Critics are Jerks (last install)

There are a group of fat, lazy, overly-opinionated, "still-living-at-home with mommy and daddy for friggin' free wanna be somethings, but are aggressively seeking a handout for their underemployed and under dressed selves" who take it upon themselves to find something that some other has done, and then wreck it with their careless, and carefree choice of words like a drunk behind the wheel of steamroller.
These "critics" are generally overemotional douches who frequently use generic words (sucks, terrible, luke-warm, garbage...) poor grammar and spelling in broad generalizations.  Here is an example:

• There muzic sux!

My response should be, "No, you suck!"
However, like mama always says, if you don't have anything nice to say...
The really fun thing to introduce to these losers is to have them actually attempt to accomplish the same thing and better it. 
Silence...
A very dear friend of mine harped continuously on how poor this movie was or that movie.  He also waxed on poetically about how poor some beers and wines were made.  This (pretentious gobblety-gook) got to to me.
"Star Wars sucked!  I must have seen it 20 times!"
Really?!  What sucked about it?
"Ummm.  Well, they only did it for the merchandising."
Really?!  Why don't you make one?
"What?"
A movie.  And I tell you what - when you can make a movie as loved by that many people, I will listen to your critiquing.

My friend, taking the challenge to heart, is at the top of his class in film production at the Savannah College of Art and Design.  He does not voice his opinion about how bad some movies are that Hollywood makes. 
Why?
He is too damn busy trying to make them himself.  Will he now grab my attention regarding what his form of expertise is?
Perhaps, but I hold to the idea that opinions are like bellybuttons - everyone's got one.
Another axiom to live by is "Those can - do!  Those who choose ignorance, become fat, lazy, overly-opinionated, "still-living-at-home with mommy and daddy for friggin' free wanna be somethings, but are aggressively seeking a handout for their underemployed and under dressed selves" who take it upon themselves to find something that some other has done, and then wreck it with their careless, and carefree choice of words like a drunk behind the wheel of steamroller douche-bags."
Remember this:  Just because you have the right to free speech doesn't mean you should exercise it everytime you fart.

So You Wanna be Rich and Famous...

This is in relation to a conversation I had with my agent.  She met me at a gig recently and we got to talking about the industry.
A little background. Without going into it sounding arrogant - I was and still am a professional performer - in music, theater, and film. 
What's a professional?  Someone who gets paid.  Period.
I can go on.  I won't.  The Lord has a means of making us all humble.  For teenagers and young adults who believe the apex of high art is twinkies and beefcakes playing fruity vampires and whatever else on the silver screen, this will be completely incomprehensible.
Here is the stark reality in numbers, and this is not meant to sway the young reader or the dreamer, because the world is full of them - including myself aspiring to be an author of not just any novel, but a classic as big as MobyDick, a motorcycle racer as fast as King Kenny Roberts, an actor of great renown of which there is not.
The reality is however, that while I may very have all of the traits of having these characteristics, the likelihood of ever becoming rich and famous is small.  And for you, perhaps even smaller and I have been wrong many time before.
By the numbers, using the very popular and often generous  80/20 rules:

• 80% of everyone would love to be rich and famous.
• 20% of those 80% doing something about it.
• 80% of those are involved in their craft and not making money.
• 80% of those who are not making money do not attend classes or seminars.
• 80% of those who do attend seminars in their crafts are socially awkward.
• 20% of those who are not believe they deserve to be rich and famous.
• 80% of those people, due largely to their egos never work in this town again.
• 20% of these people go back home to mama with their tails between their legs.
• 80% of the professionals keep doing it while working other jobs.
• 80% of those who do not are still living at home.
• 20% of these have accepted reality.
• 100% of the Universities that have advanced degrees in theater, film, literature, dance will never ever refund the tuition that the banks forked over to them on your behalf. 

Your stats are pretty crappy.  For that matter, so are mine. 
But the world is made of dreamers, and in order for those dreamers to live on, they must love what they do, and live humbly.  Be extraordinary.  Attend a class or two, and a seminar.  Do public and free stuff, because agents in all fields need to know that you are serious, knowing that you are "out there"

Critics are Jerks (part1)

Mom always used to say that if you are incapable of saying anything nice, don't say anything.
Somehow these words have fallen onto deaf ears, or perhaps mothers today are not repeating the wisdom of yore. 
But today, at least since the advent of "comments" pages and certainly into the often opinionated, self-centered, self-loving and loathing pages of Facebook, emotionally provoked, mentally small critics have scoured the good and hard-working nature of a proper criticism.
It used to be that experienced, caring and solicited individuals were the select to provide proper feedback on projects like the arts, politics, architecture.  They offered tactfully addressed advice and suggestion mostly to the betterment of the persons being instructed.
An example of this may be the following:

• Jimmy, you're doing better; however, try adding a triplet to that last measure and then finishing with an Am7.  I think you'll get it now.

