Time to Burn the Flag

Today, I am going to anger a lot of people. I will have friends and family that turn their backs on me for what I'm about to do...and I don't care. No, I'm not leaving my senses and burning the American flag. I'm burning the symbolic flag of loyalty I've hoisted for the Denver Broncos since 1977.

It is finally over. For a variety of reasons you can currently see in the headlines of any sports rag, and for the one that ultimately made my mind up that you can't read. Losing is not the reason, but it doesn't help. 16 of 21 is bad...but I am still a Royals fan, so I can't lay it a the feet of poor play. Taping scandals? Don't say that everyone does it and it's not a big deal because it is. It's silly and cowardly and most importantly happens to be cheating. That's not why I walk away today, either (but it doesn't help).

When I was seven years old, the Broncos played in their first Super Bowl. Red Miller led them there in his rookie year as coach. Craig Morton quarterbacked a steep underdog team that lost to Dallas, but won my heart. As a Wyoming boy, we had no close franchise in any sport to shove our loyalty toward. I distinctly remember that the Casper Star Tribune, pre-Rockies, ran a reader poll (where you mailed your ballot to them with a stamp and everything...bizarre) to see which Major League Baseball team they should cover as the "home town" team. The geographic choices based on distance? Kansas City, St. Louis or Seattle. I voted along with the majority of other Casperites to make it the Cardinals, even though I wasn't a fan. But who you rooted for during NFL play was never in question in my home. Once we snatched John Elway from the Yankees and Colts in '82, my love was sealed.

I've literally taken punches for being a Bronco fan. I went to a Monday night affair at Arrowhead Stadium (Chiefs vs. Raiders) in the mid 1990's with three big Chief fans. As a Donkey lover, I wanted them both to lose, but had to side with the Raiders to get a rise out of my buds. I (not altogether wisely) finished my 5th beer in the parking lot and wagered with them that they could each punch me in the left shoulder as hard as they liked, one time each, for every score the Chiefs had. Derek Thomas had seven sacks and KC scored an NFL record 22 touchdowns according to the X-Rays on my shoulder. It was worth every one of the 14 days I sported that greeple* bruise.

John Elway and Terell Davis brought me to the coveted land I'd always dreamed to visit in '97 and '98. I cried in my living room when Elway held the trophy above his head. I will always contend that he's the best all-around QB to ever play.

But something wasn't sitting right with me then...and it has come home to roost. Literally.

I moved to Kansas City in 1994. That's going on 17 years. My kids were born here. There was no question in our house and no Tribune mail-in contest to determine who to cheer for on Sundays. Its the Chiefs, of course. Except there's me, sitting there in my T.D. jersey, sulking as the other three trade high fives on the couch (last year's season-ending blowout loss to the Chiefs at Invesco). Sometimes I'll walk past the room where they sit and watch Cassel to Bowe touchdowns and enviously stare at them, like a hungry dog under the Thanksgiving dinner table. And they don't give me scraps. "It's your choice, dude", my wife once said to me during a chest-bumping contest they were having in the living room.

Well, Pat Bowlen, I'm mailing in my ID card. I'm sending back my badge. I took the jersey to Goodwill. I'm burning the ratty old flag with the big orange D in Times New Roman with a snouty white Mare poking though it.

I'm sorry Denver. I always loved you, but you've given me to the ultimate reason to love something...it's right in my living room.

Tomorrow, I'm taking the family to the Chiefs/Broncos game at Arrowhead. It's going to be extrememly cold and positively hard to hear-yourself-think-loud. I'm going to do something I've never done before. Eat seven hot dogs before noon.

And then I'm going to root for my hometown Chiefs.

Don't try to argue with me or call me a bandwagon boy. The Chiefs are rising, and they have a chance to make the playoffs for the first meaningful time in forever, but that's not what this is about. Even if Denver fired McDaniels tonight and Elway came out of retirement to coach them to six straight wins and an 8-8 division title, I wouldn't go back. If Denver wins by 50 and the Chiefs go ten more years without making the playoffs, they still have me now. It's not about loyalty...it's about loving the ones (fans, family) you're with.

Oh yeah, one more thing...Suck it, McDaniels. Go Chiefs.

*It's that disgusting clotted blood colormash of purple and green. It looks like boogers and grape jam.

Pour some sugar on me?

In August of 42,000 BC, man invented the music festival. Kinda like a Kit Kat commercial, it was unintentional and the timing was critical. One man salaciously tore a piece of pterodactyl sinew from a leg bone in the key of E. At the precise moment thereafter, another cave-mate pulled thirty-seven hairs from his newly betrothed's head...in C major. Combined with the back to back thumping of mammoth bones on a rock from a nearby toddler, they formed a song. People stopped what they were doing and watched as Austrelo and Pithicus repeated their pluckings and tearings while Bam Bam beat the rock in perfect time. Someone blew on a leaf for a nice high pitch...and Grandpa flatulated perfectly at the crescendo. Together, they made music that day, though none had an idea of the future impact of their ensemble. And 44,000 years later, that song is still better than anything Cher ever sang.

