Burning Question: Do you remember the first time someone said they were proud of you?

Do you remember the first time someone told you they were proud of you? I don't. Although, I am very familiar with the concept and feeling of pride. I have always felt that I was surrounded by outstanding people, people who inspire pride in me.

My father in his younger days was a hellion and a lady's man. He joined the original Black Panthers in San Francisco even though he's from the backwoods of East Texas. After raising hell against the local racists in Texas he joined the Navy. In the Navy(song cue), he was such a pill to the brass he was forcibly volunteered for a special training program that would eventually become the preparation course for the Navy Seals. The direct result of this training on him was unexpected: he became one of the relatively few Navy sailors qualified for frontline and behind-line ground combat. For mutliple tours he carried a Browning Automatic Rifle(BAR) through the worst fighting The Vietnam War could bring. He was never injured and came home to his wife and son, my older brother. Stateside he gained employment with a local paper mill factory and stayed there as a master welder through all the buyouts, racist practices, and impossibly long shifts. He did this to provide for family that eventually included a daughter and another son. He also did this because he was proud of his abilities, his strength, and his own judgment. All the hard labor and hard to earn paychecks fueled his pride. Growing up I didn't see him as much as would've liked because he always seemed to be working, but when I think of him, the first thing I always feel is pride. I'm proud to be the son of a former hellion and race activist who was a tower of strength and reliability for his family. I'm proud to my name which is the exact same as his.

My mother was a former gang member who loved her mother and seemed destined to marry a certain hellion and race activist since she first met him as a little girl. Even though she was attracted to the wildness, she was not and is not the type to put up with such foolishness. So after my father's adventures beyond the international dateline and a short stint in Hawaii, she forcibly moved him back to the hometown in Texas and rooted him there firmly. She obtained a job at the local Social Security Office and stayed there. She moved up the ranks steadily, maintained a beautiful house about 6 blocks from her childhood home where her mother still lived, and raised her three children with the mix of abundant love and abundant discipline that all those who have experience with black mothers are quite accustomed to. Over the years she took care of her children and several others as they would come to us from time to time. She also became the rock the older generation could count on to handle things when they finally became to advanced in age too handle it themselves. A part of me was always a little resentful that she moved her man back to Texas from someplace exotic like Hawaii. I was slightly miffed that she tamed the wildness. It wasn't until I was much older that I began to understand how truly incredible she is. She protected us from the pain my father brought back from the war. The drinking, the much harsher than we were used to discipline, and the rampant philandering never really touched us as kids. It's now, in hindsight, that I'm able to feel the full measure of pride in my mother's strength, her loyalty, and good sense. I'm proud of her.

My wife was born without a middle-name and always describes herself as unremarkable. I first met her in 10th grade but, as happens in these small Texas towns, I had actually had a class with her in 7th grade, we just never seemed to cross paths then. We locked eyes in health class for the first time, and truth be told, neither of us thought much of the other. She sat down next to me because I happened to be near the Italian exchange student she to whom she was actually interested in speaking. Despite that we struck up a friendly conversation that gradually became more intense until she asked me out, a fact that she will NEVER let me forget. We became an item at the age of 16 and have been through the ringer together. We went long distance during college where she graduated early. We married, moved back home, hated it, moved to Virginia for seven years, and had our first kid. During this time she maintained full-time employment and gained 2 master's degrees. We moved back home where we had a second kid seven years after the first one all while she earned her doctorate degree. Throughout it all she has supported me and our girls in every way possible but remains almost pathologically humble about her accomplishments. Very few people would even be able to attempt a THIRD of her a rear-viewed goals, and I am unapologetically unabashedly proud of her every day my life.

