 2.0 will be ridiculous.

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Badass.

Badass:

(slang) Concerning extreme appearance, attitudes and/or behavior that is considered admirable.


That's what Wiktionary says. But badass (in the adjective form) is kind of indescribable. It's one of those terms that you just know when it fits. I use it quite a bit, probably because I, for one, am badass. I am not a badass, mind you--far from it, actually--but I surround myself with things badass, therefore I am.

In case you are unclear on this adjective, the following is a list of things that are badass--and also a list of things that you might think are badass, but are not.

The movie, "The Incredible Hulk" = badass
The movie, "Hulk" = not badass

Motorhead = badass
Nickelback = not badass

Trans Am = badass
Mustang = not badass
Camaro = bitchin'

Star Wars Episode IV, V, and VI = badass
Star Wars Episode I, II, and III = not badass

Willie McGee and Tommy Herr = badass
Nyger Morgan and Brandon Phillips = not badass

Monster Truck Jam = badass
NASCAR race = not badass

Devil horns = badass
Peace sign = not badass

Budweiser = badass
Mike's Hard Lemonade = not badass

That's just a small example of certain things that are badass.

Typically, a successful doings is considered badass. Like, "That _____ was badass!" Here, we can insert "roadtrip", "concert", "game", or "party"--just as long as the subject of the statement qualifies as badass. For example, you cannot say, "That roadtrip to Branson, Missouri was badass!" That doesn't work. Only unless your roadtrip to Branson, Missouri consisted of dangerous drunken driving, accosting a local celebrity (ie: Yakov, Andy Williams, or an Oak Ridge Boy), or defacing a theater by means of human excrement. Then--and only then does your roadtrip to Branson, Missouri classify as badass.

When descibing music as badass, it gets a little tricky. Certain musical acts are a given: Social Distortion, Johnny Cash, Van Halen, AC/DC, Willie Nelson, Ramones, and the aforementioned Motorhead. Bands trying to be badass, but instead being ridiculous (see above: Nickelback) are obviously not badass and never will be badass. I say "never will be" because--and this is the tricky part--musical acts that do not fall into the categories of "badass" or "ridiculous" can be accociated with the term badass at times. Example: "Wow, that Coldplay concert was badass!"

Now, I don't consider Coldplay to be badass. I don't consider them ridiculous, either. To me, they're just kind of there. But I'd say there's a possibility based on what I've heard about their live shows that if I were to go see Coldplay in concert, realistically with low expectations, that I might be surprised to the point of saying, "Wow, that Coldplay concert was badass!" Please note, though, that this statement does not, in any way, make Coldplay badass. It just means that they really impressed me to the point of liking them for the time being and I have expressed my pleasure by stating that their concert was badass, that's all.

This is a totally hypothetical example, too. I've never seen Coldplay or really even listen to them. I'm just using them to make a point.

Some confuse the terms "badass" and "kick ass". Totally different. It's similar to "like" and "love"--or "yes!" and "fuckin' a!" Kick ass expresses an intense feeling of pleasure, whereas badass takes it to the next level.

Example: "That party last night was kick ass!"

"No man, that party last night was badass!!"

Please be aware, though, that "kick ass" used as a verb is equally as powerful as the adjective "badass" and more powerful than the adjective "kick ass". Example: "Every Rodney Dangerfield movie kicks ass." is equal to "Every Rodney Dangerfield movie is badass."...but not equal to "Every Rodney Dangerfield movie is kick ass."

"Kick ass" is just more powerful as a verb than it is an adjective...as powerful as "badass". That's just how it is.

The terms "badass", "kick ass", and "fuckin' a", when used properly, can assemble an extremely powerful sentence structure.

As far as the spelling for badass goes, I've decided that it should be one word. I realize that this is probably the prefered spelling for the noun variation (ex: "Nick Nolte is a badass."), but I feel that regarless of the terminology, the one-word spelling is more powerful. Plus, it's easier to text (ex: "got u tix to soc d show 2nite"..."badass"). And in addition, it is acceptable to include quotations or not to--your choice.

Now, I'm off to watch the Chiefs vs. the Steelers on tv. I do not feel strongly enough about either team, nor NFL Football in general to describe this doings as "badass". But, like with my Coldplay example earlier, the game may pleasantly surprise me enough for me to deem the game "badass".

Please enjoy these videos of things that have earned the definition "badass".

Thoughts, Updates, Ramblings, and Such.

Let the randomness....begin!

** First things first--I have moved on. I no longer manage a retail store. I associate with people who manage retail stores, but I myself do not hold that title anymore.

I have moved on to the profession of sales representation once again. Only this time I am not representing things that I could give a shit about (re: air handling units, pumps, and whatever else I used to sell. Sorry dad.), I am representing things that I enjoy (re: tents, hiking boots, camp stoves, cool winter jackets). I work from home, travel quite frequently, and am moving back to the Midwest.

Yes, out of Colorado and back into Kansas City. It's cool though, it will allow me to be closer to my family, my friends, and my baseball team.

How's that for a segway?

** My baseball team is, and always will be the St. Louis Cardinals. My first memories of existence include the Cardinals. Cards posters, Cards lamp, Cards sheets, Cards jammies, Cards ball caps... I remember them winning the 1982 World Series. I remember them losing to the Royals in 1985, assisted by "the call" at first base. I remember '87 against the Twins. I saw Mark McGwire's first home run as a Cardinal...back to back with Ray Langford. I own a streak of 11 years in a row seeing the Cubs/Cards rivalry. 2004 WS loss. 2006 WS win.

And then came the greatest game ever played. Game six of the 2011 World Series. And I was at a fucking sales meeting. I saw the meat of the game in the bar at the fancy resturant where our work dinner was. Then followed the play-by-play in the shuttle back to the hotel. Luckily I made it back to my room to see the dramatic win. But it wasn't just game six, it was the entire run from August that made that win so special.

** My dad's best friend growing up died. It's kind of a weird deal. Dad and Jim were best friends as kids, up through high school, and then past college. Jim was dad's best man, and I believe dad, Jim's. Jim and his family moved to Texas some time after college and they obviously saw much less of each other. I remember seeing Jim when I was a kid. Him and his family would visit from time to time, as we would visit them. Then as the years went on, dad and Jim drifted apart for whatever reason.

This whole story has me thinking fairly deeply about a few things. Dad didn't find out about Jim's death until some random, mutual acquaintance included dad on an email about Jim's obituary. Now, let me back up. Over the years, dad has tried reaching out to Jim--he's called him several times with no reply. Why? Who knows. Probably because people get caught up in their own shit and the past becomes an afterthought...I don't know. And upon finding out this sad news, dad obviously felt extremely bad. Felt he should have tried harder.

Here's what makes me start thinking: Not to place any "blame" on my dad's deceased friend, but dad tried. If I were to drift apart from my best friend since memory starts--which is bound to happen to a point during adulthood--I'm going to return his calls. I'm going to shoot him an email from time to time. And I'm certainly going to let him know that I have cancer and am going die soon. There's drifting apart, and then there's just oddly blocking someone out for no apparent reason.

Here's the rest of what's got me thinking: Jim, obviously, was my dad's age. That makes, let's see...1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 parents of friends or friends of parents whom have passed away recently. All from cancer, I believe. And that's just the ones that I was close to.

It's a depressing subject and one I don't enjoy thinking about, but "who knows when?" No one.


That's why, if you are best friends with your parents, like I am...best friends with your wife, like I am...best friends with your sister, like I am...best friends with your best friends, like I am...and best friends with your kids, like I am going to be...then you need to throw any selfishness out the window and spend as much time with them as you can. No need to suffocate them, just find that balance of good, quality time.

