You Don't Want A Boyfriend, You Just Want Mr. Spock.

Sorry for the months of no posts. I've made quite a few, but some cut a little too close for comfort, and there are some personal aspects that I don't seem necessary to share with you guys. It's not that I don't love you, troops, I just have some ish that you don't need to know.

Nutshell of my life for the past few months: I found a new job at an old place that I had helped open, kind of rad. I moved out of the boondocks, and closer to the city (which I love the place. It's so ghetto, that if I want to feel better about my life, I just open the blinds. For example, there's a couple next door that have a 20 year old daughter with a 1 year old son. The mother neglects the boy, and I wake up to her parents calling for the lad by his nickname, "Boo-Boo! Boo-Boo! Where are you? Boo-Boo!", but it's with a very dear friend of mine, and we both keep a good house, so not all is bad.). Sad note: my son moved away. His mother moved to Hawaii, and, much to my disapproval, placed him with her parents. I haven't seen him in a couple of months, and I miss him so much. 

So, I guess this one's for you, Jones.

I turn 32 in a couple weeks. I never, in a million years, thought that this is where I would be. I know that everyone says that about their lives, good or bad, but it's the truth. I think of all the pipe dreams that I have had. I was supposed to be the big rock star. I was the one who was going to make it big off of a ska band, right? Good looking out, World. 2nd, getting a degree in music business because getting a job in an industry that will never go down, figuring records will just keep getting pressed, and people will keep buying into the multi-billion dollar music corporation forever, right? Ugh. 

I can honestly say that even though there have been failures and heartbreaks, there have been plenty of smiles and good times. I went on tour with a ton of bands, I released some records, I've partied with my favorite people, and Milo, well, as much hell as I have been put through to have him in my life, he's still the coolest dude I've ever met. Sorry, Nagel.

I have enjoyed what I do for a living, figuring I've done it for quite a while, and as my father likes to tell me, "Someone is always thirsty, son." (He says this to me while sipping the finest Evan Williams Bourbon). It's small tidbits from the Doctor like these that keep me rolling through the everyday jime, called life. As I've said before, he's a self made man, and has been with the love of his life for 40 years, so if there's one person to look up to, it has to be someone like that. I'm not looking for a G.G. Allin type role model these days. Plus, it's one of the few things that I'm actually good at, this whole bartending thing. 

I've realized, though, that I am the master of bad timing. I can tell you almost anything about popular music over the last 70 years, I can twist you up a fine cocktail, I can write a bubble gum pop song that would make Frankie Lymon blush, but timing, that's not my strong suit. For fuck's sake, I started a ska band after 1998. 

I'm not out looking for a pity party, it's just a fact of life. As my mother says, "We Sampsons: if we didn't have bad luck, there would be no luck at all.".

It's a shitty way to look at life, and, yes, I am a pessimist, but, hey, it is what it is. Due to horrible timing, I've had 10 years in a band that I would never take back, a son that would never have been around, and some friends that I would have never been as close to, as I am now.

On that note, here's a funny tour story:

We were doing a west coast tour in April of 2007 that included shows in all up and down California, including a headlining slot at the world famous Whisky A Go-Go. Although it was a pay to play spot, headlining the place where Miles Davis, Otis Redding, Van Halen, Motley Crue, etc. played was quite thrilling. I actually teared up on stage during load in at that exact thought.

The show was packed, we played a killer set, and friends, old and new, showed up to watch the performance. At that time, we were touring for our final album "Last Stand", and after doing shows with the like of bigger bands, obtained quite a following. After the show, the only right thing to do, was to go get hammered at the Rainbow. That's what old music playing bastards still do, right?

Zac and I walked there with the mindset that we were now in the biggest band in the world, and were at that point, complete rockstars. There was a certain swagger that we had after that show that had never been in our step before. I was Freddie Mercury that night...minus the mustache, teeth, and love for the same sex. 

We got to the Rainbow, and our friends were already there with drinks in hand, waiting to knock us out, whiskey after whiskey. It worked, to the point where I was unable to walk around my own feet, and rather, on my lips. 

I noticed a blonde gentleman sitting at the bar, with blonde hair, singing along to the 1987 soundtrack that they constantly have on rotation on the entire Sunset Strip. I drunkenly squinted at him, when it hit me:

"Zac, is that Jani Lane?"

"From Warrant?"

"Yeah, from Warrant, dick. You know any other Jani Lanes out there?"

"Yeah, that's him."

"I'm going to beat the shit out of him. I fucking hated 'Cherry Pie'."

"You're going to kick the lead singer of Warrant's ass, just because of a song? That's not right."

After several minutes of coaxing me to stand down, I began to scan the outside bar, with the thought of whom to fight. This is ridiculous, figuring I really don't like to physically harm people, I would just rather them feel like complete dumb-dumbs. I then scoped a table full of guys, wearing pastel colored sweaters, with collared shirts popping out of them. Stupid. I scanned the table some more.

"Hey, Caz, is that James fucking Blunt?"

"Yup, that's him."

"Can I kick his ass?"

"He's all yours, pal."

I proceeded to his table, and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Excuse me? Yeah, excuse me?"

"Yes?"

"You're a faggot."

(turns away)

*taps shoulder*

"Excuse me! Hey, Blunt!"

"What?"

"Can I politely ask you to stop ruining the world with your shitty records? The Queen Mum hates your voice."

(Right before this tour, Mr. Blunt was awarded quite a few Grammies for his "You're Beautiful" record. Not that it makes it an amazing record, but why would my Podunk, Nowhere ass do anything to hurt homeboys feelings?)