I had/have great potential. I attended university on full-scholarship which I lost after the first year. I have a degree in physics which I barely used in the workforce and a near-completed master's degree, I did not complete a thesis for reasons I'll have to write about another time. Since my wedding day I have been gainfully employed sporadically at best by comparison to my parents and my wife. I have had bouts with alcoholism. In my thirties, I did manage to buy into one business and start another, both of which are still alive but neither of which pays me a dime today. I have had accomplishments. I have set goals in my life and attained them but I take almost no pride in these. I can't. In my opinion my life to this point is still a study in, what is now, near-wasted potential. While I'm certain my wife will tell me she disagrees with me, I don't really think anyone else is particularly proud of me either. I'm not sad about it. I'm not mad about it. I'm numb to it. I'm writing this for the world to see because I don't think I'm the only one who feels like this. In fact, I would wager there are quite a few of you out there who feel that the promise of their life was deferred at some point and no one seemed to care. We feel without purpose at time. I also suspect there are people around you, like my wife, who would be quick to disagree with the idea that you don't have anything to be proud about. I propose, my brethren, that we choose to believe these people instead of our own cynical selves. I think that perhaps, at least for some, the pride has to come BEFORE the purpose. Maybe if we start having faith in ourselves the way we have in others, we can finally tapped into a bit of that limitless potential we know is still there, just under the skin. I don't know if that's true. But I'm willing to try something different now.

To Be a Father

When my wife and I decided to get a dog, I wanted a big dog. Martha wanted a small house dog. We ended up rescuing an idiotic hyperactive basset spaniel mix. Cute but for too energetic for us after a long day at work, so we almost immediately began searching for our second dog. We needed another dog that could babysit our new dog. If that sounds hard to find, trust me, it is. We went through about 15 or so candidates before my wife happened upon a frightfully thin, recently spayed, stray castoff in a no kill shelter. We took our dumb spaniel to meet her, and it was like the two had known each other their whole lives. The basset/spaniel, Snoopy, was jumpy and energetic, but our new no-longer-stray, Jasmin, was shy and retiring. They complimented each other perfectly, and we all felt like a complete family.

It wasn't smooth sailing though. For starters, Jasmin was and still holds the title for the filthiest animal I've ever seen when I first met her. She was literally caked in layer after layer of dead skin, dirt, debris, and flea bites. It took most of an evening just to get to the point where we could see she had a double layer coat with the second layer being brown. Also the first night, after that epic bath, I put K-9 Advantix on her like a good dog owner should. Well, Jasmin, for some reason I still don't quite understand, decided to scratch the solution on her back and then lick off of her paws. Within an hour she started vomiting. I was panic stricken. I just got the dog, and now she was going to die in my kitchen. I quickly dialed the emergency company line on the back of the package. The none-too-sympathetic phone tech informed me to just watch her and go see a vet if she got worse. So for the entire night, I sat next to her and watched her for signs of worsening health. She vomited a few more times but was completely fine by morning. I was wreck, but it was obvious I'd found my dog.

Jasmin also had a few quirks in her personality that we weren't informed of prior to adoption. It didn't take us long to figure out that Jasmin had spent some time on the street. Snoopy was a two-breed house pup and had always been, so when he tried to strut and preen around Jaz, a smart Heinz 57 Virginia street hound, she was quick to put him in his place. He outweighed her by about 5lbs and was noticeably stronger, but Jasmin would routinely whip his tail without much effort and then punctuate her dominance by humping him. I had never seen a female dog hump another dog before, and Jasmin put so much energy and violence into the ritual, she would literally shake our hardwood floors. I can't explain the sight of to you, dear reader, but it remains one of fondest memories of living in Virginia.