** Balance. That's such a meaningful term to me. Balance is the blueprint to my entire life's structure. I don't feel like explaining that--I'll just let you ponder it for yourselves.

** Pujols? Sure, for a fair price. I wouldn't mind getting the band back together as long as we're not breaking the bank for the next ten years. If he splits though, so be it. He's a good ballplayer, but he's not THE Cardinals. At this point in his career I'd say he's replaceable. I'd be okay with letting him go to South Beach with LeBron and us finding the next Joey Votto.

Whatever happens, happens. And that's cool.


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The Thing About Retail...

I've been in retail for a long time now--too long. There are certain things that occur in retail on a daily basis that are utterly maddening and break you down like a turd in the rain.

My rant...

If you are ever cornered into eating your lunch at the shop, which unfortunately happens far too often, then you're probably familiar with this scenario: No matter what time of the day you choose to eat your lunch, be it 11am or 3pm, the split second that you take that first bite of sandwich or slurp of soup, a customer walks in. Always--it never fails. The only alternative to that is the phone ringing. It's about a 70/30 ratio in my experience, with walk-in's leading. Inevidibly, the person inturupting your only break of the day, wants to chat...a lot. Honestly, you can go two, three hours without seeing a customer walk through your door. But as soon as you decide to grab a quick bite, there they are. It's like they know. It's like they're out to ruin not only your lunch break, but your entire day--your entire existance (maybe not that bad...).

Other constant amazments in the retail relm are customers who can't seem to make it to your store between the hours of open and close. And they're pissed. Pissed because you don't open early enough or stay open late enough for their convenience. Weekly, I have customers waiting at the front door when I roll up with my coffee, half asleep still. And half the time they just want to hang out. Their only agenda is to anger me first thing in the morning.

On the other end of the day, and perhaps my greatest pet peeve, is the customer who enters the store, fully aware that we close in 2 minutes, and proceeds to take 30-60 minutes of my time. Do they buy something? I really don't care. That's because I have no motivation to sell anything. What do I care if this rude human buys something or not? All I know is that he/she couldn't make it to the store within the 9 hours that we were open. That's just poor planning on their part. But, over the years I've learned to deal with this type of person. If I'm in a good mood (which isn't often) or if I take a liking to this person--which usually stems from them apologizing profusely about their shitting timing--I just deal with it...effeciently But nine times out of ten, I tell them we're closed and what our hours are the next day...politely, of course. It still doesn't take away my fury.

And this is probably more common with working a fly fishing shop than say, a liquor store--but I'm sure other retail folk can relate: The constant barrage of questions. In the fly fishing world, people expect us to know up-to-the-minute everything about every body of water in every corner of the world. That's not much of an exageration, either. This is no joke--I had a customer enter the store yesterday and bee-line it straight to where I was standing with a completely helpless look on his face (which is VERY common). He asked about a river in a different state that I, nor the rest of my staff had never heard of. We did some research and and figured out which river it was (he had the name of the river totally wrong) and where it was. This process took us about ten minutes. After our investigation of which and where and pointing it out on a map to him, he proceeds to ask, "Do you know what they're biting on there?"

"No."

Up until ten minute ago, I'd never even heard of this river. How the fuck would I know what the fish are biting on at this mystery river seven hours away in a different state? Fucking Google it, like I just did! Helpless.

But instead of saying all of that, I just completely bullshitted him. I don't feel bad, because I'm certain that's all he wanted. He came into the store asking the ridiculous, and he received bullshit. I guess that's how it works.

I would honestly say that 95% of the customers that walk through the shop door have questions. Working at a fly shop is not just retail, it's being a help desk, an advice column, and an information center. The redundantcy can be tough to handle--it's like "Groundhog Day". Repeating myself to every person that walks in is exhausting. Maybe that's because I was never that person. I'm not saying that I'm better than these people, I'm just able to figure things out without asking strangers a hundred questions. (sidenote: as I write this paragraph, I've had two customers approach me saying, "I've got a question." I know you do...I know you do.)

Retail is a strange world. Anyone can walk through those doors--that is, unless I lock it in front of you. The other morning, as I was having a casual meeting with one of my reps, a drugged out hippie kid walked up to the store with no idea where he was. He was yelling at himself, slobbering, walking in circles, obviously out of his mind. He glanced at the door a time or two before I finally excused myself from my conversation and quickly locked the door. It was perfect--as he looked down at the ground, drooling, I clicked the lock and scurried back to the group. The nutbag then looked up and tried opening the door. Dang, it was locked. He turned away and stummbled into traffic. Kind of sad, he couldn't have been older than 25 and his brain was 100% melted.

One last beef with my current retail situation: The guys who come in every day for at least an hour. I hate them because, one: They obviously do not work. Boulder is littered with trust-funders who have no reason to hold down a 9 to 5. Money magically appears in their bank account while they're out fishing, skiing, drinking, getting high, and buying unnecessary things. And two: Because they come in every day. It's kind of funny that people with a money tree who are able to fish everyday of the week still come into my store asking for advice. I get to fish maybe one day a week...maybe. But they still insist on loitering, hanging out, not buying much, talking, talking, and talking. They don't need the money, but I do. They want to be here at the shop for shits and giggles, and I don't. They'll hang out at the shop for an hour or so, ask where they should go fishing, I feed them some bullshit to get them on their way, they fish for the rest of the day, then go spend hundreds of dollars on booze and pot afterwards. Next day, repeat. Next day, repeat. Can't blame them, I guess. (sidenote: As I write this paragraph, customer "Bill" walks through the door. It's the sixth time this week he's been in. He's in his sixties, squinty eyes, consta-smile, "Heeey, man" hippie-voice--all residual effects from years of smoking pot instead of working in the Boulder Bubble. I grit my teeth. I do not offer any loose ended conversation for him to jump on start talking my ear off. I quickly and efficiently get "Bill" out of the store before I find myself in an hour-long game of 20 Questions.)

The good parts of working in retail? Well, let's see...I get a lot of free shit. But for a jaded veteran of over ten years on the floor, that's about it. The novelty has worn off, regardless of what I'm selling. Be it cogs, sprockets, or yes--fly fishing equipment, it really just doesn't matter anymore. I still have to deal with weirdos on an hourly basis. It's still retail.

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Assholes Flying Planes Into Buildings.

"Never Forget"

Not to be heartless, but to me, that statement about 9/11 is stupid. Of course we're never going to forget. Twenty years from now I'm not going to have someone ask me, "Say, remember those two towers crumbling to the ground in New York?"

"Towers? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You know, those two tall buildings that got hit by planes. They fell...thousands of people died...you know."

"Hmmm, you know...I think I do remember something about that. Not so much the 'towers falling' you speak of, but everyone holding up these Hallmark-made signs reading "Never Forget". There were also ribbon stickers on people's cars, Facebook updates, headlines ten years later--all reading "Never Forget". So yea, I knew that I was supposed to remember something. I guess it was the tower thing you're talking about."

Who made up this slogan? Who is profiting from this? Who sat around at an office conference table and came up with this phrase that is on everything...everything?

It's the tenth anniversary of the attacks today. I've been jockeying back and forth between football, baseball, even a 9/11 special on NatGeo Network. And I've seen "Never Forget" or some variation of that phrase a good 300-400 times tonight. It's on backstops, end zones, State Farm commercials, jumbo-trons, public service announcements, t-shirts, hand-written signs, what have you.

And I get it. It's not a literal statement. It's a "Don't Tread On Me" type of thing. A banding-together-as-one type of thing. It's all about support and unity and remembering.

Once again though, how did this one phrase come to characterize the entire post-9/11 commercialization. And yes, that's exactly what it is--commercialization. Someone is profiting from this slogan being used constantly. And it kind of sickens me. But that's America.