He then turns to me, with his lower lip out, and leaves the outside bar with his gaggle of Easter colored friends. Now, if you have ever been to the Rainbow on a Friday night, getting a table outside is a bitch and a half, so I guess I have good timing on certain occasions...wink.

Everything that happened after that was X-rated, and would be completely horrifying to my mother, and any other faint of heart person, so we'll leave it at that.

Until next time, poonhounds.

I'm Not Coming Home Tonight, I'd Rather Sleep On The Street...

Life is a real curveball throwing bastard, you know?

One minute, you're ok, health is good, job is good, your relationship with baby momma is good, everything is solid. Next second, it gets thrown in your face, like some sick joke. It's a total "dollar bill on the fishing line" sort of game...and it happens over, and over.

I'm not getting emo on this one, but sometimes I think that karma is a real bitch, but it goes both ways.

I'm known about town as the local asshole. I don't find that necessarily true, as I am just brutally honest with people. If I don't like your shoes, I'll laugh, tell you why they're horrid, and that's it. I'm not one to sugar coat the shit out of anything. I think it's a trait given to me by my father.

Here's a story for you:

Years ago, I met a guy that was, what seemed to be, one of the boys. He "fit the part", so to speak. Was into punk rock and ska bands, boozing, womanizing, you know, the life. I hung out with this guy constantly. Everyday was another beer, another album, another day. All was lollipops and pony rides.

I don't know when it started going downhill. He would always preach about (insert pivotal punk band here), yet not know shit about the genre at all. Not that it's a bad thing, but it just seems that when you proclaim that things are "punk rock", you would assume that they would have a roundabout knowledge about said rock and roll music. Alas, this guy had about 5 bands that he followed; some iconic, others shite (in my own eyes). For example, I'm a huge No Use for a Name fan, but I'm not going to press on you why I think that they, melodically, ruled punk rock in the mid-90's. Ha. I really don't feel that way, but I am a huge NUFAN fan.

I think it started to hit when this guy started to purchase local businesses, upping his status, and buying into the capitalistic lifestyle that all of his bands preached against. Not that I hate money, but shut up, BRO. His outlook somewhat changed. It went from pals, hanging out, and chasing tail, to constantly lying about everything. Income, girls, you name it, it was a constant lie.

Funny side note: After Tim Armstrong's "A Poet's Life" came out, he called me into his office, whee "Wake Up" was blaring from his computer. After taking a glance at the video on the device, he looked at me in amazement, wondering where this guy came from. He HAD to be kidding. "Dude, look at him, all punk rock and shit.". He wasn't kidding. After explaining Rancid and Operation Ivy to him, he somewhat got it.

I think everything came to a head one night at a Hank Williams III concert. After a few (9 or 10) cocktails in, I finally decided to call him out...in front of the lady he was with. It wasn't pretty. I proceeded to piss all over his parade. I called him a poseur in front of everybody. I mean everybody. The lady, his employees, his "friends". All of them. Maybe it was a bad call on my part, but somebody had to throw him off of his high horse.

Another side note...not as funny: I worked for him at one of his bars for about a month. One Sunday, we had a meeting at said bar with all employees. After the meeting he asked me if I wanted to go out for drinks. I explained that I had to work that night, with him responding, "It's okay, dog, I'm the owner". I went out with him, and he went ahead, and got both of us shitfaced. Seems okay, if you didn't count the fact that he still expected me to work that night, still filling my gullet with booze, and proclaiming "I'M THE OWNER" at every whim. The following day, I had a meeting with him, and his 2 managers. They fired me, asking me why I was so hammered on shift, and when I looked at said "friend", he huddled in the corner, with his tail between his legs. From that point on, whenever he saw me at the bar, he would tell me "thanks for giving me your 23% at the bar, dog". Yes, this is the way he talks.

Since that moment in time, nothing has been good. You would think I could keep my stupid mouth shut, but I can't. I'm always that guy. I never really thought about it, until now. Now, when he is in the process of purchasing the business that I work at. The same business that helps me pay my bills, feed my son, help his mother, etc. I have no options at this point, but to ride it out. He has paraded around town, without signing shit, telling people that I have to look for a new job. I could call that karma, but I think it's different, in this sense. This is malicious, high school behavior done by the guy who is the captain of the football team. The guy that used to beat the shit out of me on a daily basis. I've watched my fellow coworkers practically give him a blow job to maintain their jobs, but that's not for me. I want him to come to me, but he won't.

Guys like that hang out with their employees for a reason. Their employees HAVE to be nice to them. Brutally honest (read: town assholes) don't. It's unfortunate, but that's the way it has to happen. He has already proclaimed to the town that I am going to need a new job, and to me, that's a real pussy way of going about it, especially for a job I've worked at for a while, and have had extreme loyalty to. I know he'll hire a GM to do the job for him, but, again, another pussy way around it. Can't always look like the bad guy, can you?

The fact of the matter remains that he has no respect for people's lives, or well beings. I guess at this point, I dare him to buy the company. I'll be happy to tell him to fuck off, in that punk rock style that he has always "cherished and loved". Black Flag would have called you an asshole, too, dick. I wish my buddy would have gotten away with taking that Clash poster from your beloved bar, that all your bartenders run your life around.

I'd Thought I'd Known The Consequence, Sweetness, Can You Believe This...

I have a pretty amazing family. They may be old fashioned in some ways, but you know what? They honestly are constantly keeping it real. I can't think of another friend's father, who asks his son, "Have you heard this new Gaslight Anthem album? Wow! He's really channeling The Boss!". I also have a VERY patient mother, whom has had to deal with 3 Sampson tempers, attitudes, and chauvinistic sense of humor (read: dick and fart jokes).

I think this whole blog has been placed in my head because my roommate had a heart to heart with his mother. It's nice to hear about my friends getting along with their parents.