But being from the streets, Jasmin had learned long ago that you can't count on your next meal. As a result she had the habit of looking for food at all times, especially in our trash cans. As much as you love an animal, few things test that love like showing up at home after a crippling day at work to see your place literally covered in trash you were sure you had gotten rid of the previous day. But we adjusted quickly, making sure all of our trash was inaccessible in a trash cans and not just easily tearable trash bags. We all also learned to not leave food of any sort within reach of a dog that with a 4ft vertical. I lost something like two sandwiches and a whole order of cheese fries to that hound before I learned the lesson. That dog also had a bad habit of hiding food for later. We figure that was a trick she picked up from savvy squirrels in the woods of Virginia. We didn't mind the food hiding until 3months later when you happen upon a half-eaten chicken wing tucked skillfully behind some boxes. In order to mitigate this behavior, we decided to feed her whenever she was seemed hungry. You know, to show that food would always be there. Well 6months and 12lbs later, we realized that the dog would eat herself to death if given the chance. Literally, there are times when she looked like a black sausage roll with legs. I strict diet brought her weight down and kept her healthy from that point forward.

You've heard of dogs that like to dig holes? Snoopy loves holes, but Jasmin wasn't one for holes. Jasmin dug tunnels, long, deep tunnels that would wind and stretch out across our entire yard in Virginia. By the time we moved, our yard which had been well maintained before Jasmin, was a lost cause and a monument to what one dedicated dog excavator could accomplish if she really put her mind and paws to it. Watching Snoopy stand behind Jasmin and get absolutely covered in dirt as she buzz-sawed through the Earth, throwing soil through her back legs, is another vision from Virginia I'll cherish my life long.

Though she had faults, they were far outweighed by her virtues. Jasmin was a tireless protector. No one could knock on the door, ring the doorbell, or look at one of her parents crossways without Jasmin's bloodcurdling howl to set them straight. It could be inconvenient in the middle of the night or when the offending doorbell was actually a part of a TV commercial, but I appreciated her efforts none the less. Plus, there was never any dog born that loved her people more than Jasmin. She never asked us for anything more than to be by us, around us, and near us. She was kind to the world in general, but the world wasn't always kind to her.

I still remember that day I took her to the vet for an x-ray. I had felt a hard knot in her leg and was afraid she had a tumor. The vet took us to a little room and asked us point blank if we had ever abused the dog. We were naturally mystified by the question...until we saw the x-ray. It looked like Jasmin's body was a galaxy of stars with each star being a piece of buckshot. Apparently, sometime in her life before us, some-fucking-piece-of-shit-douchebag shot her with a shotgun. It took everything the vet could do to keep us from breaking down right in his office. Who could shoot a dog like Jasmin? But, the truth is the assholes of the Earth are capable of far worse and for all their efforts, they couldn't kill her. She won. She did however develop a lifelong phobia of loud noises. Thunderstorms troubled her, but Independence Day and New Years were an absolute nightmare for her. She would just find a dark place to hide and try to go to a happier place. Eventually, through attention and love she came to understand that were there to protect her from the loud bangs and whistles. She could eat during those time after a while with us but still preferred a good hiding place before she could sleep.

One of the best things about Jasmin was her obedience. She would do anything she could understand if you asked her. She came when called instantly. You could leave the door open, and she wouldn't leave the house. She would stop barking instantly if ordered, and...she didn't need a leash for walks. She wouldn't run off if you walked with her. She would walk a little ahead of you, as dogs do. She would sniff the bushes, mark her new territory, and maybe find a nice neighbor's yard to drop a deuce in, but she would never run away and was always careful to keep her people within a safe distance. She trusted us so implicitly that she didn't bat an eye when we uprooted her from her native Virginia and moved to our home in the Great State of Texas. She just smiled her Jasmin smile and wagged her tail even as she got epically carsick for the entire trip.

There was nothing special yesterday when my wife decided to let Jasmin have some time off-leash as she let my 3-year old bike in our cul-de-sac. I had to go to work, and Snoopy unlike Jasmin is anything but obedient on a leash. It takes most of my wife's strength and attention to keep Snoopy form taking off on another of his “adventurers” so being able to let Jasmin just walk around is a Godsend. I saw Jasmin in a neighbor's yard as I drove away. I stopped and considered her for a moment. She was a little further away from my wife than I normally liked but not too far. I figured by the time I got out of the car and shooed her back toward the group, the group would've caught up to us anyway. I just smiled a little and drove on. On the road I saw my mother-in-law truck pass me headed home. I felt the same twinge I always feel when I know there is a car about to turn on our narrow street and my family is outside, but I pushed it down and kept on.