As far as what happened on that day ten years ago, we all have our stories and memories and connections. After watching that special on 9/11 this evening, it brought back the horrific reality. That shit wasn't a movie.

I'm not a dramatic guy. I'm really not even that patriotic. But seeing those planes hit the buildings...seeing the buildings fall...seeing the horror and panic on people's faces...and then trying to put myself in their shoes...it's unfathomable.

I've never been to New York, but I still tear up every time I see that footage. So, I do have a sense of patriotism I guess.

I really hope that whomever came up with "Never Forget" or "We Shall Not Forget" or "These Colors Don't Run" or "Forgetting is For Losers and Colors are For Winners" or whatever is giving their money to the families of the victims. That would make me feel a little better about the whole thing.








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Drunk Ramble About Punktry & Western.

Punk.

The term describes a person who rebels against "normal" everyday society. Generally speaking, they incorporate loud, obnoxious, simple, angst-ridden music into their rebellions. They poke fun by mocking, sticking their tongues out, and cursing violently. I have much punk inside me.

Now old and cynical, I can still one hundred percent love and appreciate Punk Rock. My aged personality still hinges on punk tendencies--for good or for bad. I have a short toleration span, and my humoring skills are about as bad as they were when I was 18.

Although my musical stylings have mellowed in my later years towards Americana, Country (the good shit) and obscure Classic Rock, I still live by Iggy, Bad Brains, Rancid, and the Ramones. The simplicity of the music and message are more than straight forward and essentially say "fuck you" to people that don't get it. People who adhere to the norm need not apply--Punk is not interested.

I don't listen to a lot of punk. I don't branch out to find new bands or go to many shows anymore. That part of it is basically over for me. I still listen to the old standbys, though. And a lot of the bands and styles that I listen to nowadays have Punk similarities and influences.

Punk and Country have crossed paths, and it's glorious. Take Jason and The Scorchers, Social Distortion, or the Supersuckers...Punk Country. Or as Sheriff Kevin Joe Phillips of 40 Horse Johnson calls it, "Punktry & Western". (That's my old band--40HJ. We were glorious. Maybe one day I'll be drunk enough writing on this thing that I'll post some old footage of 40HJ doing a little Johnny Cash or Jerry Reed.) A lot of "fuck you" mentality went in to old Country, as well as simple, straight forward music and songwriting. A lot of Punk similarities...I think that's a big reason I like it so much.

Please don't confuse the style of music that I'm describing as something it's not. When Punk and Country cross, you do not get Jason Aldean or Big & Rich. That's what happens when you cross Nickleback, Rascal Flatts, and a bag runny dog shit. When Punk and Country cross, it can be extremely subtle, like when listening to John Prine or Billy Joe Shaver. And I think it's safe to say that Punk Rock was influenced substantially by Country Music. Think Hank Williams, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Johnny Cash. Rockabilly is living, breathing proof that the two genres are best friends.

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Fantastic Combination

I remember when I was a kid, riding in the car with the parents on a hot day with the air conditioning at full blast. And for some reason, at some point, I would feel compelled to roll down my window, at which point one, or both, of my folks would yell, "Roll your window up! You're letting out the cold air!"

I now understand what my parents were yelling about. They had achieved the perfect comfort level for traveling in a car, and they didn't want to have to start all over just because I fucked it all up by rolling my window down.

But now that I'm all growsed up and have my own car, I really like the "A/C On, Windows Down Combo". Especially while driving around town. Dehumidified, cold, crisp air is remarkable, especially places like back home in Missouri where it's more humid than an elephant's butt. But it's hard to beat the soft, cool breeze of fresh, outdoor air coming in through your car window, too.

So why not create a fantastic combination?

Even to this day, my wife or a friend will say, "Oh, we better roll the windows up since the A/C is on." No. No, we don't need to.

"A/C On, Windows Down Combo" is the best of both worlds. I don't lose cold air, I create superior air. I mix it up. I don't settle for either, or. I combine two wonderful methods.

I honestly don't notice a sufficient loss of fuel economy or power to my air compressor--or really anything at all out of the norm with my auto when I have the A/C on and windows down. My car acts just like it does when I have the A/C on and the windows up--like any civilized person would have. And even though a lot of that cold air is getting sucked out of the window and lost forever, my air conditioner makes more. It makes it really fast.

The key to amazing air is this; First turn on your A/C. Turn it on fairly high--about one notch higher than where you would comfortably have it. Then...roll your window down. I like to roll my driver's side window down all the way, and then I usually experiment with other windows at other levels. Sometimes my passenger side window is the way to go. But other times it makes more sense to roll my driver's side backseat window down--usually about half way. That way the wind isn't blowing me away. It's just a soft, cool breeze.

Don't feel guilty about "wasting" your cold air. It was invented to make you more comfortable whilst driving. So turn it up with confidence...and roll that damn window down so you can experience superior air in the form of "A/C On, Windows Down Combo".

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The Perfect Gig.

You ever hear that saying about people that can't figure out what they want to do for a living? I'm not sure where I heard it, but it basically goes: Think of the perfect job for yourself. Then make it happen.

I can appreciate the simplicity--the straightforwardness. Like a lot of jobs, it sounds good on paper. But I'm not here to bitch about my job again. I'm here to talk things out. To figure out how to accomplish that simple, beautiful statement.

First, I must ask myself that very question. "What is the perfect job?"

Hmmm, I've thought about that question every day for the last 15 years. This much I know: The answer isn't "a fireman" or a "fishing guide" or any other established profession. It's one that I have to create.

The perfect job for me isn't settling. It's not having to deal with bullshit on a regular basis. It isn't redundant, routine, or anything resembling a scene out of "Groundhog Day". The satisfaction that comes from the perfect job isn't solely monetary...it's knowing that you are really damn good at what you do, and that you get paid accordingly. The perfect job is one that grew from your thoughts and ideas, one that feeds creativity and adventure, one that makes you feel alive inside. And obviously, one that you don't have live from paycheck to paycheck on.

So, what is it that I consider the perfect job?

Well, it would be foolish to choose something that I have no experience in. So many professions sound romantic and Utopian, but in reality they probably kind of suck. Example: Fly Fishing Guide. "Wow, you get to go fishing everyday and meet new people! That sounds like the best job ever!"

Yes, it does sound like a swell job. But it ain't for me. I've guided, and managed guide services, and it takes away from the passion. But fly fishing is definitely what I would like to do for the rest of my life. So I might as well get paid for it--only not by guiding.

The perfect gig for me is just fishing. Fishing on my own watch, wherever I want to fish, for whatever fish I choose, traveling to different states, countries, continents, and then writing about it. Writing whatever I want to write for whomever I want to write for. Chronicling my travels, my experiences...mapping out my routes, spinning stories about characters--both of human and fishy races.

Here's the catch, though...I don't want to do the whole "finding a publisher" or "networking with people in the business" or any of that shit. I want to travel, fish, eat, drink, bullshit, and write--that's it--and I want to somehow be paid for it. A modest salary plus travel expenses would suffice. Not a lot to ask for, I don't think.

A mature adult person would start submitting pieces to reputable magazines, newspapers, and various publications. They would start finding the names of big shots in the business--people with some pull. Networking, elbow rubbing, trying to make a name for oneself. Someone with terrific ambition would make it their life's work to hit the pavement and assure that this profession would somehow, someday happen. But that isn't perfect. I really don't want to deal with any of that shit. It totally de-perfectizes it. Remember what I said earlier about not wanting to deal with bullshit on a regular basis?

So in a perfect world, I find a way to be able to split for periods of time. I split, and I fish. I fish, and I write. And hopefully, people adore it. And that's when the tens of hundreds of dollars start rolling in.

