I know that being a from Texas and being a fan of Country Western music seems to go hand in hand but there was a time when our Texas artists were defamed for our non-traditional approach to playing and song writing. Country music traditionalists would tout us saying, “That ain’t Country, that’sRock-n-Roll!”. We just spit in the direction of the critics, knocked the dirt off our squared-toed boots and continued to sing songs about weed in 4/4 time signatures. Out with the old and in with the new right? So maybe we’re to blame. Maybe the shaking off of the past and boldly progressing in to the new is what caused it. Maybe it was Cotteneyed Joe, but one thing is for sure. Country Hip Hop has gotten out of control!!
I’m not saying that Country Hip Hop is bad. I’m not saying that record companies shouldn’t record and promote Country Hip Hop. I’m not even saying that people shouldn’t listen and enjoy. I’m saying take off the “Country” part and just call it “Hip Hop”. Country Hip Hop was fine when it was just fat white guys wearing cowboy hats trying to find words that rhymed with biscuit. Chubby hill billy gangstas is somehow endearing and cute, like a 2 yr old with a lisp. This new Music Row trend of getting Bon Jovi look-a-likes to spit flow like Lil’ Wayne is just uncomfortable and generally embarrassing to us good ole’ southern folk. Every time I listen to my favorite Country and Western radio station I gotta hear Florida Georgia Line popping and locking off their twangy esophagus words that end in “O”. I think that’s right. Nelly should sue all of Nashville for defaming his once notable album “CountryGrammar”.
If you enjoy the cadence and guitar then by all means by the CD; download a mpeg; Pandora the shit out of it! Just don’t tune in to a Country Western radio station.
My girlfriend smokes. Until recently this fact of and within itself did not bother me. One can go on and on about how the she is damaging her health and that I should be concerned with that but I’m not. Many men would blubber that smoking will damage her aesthetically by causing wrinkles, yellowing teeth and receding gums but I have seen no evidence of that either. No I was not particularly concerned with her smoking being she was a smoker before me and I have accepted that as something she does. Now me being who I am and doing as I does, I do tease her about her addiction. You see a smoker thinks about smoking. They pre-plan events with their addiction in mind. Before we go out to social events we have to take time for her to smoke because I don’t allow smoking in my truck. When taking a trip we have to make sure we have packed plenty of cigarettes for “Just in case”. Her addiction dictates her actions and I can almost predict what she will do and the paths that she will take just by knowing that eventually she is gonna need a cigarette. Until recently this little character flaw amused me and I enjoyed teasing her about it. That is until the other night. I’ve often heard and have seen that smokers enjoy a good smoke after sex. A scene depicting a couple in bed sharing a celebratory cigarette in bed is used to notify the audience that a bout of rigorous love making has just taken place. The almost natural and deftly practiced act of lighting up is supposed to be a calming act allowing the satisfied lover to gain control of their breathing and collect their thoughts. The time consumed inhaling the sweet poison of the cigarette can be used for reminiscing on the sensuous acts that just took place. puff “Oh my that was good!” puff puff. This well known fact has been known to me for a long while but being that I am not a smoker I’ve never given it any thought. Usually after sex I’m content with snuggling and tiny kisses afterward. Happy for the encouraging words of how wonderful I was. Tho the other night I found myself lost in my thoughts after not receiving such encouraging words. I drifted to the old movies of smoking lovers post coitus and realizing that my addicted to smoking girlfriend was not smoking. In fact, I couldn’t recall her ever smoking afterwards. Now my girlfriend is fantastic. Fantastic in every sense of the word. She is smart, pretty, caring, accommodating, and most of all not going to crush my ego. Tho I know she would never say it, her addiction betrays her.