You see where this is going. I hadn't made it to work yet when my wife called sobbing telling me that Jasmin and been hit by my mother-in-law's truck. The incident was actually vintage Jasmin. You see, there was no activity Jasmin like more than harassing dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, dogs behind fences, dogs on leashes, and dogs on the street, Jasmin gave each one an equal amount of her wrath, especially if that dog was barking at her family. So when my mother-in-law stopped to get the mail and the neighbor's basset hound promptly bugled and scared the shit out of her, Jasmin wasn't about to let that challenge go unanswered. She made a beeline for that lousy hound just as her startled grandmother hit the gas pedal.

The thing about being a father that's different than being a mother is the idea of protection. A father's whole existence and being is tied to the idea of protection of his family, and the family in turn is allowed to feel safe in the presence of the father. The father provides the security and stability that a family needs to feel safe and happy. The hell of it is that To Be a Father, you have to understand from the very beginning that all of it is a lie. You have to know that you can't offer security, that your stability is a sham, and that, most of all, you can't protect anyone from life. That's the real enemy of us father's, life. Life doesn't care about you emotions, your fears, or your identity. Life happens just the way that it is supposed to happen regardless of your efforts. Sometimes that means you meet the love your life, and other times that means you lose something unimaginably precious.

From the night I nursed Jasmin through her poisoning up until today when I wrapped her in her favorite of my sweaters, unbuckled her collar for the last time, and laid her down into the welcoming red-clay of my hometown, I've always thought of Jasmin as my daughter. What that means is all those faults, quirks, and foibles weren't faults to me, they were cute, icing on a sweet cake. It means that everytime she ripped up the trash, nearly tripped me in the kitchen, or hid my car keys(never found them) I would just love her all the more. To me through my father's eyes, she always looked beautiful and perfect and never more so than today.

Jasmin, my love, my first daughter, I'll love you always. Thank you for seven great years!

For My Daughter

I love my daughter. I love her because I made her, and she is perfect to me. I love her because she's beautiful in every way. I love her because she is smarter than I ever imagined she could be. I love her because she needs me, and I will fight to protect her, even from herself.

I don't let her play with Barbie dolls. Barbie represents an impossible standard of beauty. Barbie represents a single race instead of diversity. Barbie represents style over substance. Her message is to buy, consume, and own rather than build, value, and create. Barbie leads to an unhealthy body image and a tendency to value the trite instead of the true. I will protect my daughter from this.

I don't let my daughter wear make-up. Make-up is a purely superficial affectation. It has no purpose and no use other than hiding something that is real under something that society says is beautiful. Make-up says that you must hide your true self in order to be considered beautiful.  Make-up leads to a distorted image of your own self worth as well as the worth of others as is evidenced by the popularity of "See what this celebrity looks like without make-up" articles. The point of these articles is sick: "You see. Without make-up all these beautiful people are just slags like the rest of us!" Make-up is sexist. Men aren't expected to wear make-up. Men don't have to hide their true selves in order to be considered men. I will protect my daughter from this.

I don't let my daughter wear inappropriate clothes. The clothes you wear help inform the world about how you feel about yourself and by extension how the world should feel about you. You will be treated only as well as you demand to be treated, and my daughter will not be treated as an object. Her worth is not tied to the approval of society and her sexuality. She will not be expected to parade herself to make friends. She will not degrade herself to fit in. She will not masquerade as a sexual adult when she's just a child. I won't let the world make her a victim. I will protect her from this.

So who is to blame for all this nefariousness threatening my daughter and yours? We are, the parents. 

