Breaking Friday Five Bad

I'm pretty much hating my best friends right now.

See, a week before Christmas, we had dinner. And during that dinner the four of us began discussing addictive television shows. The two of them were pretty amazed that the two of us had not even started "Breaking Bad"

"You see," She said, "It's one of those shows that starts this high, and you think to yourself it can't possibly go any higher, and then episode after episode it just keeps getting higher."

Now the reason we've stayed away is because we switched it on one evening and got introduced to the show with a very uncomfortable scene, which we tried to watch and then changed to something a little less icky. Life is icky enough when you actually think about it, so there's no real need to invite more.

But the stupid show has been pretty much universally acclaimed, especially by the people whose taste we trust most, and how can I possibly write a pop culture blog and not be able to make Pinkman jokes?

So as Fantasy Football wound down to its devastating conclusion, I decided queue it up.

Of course I blasted through four and a half seasons like they were warm butter and I was a hot knife, anyone who has seen the first episode wouldn't blink at such a colossal waste of time, but here's where I go a little insane:

Netflix doesn't stream the last eight episodes.

(Yet, and I say yet because by the time you read this it's very possible that monumental pressure would have been applied to make it happen, so you'll just have to imagine my frustration rather than actually feeling it.)

But, oh my god, what cruel fate has been laid upon my lap?

Could Blockbuster have not held out for just three more months?

But wait!

They're available on disk!

And I have movies still waiting to be sent back.

Which solves all of my problems except for one. And that problem is time.

I have two performances next week that I need to be prepared for and nothing booked for the next few months. If I want to make this grand experiment happen, I've got some serious rehearsing and promoting to do, along with quadrupling my efforts to get gigs. In fact, just about every step of my primary plan is months behind schedule. (Don't panic, that's how this work goes, I've got several tiers of planning because of it.) But I don't exactly have eight hours to blow.

So, today, there are eight episodes of Breaking Bad sitting in my mailbox. And like the junkie I am, I have no intention of letting them just sit there. So what if I'm drunk, might as well finish the bottle. But like a good intentioned junkie, I want to at least be relatively productive before popping the popcorn, fluffing the pillow and dimming the lights. So here are five things that absolutely must get done before I walk the green mile to the mailbox:

Rehearse:
I got two completely different style gigs. That means solid set lists and at least three hours of rehearsal for each.

Exercise:
I plan to mangle an entire dish of hot wings, cause if you're gonna binge man, binge. That's fourteen hundred calories or just about three one hour bike rides. Giddy up.

Mass Emails:
I've got a list of forty different venues on my desk right now just crying out for primary contact. I need forty more to meet my quota for the month. Ctrl C, Ctrl V, Ctrl C, Ctrl V.

Pitch a Song:
If ever I needed a piece of good luck, it would be a fair wind on the music licensing sea. It makes me nervous because the returning critiques always break my heart a bit (a lot), but it's a percentage game, and baby needs a new pair of shoes. Big money, no whammies!

Finish this blog:
aaaaaaaaaand DONE!

Throwback Thursday Bandwagon

Heard an interview with the new owner of MySpace talking about the relaunch of the largely shelved social network. There were a lot of high hopes involved. Best of luck.

Anyway, he was talking about this weird anomaly where their usage quadrupled on Thursdays and it took a month before they realized that there's this fad called "Throwback Thursdays" where people will post old photos of themselves and their friends on Instagram/Facebook/Tumblr, and where else to mine old photos than the forgotten storage bin that is Myspace?

And, of course, I thought if everyone else can do it, well, so can I.

I told my wife about it and she already knew. (This from a girl who hasn't been active on Facebook for even a year yet.)

Note: Key to a man's success in life, is a wife who is way ahead of him.

Note II: Even more key is if he listens to her the first time.

So, in a cunning display of foresight, the universe instructed me to clean out an old briefcase where fell out this photo.

That's not a filter, children, that's analogue.

Date stamped on the back, "Dec 1988" which makes me twelve years old and my father almost exactly the same age as I am now. He's thinner than I am, but I have a better haircut.

I have no recollection of ever seeing this photo, nor do I even remember it being taken. I'm sure Dad will correct me at some point, but I can only assume for the time being, that this is a wedding, considering the Baby's Breath on both of our lapels and the grey pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit that I'm pretty sure is the only suit my father ever owned.