This is an example of what most will call constructive criticism.  It is used to improve the abilities of others in their vocations and hobbies.  It is difficult, as it involves a train of thought and a degree of expertise.  The emotion that is used is that of a vested interest.
Those who give constructive criticism are generally very busy in their own works.  They either can "DO" or have "DONE" what it is they are assessing.  They are rare and oft underappreciated.

The group of "critics" that I am calling jerks are the cowardly and emotionally immature bloggers, who write without experience, and under the guise of a pseudonym that they wish could be their real name.

Click here to read on! And find out if you're constructive or otherwise!

Twinklin' lights and The Throwing of Caution into the Wind

I often criticize and rarely recognize the overzealous appreciation for safety.  I believe in my heart that we live in a completely neurotic and dreadfully fearful society; you hear about it everyday in our politics, in the air and on the roads.  A general need for the building of self-esteem through braces, cameras, airbags and BPA-frees.  I can not help but wonder if we haven't all become a bunch wimps.
On a recent car trip into the the twinkling of Christmas lights, I was the driver of a vehicle that was overstuffed with small children and adults - one car seat.  We were shredding paint and burning rubber at the maximum speed of a whopping 2 miles per hour.  My daughter and her two friends merrily enjoying the seizure-driven twinklings of merriment for which I was willing to shill out of pocket 12 bucks.  Oh, it was beautiful.  My daughter wanting to throw her body on top of the middle console and her friends bouncing recklessly in the back of the Crusher, my foot cramping.  And then we came to the end - toll with Santa Claus and two police cars. 
My dad would not have thought twice about this back in the 70's.  No airbags.  Cold beer in a cooler.  Fishing poles.  And the open road screeching tires with his buddy George riding shotgun, and my brother Danny, and George's kids all in the back of the pick up truck on what must have been the most flea infested mattress.  Flying headlong to a remote location - we wrestled, as the truck teetered inches closer to a permanent nirvana at every passing mile.  They had beer, and we had our mouth's painted a vibrant electric purple on Welch's Grape Soda, and all of us, I believe were loaded, and either ready to fish and camp or just pass out from exhaustion.  We pulled off at some remote location.  Both my dad and George held cigarettes dangling out of their mouth like they were characters in an Andy Capp comic strip.  They's pour a little gasoline into a hole throw on a couple fat branches for kindlin' and WHOOSH - Now that's a fire!
They were there.  They knew (not considered, but knew) we were all gonna be fine.  A hospital was bound to be somewhere if we blew up or something.  These fathers back in the day, were Vietnam Vets - tough as nails and they wanted an experience for their kids - who as it turned out never went to prison, enjoyed the bumps and occasional pain often associated with being stupid (like setting up a plank and brick jump in the middle of the street - no skate parks with mandatory helmet ordinances)
I understand why these laws exist.
Lawsuits.  Not because some greasy politician cares about your kids - there's money involved.
So I drive out of the merriment of those bright colors with the kids quietly huddled in the back.  We all waved happily and nervously at Santa.  And got up to speed to get back to the other car.  The kids survived - but then again, there is always tomorrow.

White Lightning or: How I stopped being Politcal and Learned to Enjoy an American Automobile

There were no doubts or questions anymore - at nearly 180,000 tired miles and squeaks, groans, vomitous noises from who knows where, we decided to sell the "SilverBullet".  She was a very slick 1997 Infinity I30 with all of the leathery bells and whistles.  I purchased that treasured piece of mechanical decency and comfort while selling Lexus automobiles, at just below 92,000 miles, and my beloved and I enjoyed it for seven years. 
She was the second car I owned, and unlike the first car - Eurotrash Saab -it ran nearly perfect throughout its existence with me.  the previous owner banged it up pretty good, and repaired it to the best of his capabilities, but after years of PA weather, the SilverBullet became long in the tooth.
Japanese cars.  They manufacture the best cars and motorcycles on the market.  I know bikes.  I owned about 9 of them (currently riding a British Triumph) and they were all world-class racer types; all made in Japan.  I sold Japanese vehicles.  Bullet proof.  So my first thoughts for a new vehicle were just about anything Japanese, and there was no possibility for an American hunk of crap with their puddles of oil and their utter lack of sophistication.
Why the hate?
Politics perhaps.  Bad stories.  Unions. 
An auction friends and I went the distance on finding the appropriate vehicle for my family and on the list was Japan and Germany, but no American.
Ford maybe.  But there was simply no way that I was going to buy GM (Government Motors).
Why?
Bruce assured me time and time again, and perhaps because of his age and he kept forgetting things, that Chevy made a good car.
Maybe he did not understand - I wanted a great car for a "good" price.
Even my "I know a guy" buddy, Chad suggested a one. 
I thought there was dung between his ears, he has an even more conservative ideology than I do.  he knows cars though... hmmm
But the bailouts, the UAW, lumpy image of insignificance, obsolescence and arrogance of yesteryear...
But what about Bruce?  Chad?
Politics?
And then I thought about it.  I hate the bailout.  The unions and I will never get along in our ideology.  And the whole American car underdog thing, kind of weighed in on me. 
I have a big ol' Kolache Crusher - Chevy Tahoe that has been pretty good to us, minus the whole AC creature comforts and the ever deflating tire issue, but that danggone thing will run over a one of those moronic Smart Cars like a white-head pimple in a pair of dirty digits.  Probably survive the impending nuclear war that I am so paranoid about too.
And then there are the people who work for Chevy and Ford.  They are still working in spite of their unions.  They could have been and should have been dissed by the CEOs, but they were not. 
So at $6000 I bought a 2002 Chevy Impala.  Cloth.
Okay.
It's a good car.  Good.
"Hey I had one of those.  One of the best cars I ever owned - really fast!"
Thank you Curt.
Now I like it.  An endorsement through experience - I needed that.
Politics aside.  I bought "Made in America".  and to be frank, I probably should have thought that to begin with.