Toddlers and Tiaras, Victoria Secrets' teen line, and baby bikinis come about because they sell well. Mothers of daughters are the main customers for this stuff not pedophiles, and fathers of daughters are the primary enablers.

The innocence of our daughters is precious, important, and temporary. We have to protect it for as long as we can, because eventually the world will notice them and then use all its power into making our children into what the world likes, unthinking sexualized consumers. 

My daughter doesn't like that I protect her. She wants to wear make-up and play with Barbie. She doesn't know that I'm fighting a war and that she is the prize. I hate when she's mad at me for protecting her, but I won't quit.

If they are to have any chance to fight the programming, we have to tell them as children that they are worth more than what people see. That they mean more to the world than a simple sex toy. That true beauty cannot be painted on, but must shine from deep within them. For this and this alone, I will protect my daughter,

From society,
From you,
From me,
And from herself.

And now for something truly offensive:

I Love You

Hello people of the world. I'm not afraid to love you. What do I mean by that? It means I'm a little different from most people you'll meet on the street.

Most people nowadays go through their day trying to desperately avoid connection to others. They make sure their kid's days are scheduled so that they don't have to talk to them. They get in their cars and tune out the rest of the world. They walk from their cars to their workplace without looking anyone in the eye. The get to work and hate everyone they see and everything they do. Then they go home and repeat the cycle.

Why do people do this? One reason is they don't think interacting with others is really necessary. After all what can some person on the street do to for them? “Can this person help me pay bills, keep my spouse happy, make my boss less of a dick, make my kids smarter, etc...? How can a stranger make my life better when I, the person living my life, can't do anything to make my life better? The thought that a person I don't know can have any real effect on me is ludicrous. Plus, I have like 600 Facebook “friends”, and none of them do anything for me.” The end result of this logic is of course,” Strangers don't matter.” But if that's true and we are all strangers to one another, then none of us matter, and nothing we do matters, and life doesn't matter... Nihilism is the order of the day.

The other reason people pathologically avoid connection is just plain old fear. People are afraid to talk to other people. Talking to a person you meet can only have two effects. Either you and this person will connect and find out you hate each other and you make an enemy or, the much worse option, you find out you like this person and you make a friend. If you make a friend, a REAL friend, then you'll start to care about that person and vice-versa. This is to be avoided. If a person cares about you, they may start to have expectations of you that you could fail to meet, and because you care about them as well, not meeting their expectations would hurt you. This is worse when it's your expectations that aren't being met, since nothing hurts worse than a betrayal. All roads lead to pain when you try to talk to people. The best thing to do is just avoid contact or limit all interactions to “Hi. How are you doing? Have a good day.” and leave it at that.

I reject both of these notions, the nihilism and the fear. I believe strongly that I matter. I believe that my actions and inactions carry weight in the world. I believe that we are all connected whether we want to be or not, and that connection is both good and necessary. I believe I need all the people around me. For example if I approach a man, shake his hand, look him in the eye, and tell him I'm glad to see him, I believe that man will feel better about life for a moment. There is a chance that small interaction may make him happy enough that he won't go home and fight with his wife like he was going to do. If I do that for him everyday, I may be able to prevent his divorce.

When I told my wife that one she said,” Isn't that incredibly arrogant to think you can save someone marriage just by talking to them?” Yes it is arrogant, extremely so. What could be more arrogant than believing that you make a difference? What can be more prideful than saying that your words carry weight? I'm not just some speck of dust floating on some muddy rock in space. I matter to the universe because I'm here, and as long as I'm here, I'm going to make as many people as I can know that they matter too.

As for fear, I'm not above that. I'm just more afraid of NOT being connected to people. Why? Because I'm a recovering alcoholic, and I know that people are the main reason I don't drink. Interacting with people keeps me balanced, helps me focus, and makes me want to be a better husband and father. Think about it. If you don't connect to people because you don't want to be hurt, then that means you are perfectly happy now. Are you? Is your life exactly where and how you want it to be? If not, then what are you really afraid of? Even if people don't matter to themselves, they matter to me, and that gives us all a reason to fight through our fears and love one another.