When I was 19, I was still living with my parents. I had a job working for Primestar (which turned into DirecTV), didn't pay rent, and just freeloaded off of those two every day. My brother was 9, so he didn't matter. Kidding.

Every time they left town, they trusted their house in my hands. Looking at my life now, I don't know why they didn't automatically assume that the place would have been burnt to the ground by the time they got back, but they had one rule: As long as the house is in the same condition as when we left, then consider it null and void. They would come home, see the engorged, black plastic bags sitting at the end of the driveway, and would never say a word...as long as the house was still "proper".

Let's not shit ourselves. I had some parties. SOME FUCKING PARTIES. Sometimes, to the point where you look around, scared shitless, wondering who the hell all of these people are. You told 10 friends that you had the house to yourself, but 8,000 so and so's showed up. I had vinyl collections stolen, greasy scumbags in the house, but I still had all of their stuff EXACTLY where they left it...every time...well, kind of.

One time, I thought I had everything cleaned, but my mother found a bottle cap in a heater vent in the family room, but we laughed about that.

When I was 19, my parents went on a diving trip to Thailand, and, once again, foolishly left the house in my hands. This time, and it's kind of karma, in a way, I told a few friends to come over, and they did. It was around Halloween, so there were parties everywhere. My best friend at the time had invited every girl in his black book, but only five of them showed up...dressed like the goddamn Spice Girls. 2 male friends of theirs showed up, a local pool shark that we knew, and some random asshat that I didn't know. They brought a plethora of wine, and were ready to party.

My parents have a great house. A backyard, aptly named "The Office", at that time a hot tub, and all the proper party attire.

All 5 "Spice Girls" wanted to use the hot tub, and they did. Mind you, there was about 8 or 9 of us. This was no "party". That's where the irony will set in later. These girls, 3 of them being "thick", to be nice, practically drained the hot tub, almost to the point of frying the heating element. The other amazing part was probably the fact that one of them had spilled a glass of wine on their rug. Yes, it was red wine. Oops.

When they came home, a week later, I thought I had everything back in the exact place that they had left it, but I was wrong. Obviously, there was a big, red stain on their rug, and the hot tub is damn near on its way to Fuckneckville, so maybe I was getting senile in my old age back then.

The following day, I walked out to my car, which had a letter from my parents, sitting on my steering wheel, stating that I had been using their abode as a "flop house", and, for lack of a better term, GET THE HELL OUT.

I was gone within 5 days, and I will always be grateful for that. I was a spoiled brat, and I needed that kick in the ass to get my life into play.

I still remain a 31 year old child. At some point, I plan on growing up, but life is still too short for me. We're all dead in a year and a half, right? However, these two brilliant people still support whatever endeavor I have, come to every important show, and party harder than most of you.

By the way, guys...I still laugh at the marks in the dining room table, caused from a righteous game of quarters, but I love you both the same.

I've been calling my mother frequently to make sure she's solid since Nasty's exit. She's a strong woman, and deserves a medal for all that she has done.

On a side note, people, quit asking me if I'm ok. I pretty much stubbed my toe. All is still coming up Sampson.

Much love to you all,

RPS

Sometimes I Post Things Too Tsun...

Bad taste? Shut up.

By the way, I'm so poor that I steal the Wifi from work at this point. Thanks, America.

As I had posted previously, I have been single for 3 years. This had a pause for about a month. Anyways, after a text message question from a dear friend asking how one can maintain happiness with single life, I gave her 5 easy steps to enjoy life on your own. This also made me think that I could give out decent advice to all of you, and since I like to try to be Brendan Kelly on this thing (read: Bad Sandwich Chronicles), I am willing to give good advice that I don't take in consideration for myself to all of you. If you have a question that I can answer, I'm more than willing to give you said advice.

Back to the real, here are my 5 easy steps to enjoy being a single person:

Step 1:

Appreciate being able to spread out over the ENTIRE bed. Cuddling and spooning are great, but they make body pillows for that. Creating a makeshift girlfriend out of a comforter is quite simple, and they flatten out during the night, so by morning, that bed is your territory. Boom.

Step 2:

Is you're out, and about, and decide to go home with some "12 hour (max) relationship", do NOT take them back to your house. NO...NO...NO! Go to their house. Nobody wants a stalker. Their house may be disgusting, but remember, you're only over there to get some. Plus, seeing the state of their house will show you how they live. This will help in the "just getting some" aspect. Avoid exchanging phone numbers. If you are asked for your number, make sure to give them a number of a friend that needs a lot of attention. Maybe they'll get some, too. I've used the same friend for a while now. He even knows it.

Step 3:

This is where things get weird. We've all had that relationship. The one where the other person flips out every time they have a few shots. It starts with a few texts, then by the end of the night, they are standing in your bedroom calling you all sorts of names. For example, remember that scene in "High Fidelity", where John Cusack is outside of that apartment complex, screaming, "Charlie...You fucking bitch....Let's work it out!"? Give that relationship between 6 months, and a year, and that person won't be there anymore. You may/may not want it, but trust me...life is better without it.

Step 4:

It gets weirder. In my industry (liquor, not music...music is way easier), the ongoing aspect is that if you are a partier/patron, and your ex is also somewhat in that group of friends, it's really not ok for them to "ban" you from that establishment, especially if they have no control/management/ownership of it. Now, I think that it is only acceptable if the ex did something extremely fucked up, but not in this case. However, if they try to (unsuccessfully) ban you from said establishment, feel free to bring whatever date/prospect into that bar, and proceed to make out/dry hump/feel up that person in that establishment. Not only does it proclaim that you are single, but it also says, "Hey, person, I'm doing alright, and, hey, look what I can do!". You win...every time.