Things get Fuzzy

I have a rage issue, and to top it off, I am probably paranoid.  Kristi knows about the paranoia - noises, things that go bump, odd words and looks, the blinker on the old lady's car in front of us.  And while some people may consider a little vigilance, or caution to be good, I handle some of these things, in my opinion, a little irrationally.  A knife out of the drawer of the kitchen cabinet, a sword with a gruesome looking skull carved into the hilt.  Consider jumping out of bed in the middle of the night ready for a fight at a strange sound.
What was that?
Don't know...
The door?
The back door?
Go see.
The rage issue though is a nuance to this paranoia.  As a young boy I had it, used it pitifully, losing all inhibitions for my own or any others safety, generally a pretty loud, primal-entity fuzzing up my field of vision and carrying weapons like stones and sledghammers - far too heavy for a boy.  Now though, in my forties with a wife and daughter, a business that at times can be all consuming, a bit of boxing and kickboxing training, a blackbelt in Aikido - I am growing nervous as times to release frustrations are limited that it will come out.  And it has not here in this town and not with anyone that you my good readers would know, but it (the rage) is an ugly devil.
I was once in a fight after 9/11 - more emotionally charged, but it turned.  I had a knife at my chest - a sharp butchery-looking thing.  I grabbed it, throwing it to the floor.  Things got fuzzy, and though I never physically retaliated, I saw something that scared me perhaps more than my opponent. 
The Devil. 
I saw myself in those eyes - talking slowly, breathing hard.  Cruelty incarnated into what this other person saw as a reason, justified and ready, to suffer horribly.
I turned away.  Perhaps God had other plans.
It almost came out again recently.  I walked before any devil could come out, but my language became a little flowery - and I hate that.
The problem is this: It's going to come again.  And I need a valve.  I pray for it.  I have been looking for an old punching bag again - stuffed and heavy.  A gym - a real one that lets guys beat the snot out of each other like they were meant to - to prevent war, death.

I'm not a Number

What in the world is going on in my country?
Since the country's beginnings, we were joyously given an opportunity to follow happenstance, and our educations, guts and intuitive capabilities allowed us to go forward to pursue our own place in society or farther.  Individuals - with beliefs that could reason, and now especially in an age where most certainly those with differing views, skin-tones and sexes can make a difference - make a name.
And yet throughout the Americas, groups of people have deemed themselves numbers or percentages, and perhaps this to belong to a collective - to give themselves a "small-group" in which that number could have significance; a big fish in a small pond.
Our country has grown in population, but why does that have to diminish the individual to a numeric category. 

• I am the 99%.
• I am the 53%.

Cliches. 
Americans have lost their creativity, so much so that names do not matter unless one is at the top of his economic or political ladder.  Washington DC (which by the way has the richest population per capita in the United States) and the banks do not care about any single one of us, unless we are voting for them or buying into their loans. 
The difference of course between the two of these entities is that one group can either lie or backtrack on their promises, and the other one, in order to save its slimy scales, will word contracts that we willingly sign in the "lawyer-speak" - thereby making it difficult to understand, nudging gently into agreeing with what in hindsight is completely ludacris; the word "mortgage" means "til death".
One more word regarding banks, especially those who promise school loans, car loans and mortgages - read the words (the fine print too - and I know that it's hard to understand) and then remember this "Caveat Emptor".  Difficult?  Don't sign!
I am not a number.
I wake up 4 or 5 depending upon what days I am opening the business.  And work 50 to 60 hours a week.  My wife, who I love more than bread, works another job, which actually helps our business.  I do not have cable or satelite TV.  I pay my mortgage.  I pay my dang'on student loan to a company that I paid for that is now being handled by some jackass that lives in Pakistan.  We have health insurance, it's bloody expensive, but it beats the alternative.  My health care plan is exercise and restraint. We give personally and through the business to countless organizations throughout the community including to public school systems whose unions are among the strongest and hungriest in the country.  We pay a lot in taxes and with more than ten employees are constantly under scrutiny and unwarranted tax obligations and adjustments. 
I probably belong to a number or a percentage.  I just don't care to know what it is.
I am not a number.
- neither are you.  So stop acting like it!