I also remember hearing a phrase that goes: Do what you love doing, and people will follow...or some shit like that.

Maybe if I incorporate that phrase with the previous phrase, I might be on to something. The perfect job is doing what I love doing. Keep doing it and doing it well, and people will start digging it and paying me money out of their wallets.

I like that.

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I'm Goin' Back to Springfield.

I am in dire need of home.

Home is, and always will be Springfield, MO--like it or not. I suppose if all of my friends and family decided to up and move somewhere else together, then that might earn the title of home, but they're not, so it's Springfield.

I lived in Springfield from birth until about five or six years ago. Growing up there, it seemed like a normal city to me, though I really didn't have anything else to compare it to. As I grew up though, and started traveling around a bit and living other places for brief periods of time, I soon realized that it's not a normal town. It's weird.

I won't pick it apart completely, but what other city has a church, liquor store, or Chinese restaurant on every corner--almost literally? And it's not necessarily in the Bible belt--it's the buckle. Very religious. I'm talking churches that resemble shopping malls in size.

And then there's Branson. Where Osmond's go to die. If Austin, Nashville, and Branson were all brothers, Branson would get his ass kicked on a daily basis. The place is beyond words.

As odd as I find Springfield and Branson, their locations are tough to beat--at least for somewhat of an outdoorsy-type, like myself. Lakes, rivers, and vast acreage surround the area.

And so do my friends and family. That's the important part.

So, tomorrow I'm off to Andy Williams International Airfield, where hillbillyness and less than sub par entertainment live. I'm sure a huge poster of a toothless, floppy-hat-wearing, moonshine drinkin', yuck-yuck hillbilly from Presley's Mountain Music Celejamboration will be greeting me along with all the Bass Pro Shop cabin vomit when I deboard.

But my friends and family will be there, too. We'll bypass all the theaters and hit the lake. We won't be going to giant church on Sunday morning--we'll be cooking breakfast together and spending some much needed time together. But we probably will go to one of the millions of liquor stores and Chinese restaurants...

As much as I love Colorado...the mountains, the rivers, the lifestyle...it still isn't home. It's just an extremely extended vacation. At least until I recruit everyone here.

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Fuckin' A.

Fuckin' a.

I have no idea what that saying means or where it came from, but I absolutely love it. It reminds me of the hoods that bought me and my crue beer when we were 17. Lenny, Mike, Shannon...and the countless other dirt rockers that looked out for our thirsty taste buds.

"Dude, thanks for the beer! You want one?"

"Fuckin' a, man."

That's how a normal conversation would go after the boxes of beer and bottles of girl-booze were purchased for us minors.

Following that exchange of pleasantries, we would commence to cranking the stereo to the likes of Ozzy, Dio, Motley Crue, or Van Halen. If we were lucky, some of our female classmates would stop by whatever "older person's" house we were at to see what was happening. Usually they were immediately frightened by the ogling and inappropriateness of our older "friends", and would quickly leave.

"Sorry, man. Guess they had some other party to go to."

"Fuckin' a."

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Yet Another New Blog

Well, I'm giving it another shot. I've resurrected one of my other blogs and am attempting to feed another one of my creative sides. The old "Earl Pics", that floundered in creation, is now The Art of Doing (www.artofdoing.blogspot.com).

The name came from my brother-in-law, Pat, and I rapping about...well, doing shit. Basically, Pat and I share a similar outlook on life. We both feel that life is way too short to just sit idly and watch it pass by. Cliche'? Absolutely. But it makes sense to us. Call it a reaction to experiencing a loved one's life cut short...call it motivation to not regret...call it inspiration for others to do...call it a "Bucket List"...call it cliche'. I don't care. But doing makes Pat and I feel satisfied. Experiencing different things makes us happy. It makes us feel like we are constantly in motion, living. That's us, though. We're generally not content, and want to see what's around the next corner.

Anyway, "The Art of Doing" is primarily motivation for myself to not get stagnant. I don't plan on cramming it down your throats, posting everything I do on Facebook, bragging and boasting on how glorious my life is and how everyone else should do as I do because I obviously know all. No, it's just going to be a mish-mash of shit that I, and possibly others, do. A trip, hitting a new bar, going bowling, taking a hike, planning a party, inventing a new chili recipe--whatever I find interesting and motivational. The Art of Doing doesn't have to be epic travels and accomplishments--but they are certainly welcome when or if they ever happen.

Earl's Brain is a stage for thinking. The Art of Doing is a stage for doing.

Do. Don't don't.


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sweet-ass 80s metal video.

When art and poetry collide.

Enjoy.





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"Backstage at the CMAs, Dick in a Box!"

Yes, it's back to reality. After three days in Nashville being pampered like a celebrity, it's back to the grind.

In case you didn't get one of mine or April's updates, we won a free trip to the CMT Awards in Nashville. I know, I know--The CMTs suck! That is correct--but only if you watch them on TV. If you win a free trip to see them live and are a VIP at the pre and post parties, then it most certainly does not suck. It's not anything that I would ever spend my own money on, so it was a fantastic experience that will most likely never, ever happen again.

I thought tons about music, culture, and heritage while I visited Nashville. It was my first time there, and I wasn't sure what to expect. Is it going to be like Branson? I loathe Branson. Is it more like Vegas? I hope not. So I kept an open mind and just approached it like a dog with his head out the window. I tried to bury all of those preconceived notions, all of those prejudgements.

I witnessed a cornucopia of people, from your fat, old, touristy, RV folk with their white socks and shoes and freshly purchased hats from the corner gift shop...to punks with Mohawks, wallet chains and tattoos on their hands and necks. That type of diversity generally isn't found in Branson. I listened to different styles of Country music. Sure, there was your Rascal Flatts, Toby Keith, and the like. But we also heard musicians still playing the bars for tips alone, vying for someone to discover them. Some, embarrassingly talentless...others so good it was almost sad that they weren't headlining the CMTs. These were the acts that filtered across downtown Nashville during Country Music Appreciation Week. So that, along with the CMTs and Bonnaroo Music Fest being held on the same week in Tennessee, provided a pretty cool vibe in the air.

The CMTs are basically an MTV'd version of Pop-Country music, accessorized with pseudo-stars that in one way or another have something to do with the Pop-Country scene. Pop-Country to me is defined by overly produced, catchy tunes concentrating on a lead vocalist. This person is generally surrounded by studio musicians who would much rather express their talents on another stage, but are able to wipe away their tears at night with dollar bills.

Pop-Country covers quite a few bases, as far as listeners go. For people that like to party in a Nickleback sort of way, you've got your Jason Aldean--who is quite possibly the love child of Montgomery and Gentry. He's in your face and enjoys rapping Country-style. Chicks seem to really dig him for the most part.

True Americans prefer the vocal stylings of Toby Keith, mainly because he loves America and likes singing about it. Don't tread on Toby, because he's also a bit of an outlaw and might throw down with you. From what I hear, his chain of restaurants serves a horrible cheeseburger. Jimmy Buffet would be disappointed.

And of course there's Rascal Flatts. Two guys who act like they're playing guitars on either side of the main Rascal, who does in fact resemble an ugly, flightless bird.

I can make fun. But the thing is, there actually is a talent factor there for all of them. Shit, they wouldn't be on stage if they weren't talented. I may not like their voices or their lyrics or their music, or Justin Bieber...but someone does--lots of someones. The music is fine-tuned and mistake-free. The vocals are typically the same. Maybe twangy, maybe too rehearsed--but ultimately very talented. And it's not just music, it's entertainment. And they do entertain. I caught myself starting to roll my eyes during some of the performances and had to remind myself, "Just go with it. It's fun.".