Step 5:

Now we are back at home. This one is rough. If you aren't into the "one night stand" thing, or you are a total "3 dates, and maybe I'll show you what it/they look like" type of person, let's face it, people get horny. If the Jenna Jameson video, or the old "Battery Operated Boyfriend (B.O.B.)" isn't doing the trick, you are going to need an old stand by. Make sure that it is somebody that A) You've already given it up to, or B) They are fully down with the "no strings attached" aspect. Here's where it gets tricky: keep your goddamned mouth shut. If you even tell one friend, and that dreaded ex will be outside of your bedroom window, drunk and pissed.

It's that easy, kids. Other than that, you can continue with your job, life, kids, party, and whatever it is that you people do anymore (getting stoned, and playing video games?).

By the way, I've been listening to Mos Def while writing this. Black Power.

Get back at me.

RPS

I Think I'm Going Deaf, or Maybe I'm Just Hearing Less.

I've been told I'm really happy lately.

I don't know how to take this statement. Am I truly that big of an asshole, that everyone can count the number of times that I smile on one, or two, hands?

Truth be told, I've had a whirlwind of emotions come over me lately. Obviously, the entrance of Sgt. Nasty into the United States Military has me cocked sideways, the unknown future of my livelihood is in utter disarray, my band is going into a very large change, but I'm also in a fresh relationship that has me standing on an ear day to day (She's not crazy, I'm just always asking questions. She claims that she IS, in fact, crazy, but whatever.).

Happiness really varies on different levels. I've dealt with a lot of unfortunate events that, apparently, have put me in a bad mood.....constantly. I really wouldn't say bad mood, but very cynical when it comes to everyday life. I went (raging, I might add) through my twenties like the very world in front of me was burning to the ground. I did everything that you could possibly do that even your mother would cry over.

My friend VR said this to me the other day:

"Your new girlfriend is hot, blonde, and awesome. This surprises me."

"Why the hell would you say something like that?"

"Sampson, you're a very unpleasant person. Shit, we've known each other for years, and it STILL takes me 30 minutes of a shitty conversation before we get nice with each other."

I didn't know whether to punch him in the face, or kiss him on the mouth. I did neither. I just nodded, and smiled, like an Asian foreign exchange student. How do you take that? Do you accept the fact that other people recognize your happiness, or just look out for number one? Strange concept, I think.

I guess I can talk about the things that are, and definitely aren't, making me happy.

Sgt. Nasty: Read previous blog.

Job: Once again, read previous blog. It's really not that veiled.

Band: I haven't really talked about these guys. I now play in a band that I am very proud of. We have gotten the attention of the general public here in our fair city, and have recorded an extended play of 8 songs that, still to this day, blow my mind. Recently, I had a sit down with one of our members, where, for lack of a better term, I had to talk to him about "growing up". It was one of the hardest conversations that I had ever been through with a dear friend, and I know that day will be coming up for me soon enough (I'm not getting any younger). We want to tour, but he has a lot of shit on his plate that he is ALSO proud of, but conflicts in the way of touring, and whatever ridiculousness we want to indulge in. It's a rough deal, figuring he is exactly like me, but what seemed to be a very dear heart to heart, turned nasty in a barrage of passive aggressive Facebook and blog posts. I love this man to pieces, but I can only hope that he can turn the bad into good. He's too talented to get all ultra mega nega core on me.

My relationship is something you can stay the fuck out of. Beat it.

I do, however, find happiness in a lot of other things. I enjoy the times that I get to spend with my son. I enjoy the times that I get to spend with my dysfunctional band. I enjoy the times I get to serve all of you surly drunks when I work, and I really enjoy the times I get to spend with someone that I truly do care about. These are things that make people count the times that I do smile.

Cheers, fuckheads.

Power, Corruption, and Lies.

I wish this one was about New Order, but it's not, friends.

I have a huge amount of confidence. This comes to a surprise, even to myself, figuring I hate what I see in the mirror, and have very low self esteem. This confidence has come from a variety of reasons, whether having to do with music, friends, status, ladies, or whatever. Confidence can take a person a long way, but an overblown ego makes you look like a douchebag.

This is stuff that most everybody knows, except for that dude pwning n00bs in his mom's basement at 40, or that guy with said overblown ego. He never knows. You know the guy: bandanna, Affliction shirt, some form of bedazzled clothing item, huge muscles, fauxhawk, usually some big titted, blonde blow job factory at his side.

They don't always look like this guy. As a matter of fact, sometimes they camouflage themselves to be another face in the crowd. They can be that guy that has the overblown ego, but has the capability to transform himself into whatever crowd he surrounds himself with. This guy, generally, hangs around various groups of people. Punks, Preps, Squares, Dickheads, Sportos, they all love this guy. He tells them what they want to hear, and they all think he's awesome. Here's what you don't get; he KNOWS that you love him. He relishes in the fact that you cherish every word that comes out of his stupid, fat mouth. Every word that does come out of his mouth changes with the scenery that he surrounds himself with.

I guess the problem that I have with this guy, readers, is the fact that even though he does not have a specific identity to a culture, or even sub-culture, he gainfully can employ these coattail riding minions to cater to his every whim. He'll screw your girlfriend, "fall in love with her", then toss her to the side. He'll put his nose into every nook and cranny in your life, then chew you up and spit you out when he has absolutely no more use for you. Then, when he doesn't get his way with you, pouts like the true little bitch that he is. He'll cry about you to his friends, telling them about how you've done him wrong. They'll hate you, using every social networking site to passively start an annoying shit show war that turns into a bullshit "he said, she, said" battle. Meanwhile, this dick is smiling from the top of his big asshole pedestal. Laughing at all of you.