Now that all the hype has died down and we all realize that we don’t really care that much about an old rich white man who (SURPRISE SURPRISE) turns out to be racist, I feel it’s time to make my opinion known. Donald Sterling got a raw deal. Calm down, I’m not saying the NBA sanctions and forcing him to sell the team and the players speaking out was too harsh. I’m saying that if he’d known all that crap was going to happen he never would’ve agreed to the bet. Yeah the bet. Obviously Donald Sterling lost a bet and the cost was character assassination by his own hand. You heard the recording. It didn’t make sense. “Fuck them I don’t care! Just don’t take pictures with them.” Who the hell says that? I know what you are thinking, “A senile 80 yr old man says that.” Well if that’s the case then why the hell were we so outraged? Sit next to an old man on a bus. You’ll hear some of the craziest shit in the world and then he’ll shit himself. And what will you do? You’ll get off the bus…and that’s it. No, “OMG! How could he?” and so on. You just go on about your life. We all will and that’s the point. LIFE. I’m talking about a difference in lifestyle. Not only did we get outraged at the recorded words of Donald Sterling but we also get outraged when the grocery store has 16 check out registers and only has 2 of them open. Donald Sterling hasn’t been in a grocery store in 35 yrs. We pay rent, mortgages, and property tax. Donald Sterling buys islands. The man is a billionaire. If you count from 1-100 in 60 seconds and then continue that pace of 100 digits per minute it would still take you 30 yrs to count to a billion. We can’t even contemplate that amount of money and that man has multi-increments of that number. So what do you do when you have an inmeasurable amount of money? Whatever you can to make life interesting. Imagine if you and I were on a basketball court. I say to you, “Bet you 97 bucks I can make this shot.” You say, “Bet.” Then I shoot and then one of us is out 97 bucks. I don’t know which one of us, doesn’t matter, not my point. Now let’s say we are billionaires and we play the same scenario, only now I don’t say 97 bucks. I say that if I make this shot you gotta fly to Iran, find an aborted fetus, cremate it, then snort it’s ashes off an under cooked pork chop. And you would say, “Again? Dang dude come up with something original.” Because that’s how billionaires think!! They are not like you and I. Mark Cuban and Donald Sterling went double or nothing on what the name of Kanye and Kim’s baby would be and Sterling lost. Cuban said that he had to be recorded doing a racist rant. And you can tell that it was set up. His girlfriend kept repeating over and over and over that she didn’t think the same as him because she was raised differently. Why would she continue to make that point over and over? The only time someone emphasizes a point over and over is when he or she really need people to understand their meaning. And the only time you want PEOPLE to understand is when you know PEOPLE are listening. Or in this case, knew that PEOPLE would be listening. Go back and listen again. Did you pick up on Sterling’s timbre? His defeated tone. Did you hear the, “Fuck you Cuban. I’m gonna get you back for this one.”, under his breath? Wait for playoff time next year and I’ll wager you 3 racists rants and an aborted fetus that Mark Cuban will have his head on the TMZ chopping block.
It’s hard for me to come up with stuff to write. Oh I have ideas and stories running thru my head all the time. It’s just difficult for me to put it in the written word. You see first and foremost I want my stories to be funny. This doesn’t neccessarily mean that I must be funny (though I think I am) but if I’m not gonna be funny then I constantly have to be on the look-out for stories that our funny. Believe me, when you are as self absorbed as I am, then there is nothing worse than having to listen to other peoples stories trying sift through all the tripe and pick the best ones to steal. Secondly I want my stories to be smart. This doesn’t neccessarily mean that I have to be smart (though I feel that I am) it just means that I have to write enough big words in a row that make me seem smart without being condescending. (Condesceding means I talk down to people.) So now I have to steal stories that are funny and make me seem smart. I decide that stealing these stories is more work than I am willing to put forth so I set out to right my own. I take from parts of my life and embellish where need be and then just lie when I don’t feel that what really took place is funny enough to print. After I have written the story then I must proof read and edit. Reading what I have written is like like trying to follow a blind man thru a mall. My thoughts are so scattered brained and degressive that I don’t even know where to start to chronclize. After I have finally put my thoughts in some sort of order and cleverly hidden any evidence that the story I told is a lie then I set to publish on the world wide web…only to have no one recognize my work. Hours and days and weeks of thinking, sifting, stealing and editing gone with no acclaim. You think this is easy?
I lost in a poker game. At the time I didn’t think it to be that big of a deal. It was just a short story with no real proclaimed protagonist or driving motivational plot theme. It was developed of course and I “knew” where I was going to lead the prose but it wasn’t written. Like so many of the tasks taken on in my life, it was unfinished. So I lost it. Gave it away more likely. Calling with 3 Jacks? What was I thinking? The Jacks always lose. But I was 4 rum and cokes past my usual 4 and I began to think the whimsical look of the Jack of Hearts was really the blank look of a killer. No one would believe that I wrote it anyway. 28 year old college drop-out couldn’t produce fiction genious such as that anyway. He! He, how ever was near 40 and already published. He! Now He, could produce such wit and originality. He! He traveled in the small and cliqueish circles of the literary accomplishers. He! He drank with Chuck Palahniuk, shot skeet with Stephen King and edited J.K. Rowling. He! He drove a red CTS and had the 20 something year old blonde bombshell girlfriend with big-o-fake boobies. He! He was raising me.