When someone asks me if I like Country music, I normally give some sort of reply about liking some Country..."real" Country. You know, Willie, Johnny, Hank. Real artists with real talent.

But if you think that record producers and the "industry" didn't get a hold of any of these guys, then you're wrong. Jesus, just look at Elvis. Although these "true" artists have more or less blazed trails in Country music, they have had their fair share of over-production and pop tendencies. Listen to the "Highwaymen" albums. It's the Country super-group of Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, and Johnny Cash recorded in the mid-eighties and early-nineties. My opinion: Horrendous. The idea is beautiful, but the end product is a disappointment, to say the least.

So, although Nashville is Pop-Country Central, there is at least some solice in knowing that it pretty much always has been. These faces on CMT that we see today are essentially the same faces we saw on The Johnny Cash Show and Hee Haw. The music may have been a little different then, but the fact that they're doing what their doing to make themselves and their producers money remains the same.

Toby Keith and Hank Williams are different. But they're kind of the same, too...as much as it pains me to say it. It's all music, it's all entertainment, it's all art...of different degrees to different audiences.

The heritage, the culture, and the purity of Country music is what makes it such a broad medium. Don't like Branson? Go to Nashville. Don't like Nashville? Go to Austin.

It's like that with every genre. Rock? Well, is it Classic, Alternative, Roots, Rockabilly, Heavy Metal, Thrash, Electronica, Americana, Punk, Progressive, Golden Oldies, or Pop? Same thing.

So when the next person asks me if I like Country music, I'll answer, "Yea, some." And then go into my Willie, Hank, & Johnny bit.


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Journey, Supper With Cliff, and Rain.

My first thought of the evening:

Journey is a ridiculous band. Here is the inarguable proof:



Now that you've seen that, there will be no debate.

But the thing about Journey is, although they're ridiculous in a certain sense, they represent something fun. Anything that ridiculous has to be fun.

I have my examples, as I'm sure most everyone reading this does. If you're around or about my age, then you might remember the makeout tunes, "Open Arms" and "Faithfully". Makeout probably isn't the proper term...how about couple skate tunes. Yes, these were the songs all the couples or couple-hopefuls waited to hear at Skate Corral, Skateland, or Skate Port (please insert your local childhood roller skating rink's name here, ie: Skateville, Skatopia, Roller Action Central, or Crazy Lonnie's Skate Shack). "Faithfully" was generally the song that couples skated to, as a way to show their undying love for one another in the form of roller skating together. The couples that really loved one another usually didn't fuck around with holding hands side by side--they faced each other while one of the two skated backwards. If they were extra in love, they would switch skating backwards--guy, then girl. It was truly phenomenal. And no doubt the single moment of the entire week that these two couple skaters could not fucking wait for.

Of course these two Steve Perry-crooned rock ballads were not the first time we had heard of Journey. If you're ten years older than me, then you may have seen Journey on a world tour with the likes of Styx, Van Halen, Cheap Trick, or Ted Nugent. But my first memorable experience of Journey was the classic movie, Caddyshack. Perhaps the funniest moment in cinematic history, when Rodney Dangerfield's character, Al Czervick is in a one-uping conversation with that Italian caddy, D'Annunzio and in rebuttal to Tony's "So what?" Al replies, "So what? So let's dance!" He then cranks up the radio on his high-speed golf bag to "Any Way You Want It" by none other than Journey. Everyone on the golf course dances.

Around the same time as Caddyshack, Journey showed up on my favorite naughty cartoon movie, "Heavy Metal". And although Journey is a far cry from heavy metal, it totally worked in the film. Aliens, animated boobs, and Journey--what a great movie.

Wait, the Journey examples continue.

When I was in my twenties (which I have extremely vague memories...) my good friend Vinnie and I, after a hard day at work would load up in his 1964 Chevy Impala, turn on "Be Good To Yourself" by our friends Journey, and go to the Red Lobster for popcorn shrimp and fruity cocktails. We were being good to ourselves. It was kind of like being on the beach...with Steve Perry.

There were many goofy Journey songs that my friends and I sang along to, generally in an inebriated state. "Lights", "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'", and "Feeling That Way/Any Time"--that one song that's kinda two songs.

When I proposed to my wife, I did the whole down on one knee bit. I even put a tie on. When she said yes, with joyful tears in her eyes, beside herself at the fact that she was going to be my wife, I quickly pressed play on the iPod, where I had loaded and ready to go "Any Way You Want It". I did the Rodney Dangerfield dance in celebration. Yes, she still married me.

Speaking of...at our reception, in which we had a very strict playlist--or no-play list, I should say, the last song of the night (unbeknownst to us) was "Don't Stop Believing". We jumped on stage--just the two of us--and rocked the hell out of that song.

These are a few examples of where Journey has it's place. If you're a serious music critic-type, which I sometimes am guilty of pretending to be, then Journey is 100% laughable. But that's just it--they make me laugh, they make me smile, they're fun. I mean, just envisioning Steve Perry singing is enough to make you spew Cheerios out your nose. Steve Perry actually makes Chris Robinson look less birdish.

I've always semi-defended Journey by saying, "They're so bad, they're good." And I guess I mean that to a point. They represented safe, overly produced, corny radio rock in the late 70s and early 80s. Those of us who pride ourselves on appreciating "good" music snuff Journey. We listen to different music--punk, roots, reggae, Americana. We don't sit around listening to Journey on headphones, or debating with our friends which Neil Schon solo is the best. Journey is ridiculous.

Yes, they are. But I still like them.

With that stated, I have to watch myself when criticizing my wife or sister or whoever's choice in listening enjoyment. Whenever fucking Rascal Flatts comes on the radio, I have to deal with it. Because even though you and I know it sucks, I like Journey. So I can't say anything. That part's tougher than actually admitting I like Journey.

Second thought of the evening:

When my wife is out of town and it's just me and my good friend Cliff, I enjoy cooking for us. The other night I thawed out a couple sirloin steaks that we get from the family butcher back in Nebraska. Two steaks come wrapped in butcher paper, so I obviously nuked both of them on defrost. Even though I was only hungry for one, I looked into Cliff's deep brown eyes and my heart sank. He's a damn dog. All he ever eats is dog food and table scraps. This dog is one of my best friends--he never bitches about anything, he's always elated to see me, he loves to go fishing and camping, and he always listens when I've got something on my mind. Also, he's probably only going to live another 15 years at most. Dogs get jipped that way. Then add the fact that he's a carnivore.

Needless to say, I fired up two perfectly rare steaks on the grill that evening. One for me, one for Cliff. Jesus, was that dog happy. He looked at me as to say, "Holy shit, man. Thank you. Thank you so much. That was amazing. You're my best friend. Best friend always."

So obviously last night I barbecued some chicken thighs--once again to perfection-- to share with my carnivorous friend. He wanted those chicken bones, but choking is uncool, so I shredding the meat off the bone for him. He was still appreciative.

Tonight...bacon cheeseburgers. Two for me, two for Cliff. Right now Cliff's asleep and I'm fat. But it's cool, we took a jog earlier.

Third thought of the evening:

I live in Colorado nowadays. We don't get rain, or thunderstorms, or tornadoes too often. Back in Missouri, we did. A lot. But now that I'm residing in a drier climate, I miss those things. Sure, I don't miss the death and destruction of tornadoes, probably 'cause I never lost my house or died due to one. But I do miss the feeling.

The smell of rain. The flash of lightning followed by the delayed roar of thunder. The adrenaline you get during a bad storm. The amazement of how powerful and non-caring a storm can be.

It's raining right now a little bit. I immediately shut off all noise in the house so I could listen to the raindrops on the metal roof of my sunroom. It's weird, the things you miss. Of course, Missouri is under water right now, so I imagine I'd be a little pissed if I were getting rained on there...again.