Nowhere is this more apparent than on Twitter. I love Twitter. It's like connecting directly to a person's brain. The ability to communicate instantaneous thoughts quickly is almost like a form of telepathy, and you can get to know someone quickly. This can lead to some...interesting conversations. Conversations the likes of which most people only have with their spouse, parents, or doctor. Some call this overly familiar or inappropriate; I say these are my loved ones and we'll talk as such. So, I'm sorry if I offend you when I compliment women on their boobs and butts and discuss adult themes(vaginas) with them, but I'm not going to stop anytime soon. I've met and befriended some incredibly cool people on Twitter. People I value more than I can really say. To Andi, Becca, Charlotte, the incredible Dev, Melissa, John, Kristine, Staci, my wonderful Wife, every member of The Village Hidden in the Pines, and all my follows and followers, you keep my alive everyday; THANK YOU.

So, in the end, it doesn't take long to care about someone, so don't be afraid to love. I do it everyday and everyday I'm happy about it. Though, it may look disingenuous to the uninitiated, so I submit the following affirmations.

If I type LOL, I'm actually laughing out loud.

If I RT you, what you said had value, and I want other to see.

If I star you, I putting you in my scrapbook.

If I compliment your looks, you are pretty to me.

If I say you are smart, I took your advice.

If I say you are hot, it means I would do you.

If I say it will be ok, I've been through what you're going through and lived.

If I say you are wrong, take it to heart; I'm not trying to hurt you.

If you think I'm wrong, talk to me and explain. I won't get mad if you don't

If I say you matter, you do.

YOU MATTER.

My Problems with Talent

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Ok, Here's Why it Sucked...

For a change of pace, how about a movie review.

I just went to see “Rock of Ages”, and it was predictably not-great. The movie itself is so slipshod it’s not really worth a review, however the nature of the cinematic missteps do bear consideration. Let’s start at the beginning.

I was actually extremely hopeful at the beginning when the distribution logo opened with Guns and Roses. Any movie set in this area of American pop-culture history MUST open with Guns and Roses, so the filmmakers definitely got this point right. They score more points for their song choice: Paradise City. There simply is no song of the hair-metal era that so perfectly captures the fantasy, the promise, and the harsh reality of L.A. strip circa 1984 like “Paradise City”. The familiar drumbeat captured the crowd immediately, and heads were nodding in reverent unison...for all of 15seconds. Then, the rock glory is inexplicably faded out in favor of a close up Julianna Hough. Julianna’s character, Sherry, is the prototypical small town farm girl headed to wonderful L.A. in the hopes of making it big or at least getting a good case of the herp from a roady or two. As she rides in contemplation on her bus-like chariot toward destiny, she mentally regards her grandmother’s well wishes and croons out the opening line of “Sister Christian”. The bus driver takes the bait, a little girl shows her potential, and soon the whole bus is rapt in the strains; and so is the audience...for all of 10seconds. Then, Sister Christian inexplicably fades out in favor of another useless character intro. And, so the movie goes on and on this way.

They kept teasing us with our memories of glamorous rock’n roll decadence only to fade it out, chop it up, mash it together, and ultimately pussify it until we literally lost interest in listening. It’s like the filmmakers were relying on our nostalgia of the music to sustain us without them having to actually perform any of it with any sort of authenticity. If you’re looking to relive or rehear any of the classics, this ain’t your flick, which is very unfortunate since the movie offers you zero value anywhere else.