“How about that little short you’ve been working on?” he said with a look that mimicked the Jack of Hearts. “It’s coming along. I got an idea of where I’m taking it and I think it can be publishable as long as I can get an agent interested.” I reply to him but only looking at the big-o-fake ones. “No Dropout (He! He called me Dropout). I mean how about you putting that in the pot…since you’re out of money. I can tell you’re holding on to a strong hand there.” It was true. I was out of money. “Sure.” I think to myself. “How bouts you puttin’ up big-o-fake ones?” I keep thinking to myself. “Deal.” he says. “You’re short for my Shorty.” OH SHIT I JUST SAID THAT OUT LOUD!
We are all familiar with the a-hole acts that are dressed and disguised to not look like a-hole acts. I don’t know if these a-holes know that they are a-holes, but they are definately a-holes. Of course though we have the other end of the spectrum…dumbasses. Dumbasses have been (whether stratigic or karmaic) given control of the world. Dumbasses raise taxes, start wars, cause depressions, kill the Indians, keep the black man down, make Paris Hilton a star and (WORST OF ALL!) change the spectrums of what we know to be true. The dumbasses tell us that “mean” people are the a-holes. Then they tell us what they mean by “mean” people. If one best friend says to the other best friend, “Dude, I’m getting married this Saturday and it would mean a lot to me if you would be my BEST MAN.” If the other best friend were to respond, “Nah man. That means Friday is the rehearsal dinner and then the wedding all day Saturday. I don’t wanna waste my whole weekend. It would be best if you asked somebody else.” We are conditioned to believe that the other best friend is being “mean” and that was an a-hole move. WRONG! He was being honest. The a-hole move would’ve been to go ahead and be the BEST MAN and then secretly despise his best friend for ruining his weekend.
This bitch just wont shut-up. One cannot truly comteplate his own life ending scenarios after realizing just how un-important he is with this bitch steadily yacking in your ear. Realize the universe. Accept it’s vastness as the un-ending annomoly that encompasses all of the life, spirit and imagination of all lives, spirits and imaginations. Find your spot in that un-ending vastness. Notice all you are and have accomplished and what you are capable of accomplishing. Then realize what your neighbor has done and how it has completely fucking annoyed you. Know that your neighbor continues to do all that he can to annoy you and know also that he doesn’t care. No one cares. The world, as we know it, continues on and on and on and on with never a thought to you or I. We neither add nor take away from the world. As is the Earth to the universe. If you could find your spot in the universe and see just how insignificant your are and then not even begin to comprehend how much of a difference you don’t make, well, it’s not of question when it’s going to end but of how. And you can’t concentrate on what will probably the only decision you will ever make that you actually have some control over with some bitch yapping your ear off!
“Please tell me you have Pabst.” I beg my favorite bartender at my favorite bar. “Nope. I think we are gonna stop carrying that all together. Sorry bro.” he responds with a half-hearted frown that makes me think that maybe he is sympathetic, but I know he isn’t. “OH! You like Pabst. What does it taste like?” the bitch began. “It tastes like the smell of sodomy on a cool September afternoon.” “What?” “I said it tastes good. Like beer should. Not that it matters.” says I hoping to successfully end any births of conversation. “HA! You are so weird. That’s almost cute.” “I’ll take Lone Star. In a can! Make sure it’s in a fucking can.” I order in my almost cute way. “Fo Sho.” barkeep speak for okay. “Why do you want a can? You seemed like you really wanted your beer in a can.” she persists. “Cans make beer homogenous.” “Really?” That’s when I see him. The man next to me. He has the unmistakeable red, white, and blue colored can of the Pabst Blue Ribbon. “SONOFABITCH!!” Even though I am staring right at this stranger in my bar, it’s the mouthy bitch who asks, “What? Who’s a bitch?” Without relenting my stare from this trespasser I answer, “Mother Fucking Pabst! In a can. At my bar. But not in front of me!” The man next to me, this poacher, this miscreant, this band wagoner, this a-hole! has yet to look at me despite my obvious attempt to get a reaction. He hasn’t even twitched, twerked, turned, tilted or swayed. That’s the trouble with a-holes. They like to act like they aren’t a-holes.