Journey, supper with Cliff, and rain. That's what I've got going on tonight.


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Rant and Joy.

Man, what an awful day. Life would be so much more enjoyable if I didn't have to spend the majority of it away from the things that make me feel alive inside.

I tell ya, I've tried. I've tried to incorporate my passions into a nine-to-fiver. But until you can completely call all the shots in whatever financial endeavor you're immersed in, everyday jobs just flat-out suck. At least in this disgruntled bitch's experience.

As I clench my teeth, close my eyes, and take deep breaths to control the fits of anger caused by people I don't necessarily care for, I take a moment of escape and envision a stress-free life where I am neck-deep in all the things I love. The outdoors, the good times, the people I choose to spend my time with. It's all stress-free. I envision this, and it annoys me that it seems so feasible--so realistic. How can I escape these annoyances? The thousands of people per week that I deal with--many of whom I do not care for and hope to never cross paths with again. The low pay accompanied with low reward. The co-workers that I see more often than I see my family and friends.

We shouldn't have to live like this.

Sure, it's bitching. It's griping. It's ranting and venting. But the cold reality of this whole 'everyday job' thing is that it's what I spend the majority of my life doing and I don't like it. Work is not my second home...it's my first home. I spend more time at my place of business than I do at my own house. "Geez Matt, we all do!" you might say. Some of you might spend 60+ hours a week at the office. I don't care. If you're cool with that situation...if you're content, nice. You shouldn't be, but nice. Enjoy that two weeks off a year.

I'll keep working on it. I'll keep working on a solution to eliminate the nine-to-fiver...no matter how romantic the job might sound. The idea of jobs and the reality of jobs are two entirely different things. For those of you who understand and appreciate my rant, cool. For those who don't, I admire your contentedness.

For everyone else, please enjoy this video of AC/DC not working a nine-to-fiver. It's worth every bit of the ten minutes...

Sorry for being a dick.

Sunday Ramble.

Does anyone else feel pressured to fit as much enjoyment into their short lives as I do? It's not a philosophical type of question--not meant to be deep or anything. It's just how I think.

In the grand scheme of things, we as humans live somewhat short lives. We're going to die. Maybe sooner, maybe later. Who knows? And I don't care how religious, how spiritual, how all-knowing you think you may be--you don't know where we're going to end up. No one does. Do we get a second chance at life? Hard to say. Really, really hard to say.

So, without turning that corner to the deep end, I'd like to keep this conversation in the ballpark of "here and now", not "afterlife" or any of that stuff. Although that can be an interesting conversation...

The hard, morbid truth is that I could keel over in three seconds. What, with all the stress of a low paying, rarely rewarding, overly stressful job accompanied by food and drink that the FDA generally frowns upon--there's probably a decent chance of it. Or, I could live to be a frikkin' hundred. But you can't count on a hundred. That's just being foolish. So, we have to take advantage of this short time while on this Earth we know. And that ain't easy--especially for me.

I am not one to, nor have I ever been one to, have the majority of my life scaled out. From a young age I have jumped from one thing to another, trying to solidify and streamline my interests and create a smart and simple recipe for making a living. It has not worked...at all. I've never had a clear vision of what it is that I want to do for a living. So, that in itself makes it tough to incorporate all the extracurricular activities that I'd like to accomplish by life's end.

There are so many directions that you can go. It's tough to figure out which one to take.

There's obviously the side of me that has tried to incorporate passions and employment. It's been very bittersweet. It tends to dampen your interests a bit, when you have to do it. If I have to do something, then it fails to be a passion or interest. I'll do those on my own watch. But on the other side of the coin, it has opened up some fun doors as far as networks, knowledge, and experiences. It's time to move on, though.

Then there's the side of me that thinks going back to school might be the best answer. I'm more willing to learn now, I could use the credentials, and it would help secure a more permanent career. Once I've graduated and am on cruise control, let's say being a teacher, then I'm locked in with an okay salary and benefits--plus I've got my summers off to ramble. That's one train of thought.

And the side that I'm always battling is the side that wants to find a way to split. I'm not talking leaving my wife or anything. Just downsizing and leaving. Getting rid of the house, the car, the anchors. Responsibly freeing up time, while keeping a modest travel fund, and roaming the world until I run out of money or ambition.

Thing is, my jobs have never dictated what I do or who I am. I've had so many that I don't even remember half of them. I'm not a "DOCTOR" or an "ASTRONAUT". I'm just some dude named Matt who tries to make an honest living doing whatever so I can swing some living on the side.

I'd like to be able to swing a little more living, though.


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squirrels and bunnies.

Anthony Bourdain has the type of life that people like me would kill a human for. Traveling, writing, filming, eating, and drinking. Throw in fishing and it's my picture-perfect existence.

If you're not familiar with Anthony, he has a show on the Travel Channel called "No Reservations". It's based on his travels around the world, sampling real, local culture and cuisine. No touristy crap. No Samantha Brown, Rachel Ray, or Guy Fiero crap. It's all fairly real, really raw, and rarely disappointing.

While normally filming in exotic overseas locales, his latest episode really leaped out at me and I just had to DVR it. It was entitled "Ozarks". My first thought was, "Hmm, wonder if it's Missouri or Arkansas?" My second thought was, "Why the hell would he go to either?"

I'm from the Ozarks. And this particular episode was eerily familiar. Sure, they really sought out the hillbilly stereotypes, and it sort of got on my nerves. That is, until I realized that it's sort of difficult to get away from them.

First thing they did on the show was skin and cook squirrel. I've eaten squirrel. Thought everyone did. That's how I was raised...Grandpa, though second generation German whose family settled just South of St. Louis, would always go hunting. Yes, he would go deer hunting and turkey hunting, but what I remember him hunting for most often was squirrel. My very-German Grandfather was quite far from being a hillbilly, but that's how he was raised--hunting and gathering what you can and feasting. There wasn't a Taco Bell down the street from his one bedroom house. There wasn't a HyVee nearby. So hunting whitetail deer, gathering morel mushrooms, catching trout, planting a rich, beautiful garden...and eating squirrels was how he did it.

My Granny, who was also extremely German--but definitely had a "Granny, from The Beverley Hillbillies" quality to her--was the one that always cleaned and cooked the squirrel. Years after my Grandpa passed away, Granny saw a squirrel get hit by a car in front of her house. She walks out to the street, assess the situation, scoops up the dead squirrel, cleans it, cooks it, and eats it. Admittedly nostalgic and missing my Grandpa, this was a meal she hadn't had since his passing. Still, though...it's roadkill. So when I playfully take a jab at her for eating roadkill, while fully knowing that it was actually a sweet gesture and tribute to her years with Grandpa, she replies to me like she always did, "Nothing wrong with it! They only ran over the head!"

God, I miss those two.

But aside from this particular Grandpa of mine, most everyone else in the family hunted squirrel. I don't really recall eating it all that often--it was probably hunted more for sport or extermination.

Sucker gigging and raccoon hunting was also featured in this "No Reservations" episode. I don't gig fish, but I have eaten sucker...which in my opinion is properly named, because they suck. Not a big fan. I have never, and will never hunt for raccoon. But I know my dad used to as a kid. So, it probably wasn't too difficult to find these Ozarkian stereotypes.

I was brought up in the third largest city in Missouri, so you had a pretty broad spectrum of people types. We definitely had farmers and country folks, but not too many spooky, "Deliverance-type" hillbillies. I have certainly seen them though, and Anthony Bourdain was dangerously close to them. No offense, Arkansas, but the closer you get to your border, the less teeth and more tattoos you see.