Julianna Hough is an excellent dancer, a better than average vocalist, but a lousy actress. She’s one of the worst actresses ever put on screen. Her presence invariably sucks all the genuine emotion out of any scene she’s in from the moment she’s introduced. No matter the situation, you just don't believe her performance. Her lack of talent in this area becomes even more apparent when Malin Akermin's hammy portrayal of Constance Sack explodes with chemistry against Tom Cruise' Stacy Jaxx. The juxtaposition between the two actresses performance is startling. It’s not Hough's fault really. She’s used to playing to a live crowd. The lack of feedback from an audience neutered her emotions, and it shows in EVERY scene. The rest of the cast did not fare any better. The lead actor is too busy trying to actually connect with Hough to pay attention to his less than stellar stage presence and non-existent character development. Russell Brand and Alec Baldwin are obviously in this for the lulz and are way too busy entertaining themselves to be bothered to salvage the floundering new comers. The truly excellent Paul Giamatti just can’t bear to phone it in and works double-time as both a secondary antagonist and long suffering straight-man to Tom Cruise in an effort to save this thing. His efforts to bolster the plot do not go unnoticed or unappreciated, but it’s a lost cause as the movie has no real plot. The main “love” story takes place over the course of a week. That’s one week, movie-time. So, you have to believe that these two people meet, fall genuinely madly in love and break-up in five days even though one of them is a barback on the L.A. Strip during the mid‘80s. A barback on the L.A. Strip in the mid‘80‘s would have been swimming in discarded groupy ass every night. The idea that he would see this girl from Oklahoma and just fall for her instantly is just preposterous. This lack of suspension-of-disbelief is complicated by the utter lack of chemistry between the two leads. It’s basically just a long running badly paced music video set around the chorus of an ancient rock ballad that everyone has heard but no one really liked. Think Air Supply.

Then there’s the performances. They are bad. Everyone tries there had at being a rock-god at one point or another with the exception of Paul G., but they all sound like bad backup singers. The problem here is the filmmaker kept wanting to showcase the lyrics when these were never about the lyrics. These songs are about the ROCK! The driving drumlines, the guitar riffs you can’t forget, and the singer that screams out sounds rather than words. Mary J. Blige does her lever best to bolster the noise halfway through, but she’s ill-used. Her character has no development, no purpose, and maybe 10 lines of dialogue, yet she appears in every song in the movie after her introduction with no effort made to justify her presence. It feels disingenuous, transparent, and disrespectful to her talents. Catherine Zeta Jones suffers a similar fate. She’s a vet of the musical-to-movie biz and knows what she’s doing but is never given a chance to strut. She is allowed to dance somewhat but isn’t allowed to take the center and claim the stage and this is huge detriment to the film. They just never give her anything to do. Her antagonism never generates any real drama, so she's left singing and dancing in a vacuum. The audience caught on to this quickly and lost interest. Think how it would feel to go to nightclub excited to see Velma Kelley only to be stuck with Roxy Hart. Yep, that bad.

When it comes down to it, these songs are the music of the Rock-Gods. They should grab you by the throat and other places and make you stand-up in reverence. They are sexual power incarnate and mortals aren’t able to resist, but you have to follow certain rules. Here is a short incomplete list of them that are relevant to this movie: If your main character is named Sherrie play “Oh, Sherrie” at some point, If you have well known rockers from the era together to perform a song DON’T make that song “We Built This City”, In fact if you collect vintage rockers for a song for a movie titled “Rock of Ages, they should sing ROCK OF FUCKING AGES, In that collection of rocker royalty DON’T include Debbie Gibson (WTF?), and finally, as a test, play Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” to close the show and if the audience isn’t on its feet and fist-pumping (they weren’t) you have failed.

In the future, all makers of rock-musical movies need to first start by watching “Purple Rain” let’s say...two-dozen times or so. By the end of that you should have a good idea of how it’s done.

The "N-Word" and You

I don’t want to just to fill this blog-space with racial stuff, but lately I haven’t filled it with anything at all so...

Here’s the deal: I really don’t care if you call me a nigger. Is the word offensive? Yes. If you tweet it at me, will I block you? Yes. If you say it to my daughter, will I END YOU in retaliation for compromising her innocence? Fuck yes. However, the word itself can’t hurt me.