I still have the vest, but the jacket and the pants fell apart a decade ago.

I'm pretty sure it's the only suit I ever owned as well, even if it was stolen out of my father's closet.

The guitar, an Ovation 12-String, too, was stolen, in the fall of 1990, out of the back of my father's truck in a movie theater parking lot. We were seeing Godfather III, so suffice it to say, it was a very disappointing evening.

The rainbow guitar strap must have been in the guitar case when it was stolen. Pity. I totally would have stolen and rocked that.

Twelve. That was a terrible time to be in my head. That little dude right there was a mess, and he was a mess really, for no other reason than that he was twelve. Happened to me, happened to my big guy, will most likely happen to my little guy. Pity.

It'll be another five years before that little dude in the picture feels right again.

But MTV still played videos.

So he's got that going for him.

Had to push the extra mile

Dad Savage

Wait . . . Dad?

Hmm?

Have you ever killed anyone?

Not this week.

How 'bout ever?

No, dude, I've never actually killed anyone.

Have you ever hurt a real bad guy real bad?

Not in the last twenty minutes.

I'm serious. Have you ever hurt a real bad guy?

No.

Well, then how do you know you can?

Just do.

Just do.

Men know what I'm talking about. Fathers even more so. Our particular brand of badassery knows virtually no bounds.

I mean, yeah, I don't look like much. My hands are supple, my height nothing to brag about, no tattoos or facial scars or NRA stickers, I don't own a gun or drive a truck, and I haven't been able to bench my own weight in almost twenty years, but, and you have to know this, you come between me and my family and you're going to die. And you're going to die horribly.

There will be no restraining until the police arrive.

I will simply not stop pummeling your meat until every ounce of blood has leaked back into the gutter.

The reason this came up, is because a day or two ago, a young girl was abducted just outside of her family home.

Spoiler Alert: She was found and the suspect taken into custody. And by 'suspect' I mean the guilty mother****er, who gets to spend the rest of his years being molested by very large, very angry men.

Praise the Lord Jesus for the vengeance afforded by an underfunded penitentiary.

So there we were, watching a movie, Calvin in his elf costume, sword in hand, when the Amber Alert came on.

It was clear that it was not a test, since it didn't say "This is only a test" but what came out of the speakers was 97% static and 3% what sounded like Charlie Brown's math teacher:


ShhhhhhhhhWahwahwahShhhhhhhWahwahwahwahShhhhhhhhhWahwahwahwashhhhhhh

or something like that.

"What the hell was that?" Joann said.

"A vietnamese girl has been abducted in the Contra Costa area and to be on the look out for a gold Honda or Toyota." I said.

"How the **** did you hear all that? It was nonsense!"

Side story: This is exactly why I'm going to send my poor wife to an early grave. She could tell me that the house was on fire and I will have no idea what she's talking about nor will I be likely to get my ass off the couch, and yet, and yet, I can hear the ticking of a wrist watch four doors down and it will keep me up at night.

I don't know how I heard it, I just did.

And we had a good laugh about my ridiculousness while simultaneously sharing our deep concern and fear about child abduction, Calvin came screaming into the room wanting to know what all the fuss was about.

"A girl was kidnapped."

"Around here?"

"No, far away in Contra Costa."

"Is she okay?"

"We don't know."

"Oh."

And soeth begat a two day concern over the power of real bad guys versus a pasty faced homebody who only claims to be dangerous.

How do you know?

Just do.

How do you know?

Just do.

But how do you KNOW?

I've known it since the first day I held you in my arms. I mean, I've always suspected, cause that rage has always been there sitting quietly beneath the truest facade of congeniality. It's bubbles up to the surface when some one cuts me off, or you don't put your shoes on when I tell you to, but as long as I'm around, there's nothing out there that would dare hurt you.

Kay.

But it did get me thinking. How do I really know, you know? It's true that I just do, but how do I really, really know?

Cause I do.

Cause this one time, and although you can't stop me if you've heard it, you can skip to the end if you like. There was this one time that the switch fully flipped. I went from being me, to crazy killer super me, and it all starts with my fear of dogs.

That's right.