I've met 2 of these people in my 31 years. They both do the exact same thing in life, work, and love.

Don't be the third.

Gimme That Key to the City. (Not safe for moms, family members, or any "God Fearing Types")

I'm fully writing this thing while drinking a 40 of Olde English. Sorry, Em.

I was trying to think of what to talk about on this one, and it dawned on me...."God". Yup, good ol' fashioned religion. This is something that is frowned upon on my profession, my family life, and all around friendships. Mind you, I have a few friends that have the same viewpoints that I do, but a bunch that I don't.

After years of somewhat being a "God Fearing" human, I realized that it was a bunch of horseshit. I think it began with the death of my grandmother. She was a smoking, dinking, foulmouthed....well, me. This woman treated me like gold, and not just because I was a spoiled brat, but because she loved me dearly.

My family lived a block away from her in a neighborhood in Meridian. She had a house that had everything necessary. 3 bedrooms with the proper set up: a spare bedroom, her bedroom with bed and whatnot, and a room with a treadmill, Intellivision (I'm really showing my age), and candy jar (complete with those circus peanuts that get stale after a week. Kinda like that "Family Guy", where Stewie finds the key to the 1981 Scirocco.).

I really was the only grandchild that saw her everyday. She was my best friend. She taught me how to cuss, how Velveeta grilled cheese sandwiches were gross, and and how cool it was to just get in the car, and go anywhere you please. As a matter of fact, I used to frequent her house so often, that she would hide when I showed up.

In the spring of 1988, Mom informed me that Grandma had Cancer. When you are 8 or 9 years old, Cancer means one thing, and I don't have the gusto to talk about that. Forrest Gump style.

Grandma met Sgt Nasty for a year, albeit a trip to Mt. St. Helens, at the house, whatever. She was a lady at heart, calling my mother "Mrs. S." while helping with dishes.

I'll never forget being in the 5th grade, laying in bed, when my mother broke the news that my grandma had passed. It drove me to tears. Who in the hell would take this woman away from me? Apparently, this so-called "God" is such a gentleman, that he found it necessary to take this woman away from me. She understood me from the time I was 3....on.

The night that she went to the hospital, my family hung around her house, watching reel to reel movies of her, and my grandfather on the beach. I don't know if she finally found her ending, but that was what sent her over the edge. She cried, with her bald, saddened head over the edge of the couch. "You alright, Mom?", my dad asked. Off to the hospital they went.

I remember everyone crying. Me helping her "brush her teeth", with, what seemed to be a stick with a pink sponge at the end. As cliche as it sounds, after helping her with the teeth brushing, I told her I loved her, and she, in a whisper, replied the same.

I guess she wound up seeing three visions of dudes in white robes, and asked who the hell they were. Dad didn't see them, and said, "What are you talking about, Mom?" to no reply.

Still to this day, I blame YOUR "God" for taking her away. I watch the wars going on. I watch the turmoil of the Middle East. I watch children dying in foreign countries, and I ask you, "this is your God?", and I get the "God is a gentleman" response. If I had this "God", he wouldn't do anything of the sort.

Over the last year I have watched my family get into a horrific car accident the death of a dog, the death of my beloved aunt, and the death of the father figure of my father, whom had cancer, although never smoking. It doesn't make any sense.

I have always said to never bag on my faith, as I would never bag on yours, but I have had friends, family, etc. die, be afflicted by bullshit, diseased, etc.

To quote a famous '80s movie, "Where's my (fucking) two dollars?".

On a funny note, the greatest thing that happened when my grandma was in the hospital, was a young nurse came into her room, and in a childrens' television voice said the the following:

"Mrs. Sampson. did you swallow your pills?" (Like a good girl, obviously)

"No, I thought they were a suppository, and shoved them up my ass."

If there is said "God", I really fucking hope he has cocktails for me and that woman.

I'm Too Old To Be Looking For God.

That's a quote from Lemmy Kilmister. I kind of like that.

I miss tour life. A lot. There is just something about being dirt poor, out and about, in the middle of nowhere, with all of your best friends. You get yourselves in a million situations that usually never happen in "real life". You smell awful. You eat like shit. You seem to get drunk every night on everyone else's tab. You stay on the couches and floors of people you would never want your parents to meet.

I guess it's a little more like real life than I thought.

This life isn't necessarily for everyone. One member of my former band dreaded the thought every time we were even booking a tour. Another couldn't wait to get out there to sow his wild oats, and fornicate with every female that crossed his path. And one wanted to leave just to leave his troubles with the law behind. Everyone had their reasons why they did, or didn't, want to go.

Regardless, by the time you came home, you appreciated "home" a lot more. Plus, you had a ton of stories to tell your grandkids, and more stories that would horrify your grandparents. It was awesome.

I remember playing a show in Richland, Washington, at a venue called Ray's Golden Lion. It was a Chinese food restaurant on one side, and a bar/venue on the other. It had the look of, what I would imagine to be, what a cocaine dealer in 1985 Miami would set up. You were greeted at the door by a terrifying, muscular Chinese bartender from Nebraska that put so much muscle into his pour, that it was surprising that we could find the stage when showtime came about. The shows were usually packed to the gills, and you could make those kids do anything you told them to. Once again, awesome.

After the show, the promoter told us that he was having an after party at his house. All 6 of us were still ready to rock and roll at this point, and the bar was closing, so why the hell not? This was one of our first tours, and we're already being treated like royalty. Go time.

His house was amazing. You didn't know where it ended, it was so big. He had RV's behind the house, so everyone had a place to crash when all was said and done. At some point, I remember holding a martini glass full of Pabst Blue Ribbon, while holding a toy chihuahua. Yes, there are photos of this somewhere out there.