Anthony Bourdain was in the Ozarks because of Daniel Woodrell, author of "Winter's Bone". Supposed to be a great book and equally as entertaining movie, and I'm sure it is.

But not as entertaining as "Hillbilly Hare" starring Bugs Bunny.

Enjoy.

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something I'm actually too young for.

I was just dicking around online, looking up old concerts on YouTube, and found some great clips of Van Halen performing at the US Festival in 1983. I got to digging into the other performances and was blown away by the line-up!

I took this straight from Wikipedia...

Saturday, May 28 (New Wave Day)
Divinyls
INXS
Wall of Voodoo - Stan Ridgway's last appearance with Wall of Voodoo
Oingo Boingo
The English Beat
Missing Persons
A Flock of Seagulls
Stray Cats
Men at Work
The Clash - Mick Jones' last appearance with The Clash.

Sunday, May 29 (Heavy Metal Day)
Van Halen
Quiet Riot
Motley Crue
Ozzy Osbourne
Judas Priest
Triumph
Scorpions

Monday, May 30 (Rock Day)
Los Lobos (on a side stage only)
Little Steven & The Disciples of Soul
Berlin (band)
Quarterflash
U2
Missing Persons
The Pretenders
Joe Walsh
Stevie Nicks
David Bowie

Saturday June 4th (Country Day)
Thrasher Brothers
Ricky Skaggs
Hank Williams, Jr.
Emmylou Harris & The Hot Band
Alabama
Waylon Jennings
Riders in the Sky
Willie Nelson

Granted, some bands blow. But look at the ones that don't, especially for back in '83. Stray Cats, Bowie, The Clash, The Halen, Ozzy, Waylon, Willie, Joe Walsh, U2.

Dang.

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Tuesday Ramble Y'all.

Something that I can't decide if I like or not is people who are really into something. I mean, reeaaally into it. Self proclaimed connoisseur, so to speak. I appreciate taking your interests to professional-type levels. But part of me gets extremely annoyed by the narcissism and over-the-top opinions.

For instance, I like to BBQ. I can smoke a mean turkey and have accomplished the art of properly preparing baby back ribs. It's not rocket science, you just have to know a few key things, a little trial and error, and your golden. Sure, there's a lot more to it. Rubs, sauces, temps, rotation, oxygen, wood, whatnot. But in my opinion, you don't have to overthink it.

Now, I have not been around true BBQ snobs. Competition guys who speak in a different language, scoff at weekend grillers, and debate about correct methods. I'm positive they're out there, though, and this is the type of person that annoys me.

I have been around fly fishermen and craft beer folk. The same rings true. You've got the clique, the subculture, the club. Guys who have nothing better to do than talk shop, put down others to make themselves feel superior, and basically just suck. This is the point where really getting into something crosses that line from having a genuine interest, learning the activity, getting very good at that activity, but not letting that activity consume your every thought---to being a cocky, opinionated, totally self-proclaimed "expert" asshole.

So with that said, I am going to continue BBQing, fly fishing, and enjoying different beers. But I will not be joining any fraternities on these subjects. I will remain knowledgeable, confident, open minded, and unbias. I've had BBQ at local specialty BBQ joints that has flat out sucked. I've spoken with fly anglers who can talk shop all day, but can't fish. I've tasted Heineken. So just because you're into something--reeeaaally into something--doesn't mean you're worth a shit at it.

Intermission.



I've been thinking about food quite a bit lately.

Out here in Colorado, we're bombarded with organic this, and natural that. It gets a little ridiculous, but it does make sense. Why wouldn't I eat the natural grass fed cow instead of the chemical-hormone fueled cow? I don't know much about farming, but I do understand that organic farming is much more difficult to maintain. And in the end, as the farmer, you don't get as much bang for your buck. You have to deal with smaller livestock and higher prices. With produce, it takes more work to grow, you have to charge more for that additional work, and the produce basically tastes the same as the pesticide-laced one sitting next to it for $.89/lb cheaper.

Then there's the whole hunting thing. Is it more humane to kill a deer and eat it than to purchase an 8-pack of chicken thighs? Probably so.

It's a tough decision. I want to care more, but I also don't want to have to think about every single thing I'm eating and where it came from. Shit, I ate Popeye's chicken today. I shutter thinking about where that came from. But it's Popeye's and it's good. A cage-free, free range, naturally fed bird this certainly was not. But it's weird, creepy tasting fast food that's convenient and hooks you somehow.

I love eating well, but I don't do it near enough. Takes a lot of time and effort. But I feel amazing afterwards. Funny thing is, I don't necessarily crave these good, healthy meals. What I do crave, from time to time, is a fucking Bean Burrito from Taco Bell. A Big Mac, McNuggets, a Triple Stack. I don't get it. I feel terrible after eating anything fast food, yet there's something addicting about it. I can get a flour tortilla, fill it with refrieds, and a little cheese, but it tastes nothing like a Taco Bell Bean Burrito. There's got to be some weird, addictive chemical or something that they put in there. Fast food tastes good at the time you're craving it, but makes you fat and feeling terrible. Yet we still go.

I try and find a balance. That's actually what I look for in most every aspect of life. A good balance when it comes to food is tough, but I think an open mind and a decent variety will suffice. That way, I get my organic, all natural, free range, grass fed shit--and I get my Bean Burrito. Mixing it up, moderation, eating mostly real food...I think that's the way to do it.

Second Intermission.



I think the reason that the two above subjects came up was because it was triggered during conversations about fishing.

I've been wanting to eat fish lately. Along with shitty fast food, luckily I've also been craving wild, healthy fish. But in the fishing biz, catch and take is frowned upon. It's all catch and release, which I've practiced fairly religiously my entire life. Hell, I haven't kept a trout in 20some years.

When I go back home to Missouri and we get into the crappie or the white bass, that's when we harvest and that's when we eat fish. But I want fish now. I want to eat a fat, healthy rainbow trout that has never seen a farm-fed fish pellet in its life. I want to eat an all natural fish that has eaten nothing but all natural food itself, like crawdads, baitfish, mysis shrimp, or insects. Brightly colored fillets--not those dull, grey fillets from hatchery fish.

I'm going to go ahead and do that. It sounds delicious. Fuck the fly snobs--I've released enough fish to stock a lake--a lake that the doughball casters will just trespass onto and catch and keep all the fish illegally anyway.

Good talk.


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back on track.

Okay, a few things.

First, as an effect of my last post, I now do not give a shit about much of anything anymore. In a good way. I'll explain.

If you've read about the Croissan'wich incident this morning, then you know that I had an extremely angry lady with a drive-thru headset on throw my breakfast at me this morning. Surprising. Shocking. Funny. But ultimately, uncalled for. You work at a godamn Burger King. Relax.

I've taken that occurance and applied it to my current mindset. I've been very stressed out at work lately. I won't get into it, but there are some miscommunications and practices that have been compromising my good-time personality. You see, this mean lady works at Burger King...I work at a fly shop. Not much difference as far as important occupations go. Neither of us are saving babies or curing feline AIDS (which is the leading form of cat deaths in the US. Wa, wa, wa...). No, we both have totally meaningless jobs. So there's no sense in getting stressed out and taking it out on random people who just want a fly rod--or in my case, a sausage, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwich.

So even though it angered me, I'm glad it happened. It put things back into perspective for me.

Second, I saw some good friends from Missouri over the weekend who were up skiing in the mountains. It was awesome. Such good friends, and I rarely see them anymore. My fault for moving 700 miles away, but nevertheless it was great to hang out.

A couple of them used to follow this here blog. They says to me, "Hey Matt, what happened to your blog? It used to be so fun to read and all of a sudden you stop keeping up with it."