I am terrified of dogs.

Ridiculously terrified.

Now, I don't like heights very much, and I would prefer to enjoy my life free from roller coasters and slasher movies and slightly cracked open closet doors in the middle of the night, but man's best friend could send me screaming into the rafters. And there are lots of little childhood dog traumas that I could point to, but in the end suppression seems a better deal than therapy.

Threaten me with knives or guns or fire or raging bulls or Jack Nicholson with a fire ax and I will only feel one tenth of the fear I feel when a Shi-Tzu barks.

If only I was kidding.

I can get acclimated to them over time, but never comfortable, if they flinch, I flinch.

Two for flinching.

But there was this one time, a few years back, a little after four in the morning; There was very little light and a wispy fog has settled on my street.

I got up, I showered, I grabbed a little lunch, I went outside, locked the door behind me and headed out to my car.

From across the street I heard a deep growl and looked up to see what was probably a chocolate lab looking at me and snarling.

And then, it just tore after me barking like mad, and I'm not sure if I screamed and ran, but I definitely ran, straight back to my front door.

I was only inches from the welcome mat when it dawned on me that my keys were dangling from my car door and because of my tunnel like entryway, I had no where to run.

Nowhere to hide.

And then,

Flip.

I just turned around and started running back toward the dog, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth as the adrenaline pushed my heart into my throat.

But I wasn't turning to protect myself.

I was going to rip it's head off and stomp it's body into the pavement.

The dog skidded to a halt as I bared down on it, almost as if my entire smell changed, and it's barks turning to yelps as it cartoonishly scuttled backward and ran off into the darkness.

The creepy part was, I didn't make a sound.

I went from some very unladylike squealing to psychopathic bloodlust between two heartbeats.

Flip.

I mean there have been other moments throughout my life that suggest a certain amount of capability when it comes to self preservation, but nothing that fierce, nothing that cold. It was both very weird, and kinda liberating.

I mean, I'm not crazy, I'm not gonna pick a fight, and if you want my wallet, just ask and then go about your merry way, but it's nice to know, to know know, to really really know, that Dad can be dangerous.

Yet I can't explain this all to an eight year old who has just discovered that there are real bad guys in the world. So he knows to keep his distance from strangers and strange cars and to never be alone and  what his address is and what his parents numbers are and exactly where to bite when it comes right down to it.

So it's enough to teach him to be safe.

And to stay away from Chihuahuas.

Those f**kers are savage.

Friday "I done told you So!" Five

So my step son turned 21 today.

Happy 21st, I say, happy 21st.

I remember my own 21st birthday. I'd just finished a very long weekend, five shows in three days, and I wanted to go home and go to bed. My girl friend wanted to do something fun and exciting. We fought about it. I think I remember winning. Or losing. Doesn't matter. It was a non-event.

My step son is a lot more fun than I am. My girlfriend would have liked him a lot.

So he's out hitting the town, birthday money in pocket, surrounded, most likely, by the dissapointed girlfriends of premature curmudgeons, and about to make, what will hopefully be, a long line of bad decisions.

And, as his mature curmudgeon of a step-dad, it's essentially my god given duty to offer the kind of advice that he is most likely going to ignore:

Friday Five: I Told You So's:

First: 

Always plan an exit strategy. Designated drivers are hard to come-by, and you should never trust a disappointed girlfriend, not when tequila is involved, so make sure you know where you are and how you are going to get to where you want to end up. Keep the number of a taxi service in several different pockets, and add it to you favorite contacts list. 

Second:

Until you've been around the block a few times stay away from these three: Tequila, Gin, and Rum. Unless, of course, you would like to spend the next three days holding onto the carpet to keep from falling off the face of the earth.

Third:

You've never had a best friend like water. Drink lots and often.

Fourth:

You've never had a best friend like water. Drink lots and often.

Five:

Call your mother. She won't be mad, or disappointed, or put off, or even mildly irrittated. Not only will she be none of those things, she will be freakishly excited to come to the rescue, and will brag to all her friends and family how proud she is of having raised such a responsible adult. Nothing, and I mean it, nothing will make her happier than knowing you're safe.

You could call me too, but, well, you know, tequila.

Paying attention?

Resolution #1: More Puns