This still isn't, in my eyes, the high point of the party.

We continued to party ourselves stupid, way beyond the sun coming up. Our "designated driver" had slept for the 8 hours that we had spent at the party, so he was good to go. Our trombone player and I, whilst being piss drunk, were sad to leave. We had to play Seattle in a few hours, so it was time to go.

We said our goodbyes to the few stragglers left behind, including a bouncer that looked identical to Scott Ian from Anthrax, and waited outside the van for the rest of the guys to jump in. As we waited, a very pretty, and quite busty, young lady came up to our trombone player, and with a coy smile, unbuttoned her shirt, and asked "Will you sign my boobs?". Don't threaten us with a good time. He reached in his pocket, and grabbed a Sharpie. He fastened his left hand onto the woman's right breast, and while slightly groping it, signed "Luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuke". I almost wet my pants full of PBR. It was, single handedly, the most hilarious, and sexist signature I have ever witnessed. As we hopped into the van, we donned ourselves "The Toxin Twins", figuring this was just the beginning...and we were right.

Don't get me wrong, the show part WAS kinda cool, but the shit in between was always the best part.

Anywho, I've got a week long tour to book for us in April.

Until next time, friends.

RPS

I'd Rather Be Working for a Paycheck, Then Waiting to Win the Lottery

2:44 AM, and all seems to be well.

During the course of my work night, it dawned on me that my brother leaves for the Navy in a couple of weeks. This really started to choke me up for a bit.

I remember the day my parents informed me of this guy coming into the world. We lived in a little house in Meridian, Idaho. Nothing but fields, farms, and small, suburban neighborhoods as far as the eye could see back then. No Old Navys, ShopKos, or even an Albertson's back then (We had a Smith's. Huge difference.). I had been an only child this entire time, and, to be honest with you, spoiled rotten. Life was good in those days; family vacations, I got whatever the hell I wanted, my room was like a video game nerd factory, etc. It was early Spring, and my dad called me into the dining room to inform me of the news. The banter went a little something like this:

"Your mother has something to tell you."

"No, your father has something to tell you."

This shit went on for a good 5 minutes.

Then, the news came out:

"We're having a baby."

POW! Right in the mug. After 10 years of telling me that I was special, that I was the only one, they dropped that bomb on me...

Me eyes welled up with tears.

"What?! You lied to me!!"

I immediately went into my room, and stewed. I was irate. I decided, at that exact moment, that the next 9 months of their lives would be a living hell. I didn't speak to them. If I did, it was short, and to the point. We even went on a big Disney World cruise vacation, but I would have been goddamned if that didn't stop ME, Ryan Sampson, from being special (By the way, I still act this way. I don't know how I got it, I just did, so get off of my back, and read, dick.).

Fast forward 9 months. Halloween, 1989. Sitting around the dinner table with the folks, my mother told me that she was going to be having the baby that night. I was in the 5th grade, and I had a VERY important boy/girl party to go to. I was dressed as Jason from "Friday the 13th", and this was quite important to me.

After the party, my grandparents had picked me up, and informed me that Mom was in the hospital in labor. I grunted a bit, and we were on our way. Shortly after, I passed out in a chair at the hospital, awaiting that bundle of hate destined to ruin my life.

About 5 in the morning, on November 1st, I was woken up by my family to meet and greet this little whatever.

I sat in the delivery room glaring at the family members, as they tossed the devil back and forth, showering him with love, and being so happy that I could have just thrown up. Then, the inevitable happened...

"Ryan, would you like to hold him?"

I couldn't be THAT big of a jerk. I held the 8 lb. 15 oz. bundle in my hands, and the damnedest thing hit me. I liked this guy. He was kind of cool, and I guess I COULD be "Big Brother". I mean, I do have 10 years on this kid, right?

Years and years went by. When he was growing up, my parents always said that he didn't have the same passion for music that I did, although he was, and still is, a genius on the piano, but I still have a hunch that they didn't spoon-feed him music, like they did with me, for a reason. I guess I understand that reason now.

When he hit about 15, I started seeing him around. He would come to our shows, shows with bands that I liked, and he knew all the lyrics. He didn't turn into an emo/"pop" punk, Bieber banged, douchebag. He loved punk rock, ska, oldies, country. He was me...but better. He strived in school, gaining straight A's in every class, respecting authority (or maybe not getting caught), and wanting more than to try to attempt to be Billie Joe Armstrong, and nothing else.

By the time he graduated high school, he was a machine. This kid was at the gym, playing Lacrosse, but still punk as fuck. He always seemed to be able to leave the gym just in time for a Suicide Machines show.

Over the last 2 years, he has become my best friend. He tried leaving town to go to for a semester, and realized it wasn't for him. He called me every day from Pocatello to talk. I don't know if he needed his big brother, or if he just needed a taste of home. Regardless, I was the voice that he wanted to hear.

In 2 weeks, he leaves for the military. I have a sense of jealousy there, and I can't put my finger on why. I don't know if it's the fact that he has everything going for him, the fact that he can steal every girl in the room, or if it's just the fact that I'm the one that needs to talk to him every day at this point.

What was originally a hate filled monster, turned into my best friend, and the only guy that truly understands my temper, frustrations, and just all around life. He did everything the complete opposite of me, and I feel that he's been much better off doing so. The fact that he's doing what he's doing is a huge compliment to my family. I couldn't do it because A) I hate authority, and B) I'm a pussy.

I love him, and he better take care of himself, or the United States Military is gonna have my mother to deal with. I don't wish that on anybody.

As I sit here (slightly sobbing, might I add), I raise my glass up to him. He's already a hero in my eyes, and he doesn't even know it.

Here's to you, Nasty.