I gave them some excuse about filling my creative needs in other ways or someshit. Truth is, I've tried to change it over the past few months to possibly spark interest from some sort of publisher or something. I like to write, and I found myself using Earl's Brain as a reference to potential employers or someone that might want me to freelance. So I became very particular about what I would write, and would edit myself due to the possibility of certain editor-type someones reading it and judging my skills.

So no more stories about crapping my pants. No more getting shitfaced and seeing if I could form a sentence, much less an entire post. No more badass 80s metal videos. My blog became worthless. It became something it was not. Groomed, detailed, serious, and unentertaining. Unentertaining for you, and unentertaining for me.

Now, to revist the first point that I made on this post...I don't really give a shit about much since I got my breakfast hurled at me this morning. And with that said, the old Earl's Brain is back. I don't care about someone from Sunset Magazine, or Travel Channel calling me up and saying, "Fuck, Matt! Your blog is incredible! I've never read anything quite so eloquent and stylish! The pictures of you fishing and shit are unbelievable--and the brown background, breathtaking!" (that's what it looked like before I changed it back to just plain ol'...)

And even if you're not some bigshot that gets paid $200,000 a year to proofread shit, you might be an older relative, or someone who may be offended by questionable language and shocking images of 80s wickedness. That's okay. You're still invited to pour yourself a tall glass of Scotch, sit back in your easy chair, pull up Earl's Brain on the ol' Innertube, and enjoy yourself for a few moments.

I've attached a fantastic live performance of the entertaining band, Van Halen, for both your viewing and listening pleasure.

"Senni-seed....No second to none. Woooww!! Son of a gun!.........Alright." Those aren't the lyrics at all--they don't even make sense, but that's what Dave decided to say. That is a metaphor for how I want to live life everyday.

Please Boycott Burger King.

Not because my wife was an employment casualty in the 800 person lay-off after BK got bought out earlier this year. Not because of their horrendous commercials that make me want to eat McDonald's everyday just out of principle. Not even because their food flat-out sucks.

I need you to boycott Burger King because I got a Croissan'wich thrown at me this morning.

Since my wife was a Marketing Manager for quite some time with the King, she had a stack of "Free Whopper" and "Free Croissan'wich" coupons laying around all the time. This was probably the biggest perk she received while working there. On my way to work today, I notice a coupon for the breakfast sandwich in my console. And although I rarely east fast food--especially BK--I was a little hungry and the "free" aspect appealed to me.

I pull in to the Boulder restaurant and proceed to the drive-through lane. I explain the coupon to the employee on the speaker and specify that I'd like sausage on that sandwich. She asked another time or two for me to repeat the coupon--which usually happens. I suppose they don't see these coupons all that often. So she accepts my explanation and instructs me pull around to the second window.

I hand the coupon to the stand-offish lady working the window, and hear her grumbling about "free sammich..." something or other. She didn't speak the best English, but I could tell she was put-out by my coupon.

A little time passes as she wrestles with how to ring up the coupon in the register and ponders how much attitude she wants to give me. She slowly approaches the window, headset on, and says without looking at me, "$3.35".

I think that there is a strong possibility that she's talking to the person in line behind me, seeing as how she's not looking at me and barking out a grand total just after I gave her a coupon for a free freakin' sandwich. But I ask very politely, "Are you talking to me?" She ignores me.

"$3.35!" she says much louder and more demanding, still while not looking at me. Once again, I politely try to verify that she is in fact talking to me. She ignores me for a second, then glances down at me. I point to myself and meekly ask for the third time, "Are you talking to me?"

"Yes!! I'm talkin' to you!!" she yells. She literally yelled. "But...it's a 'free' coupon." I replied, confused and hungry.

She gives me the most "I want you dead" sigh I've ever received, storms over to the breakfast sandwich schute, grabs the sausage, egg, & cheese, chucks in a bag, and literally throws it out of the drive-through window and into my car window while saying, "Here!!"

"Sorry." I said. Then I drove off laughing at my response and surprised as hell that she actually put my breakfast in a bag.

My wife has done marketing in the fast food industry for years, and we have sampled most every form of convenience "food" imaginable. Burger King has hands down the absolute worst service I've ever witnessed. And I'm not just saying that because their food and their commercials suck.

So for all the many reasons that the King sucks, this morning's incident has actually made me boycott the company.

Throw a sandwich at me, will you... I have a blog, bitches.



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Quick Ramble Before Bed.

Sorry.

I keep changing my blog. One minute it's fun and stupid...the next minute it's serious and formal. And sometimes it's white and sometimes it's brown.

Also, I've been sour lately and I apologize for that. I'll start concentrating on being more positive. Okay? Fine.

I've been gearing up for Spring. And what that entails is celebrations including Mardi Gras, St. Pat's, and Opening Day. So far, I've been to see the Dropkick Murphy's (their March tour, a tradition for St. Patrick's Day), I've been to Soulard in St. Louis for Mardi Gras (that was three days ago and I'm still hungover), and I've purchased my mlb.com Game Package for Cardinal viewing.

Although fly fishermen annoy me and I have to deal with their neediness, I am dying to get on the river. Or the lake. Pond. Wherever. It's been way too long and way too cold of a winter, and I'm sick of it. So I've been tying flies and gearing up for the Williams Fork, Lake Pomme De Terre, and my local open space pond down the street. I still dig fishing...

Alright, I'm tired and it's past my bedtime. I'll post some Mardi Gras pics and elaborate on it a little later on. And my St. Patty's entry promises to be entertaining too, I hope. We can't decide on green tutus, royal robes, or capes. I'm sure we'll make the correct green decision.

g'night.

Never-Happy Rant.

And I thought I was egotistical when it came to fly fishing.

Dealing with fly fishermen everyday and witnessing first hand the incestuousness, the cliquishness, the clubhouse mentality--it has quickly made me grow weary of the one activity that I hold dearly to my heart.

When I say that I'm egotistical, it's more or less in a tongue-&-cheek manner. I've been fly fishing for thirty years, so I think I'm pretty good. That's where my back-patting starts and ends--with a shit-eating smerk, of course. Don't worry, I self deprecate enough to balance out both humors.

I don't loiter fly shops on a weekly basis. I don't keep up with the latest fish catching trends, methods, or gadgets. I don't read every magazine article, attend every clinic and trade show, or mimic anglers whom I deem better than myself simply because they're employed by the industry. No, I just kind of know how to fish. I adapt to conditions, understand what fish usually eat, and apply thirty years of trial and error. See? I'm somewhat egotistical.

To be accepted into one of these fly fishing cliques (or the fly fishing clique), you have to continually rub elbows with people in the know. That is, people whom other people think are fly fishing geniuses. People that can definitely talk the talk. They live, eat, and breathe fly fishing. At least fly fishing jargon. I call it shop knowledge. And I've never felt the need to frequent a fly shop for the sake of talking shop. I don't get satisfaction from spec-dropping. I don't need to feel that the more I talk the more I'm going to be accepted into the realm of fly fishing elbow-rubbers. It's like a Chamber Of Commerce meeting. All you're doing is trying to one-up the other guy with your random shop knowledge and name dropping.

I've never been subjected to ugly side of shop culture--until I started managing a fly shop a few months ago. Now, it's unavoidable. Fly fishing is not that exciting anymore. It feels like work--it is work. When I go to the river, I feel like I'm on the clock. I've lost track of why I go.

This is the first time I've incorporated passion and employment. It's a sour mix--at least for a passion that is based on solitude, art, and spirituality. My passion is quickly becoming a means for fueling shop jargon, reports, and anything else that helps the shop make a dime. Which is fine--that's how it works. I made my choice.

I honestly do like the industry, but not at the expense of diminishing my true likes. Work is work. Fun is fun. Ain't much mixing the two. At least in my experience.


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