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.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
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
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
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
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
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
Saturday, March 12, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, March 7, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
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 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.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
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 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
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