I'm glad Mom and Dad didn't name you Tucker. Your life would have been Hell.

The Rise and Fall of Chester Copperpot

I am a music snob. I have been this way for years. I have collected vinyl, compact discs, cassettes, etc. since around the age of 7. I specifically remember my parents picking me up in their old Volkswagen van, and holding out a bag with 2 releases that came out around that time...

"Appetite for Destruction" by Guns and Roses, and "Polka Party" by "Weird Al" Yankovic. Hi-Fi cassettes.

This was just the beginning. Speaking of beginnings, here's, technically, where this obsession came from:

When I was a mere toddler, my mother had a 1968, baby blue, Volkswagen Bug. The stereo had been taken out of it, thanks to some dubious ruffian, so it was just the two of us, singing songs. She will always proudly tell people that the first song that I ever learned wasn't "Itsy Bitsy Spider", "London Bridges", or even my "ABC's". It was "I Only Have Eyes for You", by the Drifters. Random, I know. I can only imagine my son, singing "ARE THERE STARRRS OUUUUT TOOOONNNIIIGGGHHHT?". Funny, I think.

When an automobile with a stereo finally reached our family, my mother was always listening to whatever oldies station was on at the time. Soon began the music game. "Who sings this song?". "What's the name of the song?". "What album is it on?". By the age of 10, I could pick out "Tangled Up in Blue" by Bob Dylan, from "Blood on the Tracks".

Football was not in my future. Later, we realized studying, Rocket Science, and finding the cure for Cancer wasn't, either.

My parents were hippies, in their own right. It was Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Country Joe and the Fish, Big Brother and the Holding Company. You get the idea, but they loved the other stuff, too. Dion and the Belmonts, Bobby Vee, Stevie Wonder. Motown. Chess. Stax.

This was all going to form me into the snob I now am.

Starting my love for mainstream music in the 80's was a weird thing. The choices were strange. Hair Metal was king. On the other side, you had Debbie Gibson, Pet Shop Boys, Milli Vanilli, Yacht Rock, and the like. Just really pappy pop music that usually spawned out 1 hit, and the name was forgotten (Anybody remember Swing Out Sister, or Information Society?).

My first concert was a Stevie Wonder show at the pavilion. This was during the Yacht period of "I Just Called to Say I Love You", but it's Stevie Wonder, so who cares? Shows following were Motley Crue, Bon Jovi, Skid Row, Nelson, Kiss, Winger, Slaughter, MC Hammer...it was the late '80s to early '90s. Shut up.

Here's where everything got weird.

There was a record store in the West Boise area, called Five Mile Records, which later changed to Five Mile Disc and Tape. I would go there to find whatever hair metal band I saw the previous Saturday on "Headbanger's Ball", buy the tape, and hope that band would come play soon, so I could make my mother's ears bleed.

While looking through the tapes, I found what seemed to be a pretty "metal" looking album. There was a young man, standing in suburban America, holding his skateboard...AND HE WAS ON FIRE!!!! Plus, the album was called "Suffer". This had to be metal, right?

Well, it sure wasn't. The fast paced 4/4 drum beats that had drawn me to that metal was even faster, had better melodies, harmonies, and was unreal. This, my dear friends, was my introduction into the underground. Bands with names that I thought were "too weird" or "not PC" (i.e. Dead Kennedys, or Sex Pistols) came into my collection. I wanted more. NEEDED more. Soon, it wasn't just punk rock. Ska, Hip Hop, Prog Rock. All of these gave me an appreciation for sub-cultures, and their fashions. My own mother wasn't surprised when I came home with blue hair. The people I associated with had mohawks, liberty spikes, studded jackets, and the like. The people that my mom would have crossed the street if they were walking up, she now embraced.

Sure, I went through my whole "fuck major labels. They're for sell outs" phase. I still feel it from time to time when one of my favorite bands signs to even a mid major.

I guess there's 2 reasons I'm sharing this with you:

For someone who has spent his life reading about (insert washed up, junkie musician here), listening to everything on the planet that I can get my hands on, and constantly playing music whether it be my own, or somebody else's, I find it extremely funny that I choose to play extremely simple music. Ska, punk, and pop punk. That's what I know how to play. Kind of funny. I'm not trying to be the next Keith Richards, Ace Frehley, or Eric Clapton.

Secondly, I'm wondering if the effects my parents had on me by showing me all of this music will have the same effects on my son. Then again, he ignores my stereo when I try to play him the new Riverdales record, yet dances like a retarded monkey when "Miss U Much" by Janet Jackson is played on his mother's stereo.

The First Confession

So, here I am. After years of using corny tools like MySpace, Facebook, Twitter, etc., I've succumbed to finally writing my own blog. This will be the mindless ramblings of a low self esteemed, drunken, narcissist. I know it sounds ridiculous, but you'll get it sooner or later.

My name is Ryan Sampson. I was born and raised in the mediocre suburbs of Boise, Idaho. I've had a continuous love affair with my pipe dream of eventually becoming a rock star. Even at almost 32 years old (hey, don't judge me. Huey fucking Lewis did it at 35). I've had a lot of successes, and a lot of failures.

I have a 2 year old son. He generally keeps me on my toes...along with his mother. His mother and I are no longer together, yet, generally get along like peas and carrots, and I'm sure we'll have some good stories in the future about that. Long story.

So let's get the fucker going, huh?

Up until the last 2 weeks or so, I had been single for 3 years. This isn't shocking for most of you, I know. I guess the reasoning for it is that I tend to look at women as the utmost, top of the line, work of the devil. Not in the "The Clitoris: What Does it Mean?" way, but just in the overall outlook. I'm not one of the emo douche-bags that cuts himself over the fact that his girlfriend fucked the drummer for Creedence Clearwater Revisited. I do this to myself.