Like all black people in America, I’m conditioned to respond automatically to the word nigger when said by a white person with incredulous indignation. When I hear it, I feel a completely reflexive stab of anger that is the product of my father’s tales of racial strife in the 60s.  This is a feeling rooted essentially in hearsay and largely disingenuous. However that initial white-hot sensation is always quickly replaced by my genuine feelings, fatigue. That’s it. It just makes me feel tired. I’m just tired of racism, all it represents, and all the problems it causes, but there’s no real anger there. My inability to drum up any real vitriol in response to this particular racial trigger is a constant annoyance to bigots who toss the word around trying to illicit a response, and for that, I apologize. I mean how is a “self-respecting” bigot supposed start the conflicts upon which he feeds if his primary weapon is useless? Well, there is way, but I’ll save that for the end.

The problem with “nigger” is that it says nothing about me. I’m not a nigger. I have never been a nigger. In fact, I CAN’T be a nigger even if I was so inclined. I wasn’t raised to think of myself as anything but my best self. I received the best education possible in my rather small town and have largely made good on that potential. The willful ignorance that is the stock and trade of the nigger just isn’t present in me. How can I get mad at a word that literally has nothing to do with me? I can’t. I’m just too logical for that.

But the word “nigger” does still serve a purpose in The Great American Race War. Anytime you see a white person and hear them say “nigger”, you know immediately you’re dealing with a bigot. Notice I didn’t say “racist”. If you live in America, you’re racist regardless of your race. I know, I know; you have friends of every color, you’re fourth cousin is a quarter Native American, and your uncle marched on Selma. You’re still racist. You can’t help it. Racism is just a part of our character as Americans, and we will have to accept that if we are going to get passed it. Sorry, digressing...coming back...The word “nigger” is like a billboard over the head of the white person that says it that reads, “Hi, I’m a fucked-up backwards thinking bigot! Don’t bother listening to me as I my thoughts are not worth your consideration.” This can be a real time-saver. Rather than me sitting through long minutes of conversation trying to figure out if you’re a bigot, I can just acknowledge you as a bigot and move on. When you think about the situation this way, a bigot calling you a nigger is almost like a public service announcement.

So how can the well-meaning bigot hope to get a rise out of me if the big-gun is impotent? Simple, call me African-American. I will get angry immediately. To me there is literally nothing more offensive than to be called African-American. Why? Because, the only reason the term exists is so white bigots can call black people something besides “nigger” in public. It’s a whitewash term of insidious power. It allows bigots to hide behind a paper-thin veil of political correctness while simultaneously robbing me of my primary identity. I am not African-American. I am American, and I am black. Black describes my background, because being black in America is a distinct and unique experience that shapes my everyday life. It is my identity, my support, and my pride. I have no connection what-so-fucking-ever to Africa and don’t want any. I’ve met African men in my travels, and we don’t get along. African women and I get along famously, but I’m married so that can only cause trouble. I have no truck with The Dark Continent, and that’s exactly how I like it. So, how can a term like African-American have anything to do with me? It’s not like Italian-American or Native-American because those terms actually describe the people to which they are attached. Italian-Americans are proud of their connection to Italy, and the culture they grew up with reflects that fact, same with Native-Americans. African-American has no value at all as a descriptor of blacks in America and the culture that shapes us. It fact it seeks to essentially strip us of that culture. When you call someone African-American you are saying,” I’m using this term instead of nigger, because that’s offensive. I can’t call you black, but that’s is of course inherently shameful, and I don’t want you to feel embarrassed. So, I’ll just call you something that means absolutely nothing. This way you can’t get mad, but I still get to be superior to you. This is a win-win for me!”

Fuck you. Take your “African-American” and shove it right up your own ass, because I have no use for it.

So, there you have it. Confused? Don’t be. If you have to refer to a black person’s race, calling them black is more than acceptable; all other terms are fraught with troubles.