I've always gone for the same type of woman. None of them really looked the same, but down inside, they have the exact same issues. Some were pretty little princesses, wearing their Abercrombie jeans, sandals, and tank tops. Some were loudmouthed, punk rock assholes. Regardless, the appeal of the "Daddy Never Hugged Me Enough", "Daddy Wasn't There", or "I Was in the Bottom of a Well at My Uncle Touchy's Basement at Age 9" females were deemed worthy applicants.

Sooner more than later, they became fodder for my music.

Now, call me a jaded, bitter dick, but I have a theory on why the commonplace relationship of yesteryear doesn't work anymore. I always say I'm proud that I have 2 parents that have been together for 40 years, and I actually strive to be able to have something fulfilling, relationship-wise, like that, but I don't think it's feasible. No offense to the lovely young lady on my arm.

Relationships have fully taken a nosedive, in my opinion, with the worldwide access to the internet. Yes, the same internet that you may, or may not, be reading this blog, jerking off to tranny porn on, or stalking that one boyfriend you had in high school with the Tony Hawk wave hairdo, who fingered you after the basketball game in the JB's parking lot. Yes, that internet.

After the internet became that accessible, cell phones came right after that. The mere combination of these 2 items formed more trees to be cut down for divorce papers. Wait, I;m sure they email those at this point. At this time in our fucked up generation, we are able to take what minimal money we make at our "I got a degree for this?" job, and we have the capability of having everything at our fingertips. You want dinner? Open up the laptop, get the number, call on your cell phone. You need a massage? Ditto. Everything you could possibly fucking need is in these little purchased boxes. Need to get laid? A warm body to wake up next to for one day? Craigslist. Facebook. The codependency of human beings is damn near null and void at this point. Trust me. I went on many a tirade with many a victim.

Now, don't get me wrong. When a a true blue, legit relationship fell into my lap. I was full steam ahead, but the temptations of the touring world, let alone the temptations of other suitors for the ladies I was with while on tour led these relationships into full blown destruction. However, I still went for it.

Last week, I went to Hailey, Idaho to see a dear friend who was diagnosed with a very rare, and aggressive, form of MS a year and a half ago. In two weeks time, he went from playing shows, to being a full blown, blind quadriplegic. Since that time, he has progressed to full use of his right arm, small usage of his left arm, the ability to talk, and the ability to see again. He's not the same guy I knew back then, but he's still in there.

Prior to this trip, I had begun seeing a young lady here in the 1A. She was sweet, gorgeous, smart as a whip. Usual outline for the types that I had dated previously. She was taking her mother's car to Hailey, where she was raised. I saw this as a perfect moment to finally see my friend for the first time since he was sick. Plus, it's a 2 hour drive. Good way to get to know someone...really fucking quick.

A dear friend of mine, who is a self proclaimed "Hopeless Romantic Man Whore" type (yes, they do exist, and I am friends with quite a few), sat with me at my work, and we discussed the trip. He explained to me that this was going to be one of the hardest experiences I was ever going to go through, seeing as though this was a very different form of my best friend that I was about to visit. His advice to me will forever be locked in my head, as a simple test of emotion that can be used to gauge anyone you are trying to become close to, friend or significant other.

"Ryan, you're gonna walk into that house with your head held high, and you are gonna walk out a mucus and tear filled fucking nightmare...and she's going to see it. She will see you in a position that not even your best friends have seen. Complete vulnerability. Heart on your sleeve, using your sleeve as a Kleenex, trainwreck. She's going to have 1 of 2 reactions. Either she will look at her cell phone, checking for text messages, in an awkward haze, or she's going to be your shoulder, telling you that shit's gonna be solid. I tell you what, man. If she does the good decision, you fucking run with it because you aren't gonna find anyone like that anymore. EVER."

Locked. Loaded. Headed to Hailey.

I walked into the house, head held high, and laid eyes on the man that I had shared so many memories with. He opened his eyes from his nap, and with a smile, said "Oh, hey, Ryan. How are you?". Holy fucking heavy. Bound to a wheelchair, he still laughed, smiled, and was, in his own words, "doing perfect everyday, Sampson". We played Wii Bowling, ate copious amounts of Red Vines, watched videos of our old band, and, while forcing the tears back into my eyes, I laughed with him. Life seemed pretty fucking small at that point. While I sit at home, hanging out with my friends, drinking, and bitching about ol' Whatshername, and who she's blowing now, he wakes up everyday, frustrated that he can't play his guitar, hoping that he'll be walking again soon. All with a big goddamn smile on his face. Put that in your Jager Bomb and smoke it.

After a few hours, it was time to leave.

I hopped in the lady's car. "How was it?", she asked. I remained quiet for about 2 blocks, and it happened. Niagara Falls, Frankie fucking Angel. I was mad. Pissed. The fact that this happened to such a sweet, loving friend was completely unfair. I was hitting the window. I wanted to punch a fucking Evangelical Christian in the baby maker. I hated everything about it. I wanted to grab every fucking doctor I could find, and MAKE them figure out the cure. The lady drove to a remote park, where I could light a smoke, and feel better. Life meant so insignificant before that meeting. I got my sobbing ass out of the car, and stood, in the snow, with my head in my hands.

Here comes the moment of truth.

She got out of the car, immediately wrapping her arms around me, and expressed how amazing it was that I finally got enough sack to do that. No cell Phone. No text messages. No social media. Good old fashioned person to person contact.

So, all in all, maybe there is hope somewhere for relationships. For fuck's sake, I'm talking about this on the very technology that raped relationships in the first place.

By the way, it's nice to have met you, Blogosphere. See you again soon.

RPS