I shouldn't judge Cher's music, because music is personal. Music really shouldn't be judged- though critics, fans and musicians themselves judge music every day. Its personal and you can't tell me what to like, which is why there are so many genres, sub-genres and garage bands. A song I liked in third grade might have sentimental value to me...but my third grader might hear it and have a slightly different opinion. Music is art. Art is subjective. End of blog. (Cher sucks. Now its over.)

Not quite. Music- the playing of instruments- is subjective. Lyrics are not. Lyrics are the words the musicians sing, and they range from the sublime:


I smoke two joints in the morning, I smoke two joints at night (yeah man)
I smoke two joints in the afternoon, it makes me feel alright  (you should take a break man)
I smoke two joints in time of peace, and two in time of war  (you want to play yahtzee or something?)
I smoke two joints before I smoke two joints, and then I smoke two more. (I can't keep up, man)


to the savage:

I want to stand with you on a mountain. (oh pahleease..)
I want to bathe with you in the sea.  (probably not sanitary or legal.)
I want to lay like this forever.    (what if my arm falls asleep?)
Until the sky falls down on me...    (my uncle Carlo can arrange that.)

The first is a reader submitted tune from, fittingly, Sublime. While they wrote songs not intended to be unbelievable in their lyrical quality, that one really does hit a low note in creativity. I thought smoking weed made you break out in a fit of total consciousness? Thanks Amy...I do love me some Sublime, though.

The second is a sappy, unrealistic offering from a "band" called Savage Garden. They don't make this post because of their horrible lyrics, but simply because I cannot imagine sitting around any coffee shop or recording studio and coming up with that as a name for a group. Savage Garden? It's not even a good oxymoron. Hey guys, want to sound tough and luxurious? How about Lava Bath? Maybe you should call yourselves Shards of Glass at a Baby Shower? Bubble Knife?

My friend Sandy sent in a really great suggestion for bad lyrics, but she missed out on the real homerun. Her disdain for Neil Diamond's "I am, I said" lyrics are understandable, but if you really want to see bad, you need to dig a little deeper into Neil's catalog. Take for example the 1972 hit, "Play Me". It got a lot of sweaty moms sitting around the turntable all fired up (and he has a knack for the sweet lovesong and the uber-overdramatic climax in his songs). I think Neil was at his sweatiest (if you know what I mean) in about 1972. He was melting people's underwear off during every live show, so its hard to blame him for basically secreting cheese from his forehead when he sings this song live. Go listen to "Play Me" at this link to see what I mean. Oh, and dammit,  I love you Neil Diamond. I can't quit you.

"You are the sun
I am the moon
You are the song
I am the tune...PLAY ME!"

I keep waiting for him to literally drop his pants right when he gets to the last line...and someone would, probably. Play him.

Neil and Barbara hit the top of the charts in 1978 (speaking of songs that were popular when I was in third grade) with "You Don't Bring Me Flowers". When they took over the top spot, exactly 32 years ago this week, they beat out Donna Summer's rendition of "McArthur Park" (great suggestion Ed). This is a bad song, made only listenable by Donna's terrific voice. Pay attention to the lines, and you realize you're losing IQ points: (listen to Richard Harris (yes, Dead Dumbledore) sing it here. You'll love the last 5 seconds)

"Someone left a cake out in the rain.
I don't think that I can take it, cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again...oh noo!"

Somehow, when you hear Donna sing it, you miss how dumb it is. Truthfully, almost every big hit in 1978 had lyrics that were acid and cocaine fueled, late-night disco drivel. I guarantee you some of those guys are 1.) glad they survived and 2.) laughing at every royalty check like its a bad joke.

Lots of people submitted the Lady Antebellum hit, "Need You Now" when asked about bad song lyrics; mostly I am guessing, because of the line where the girl says, "It's a quarter after one...I'm a little drunk and I need you now." Sorry, this isn't about songs that annoy the hell out of you...its about bad lyrics. Those are great lyrics. She means quarter after one in the afternoon by the way. Now how do like it? I say ten more points on the awesome scale.

Also had a lot of hands raised for John Mayer. My old friend Jessica sent his in: (and by "old friend" I mean her age)

"Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say.
Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say."

Please John, take you own advice. But if the repetition of a lyric made it bad (see "Thank You" by Natalie Merchant, who I want to slap if I ever meet because of that song) then we wouldn't have some of our most treasured classics. And in turn, making up filler sounds isn't about writing bad lyrics...its about scat and its jazzy and it has a place. For the ultimate Filler plus Repetition lyrics, listen to the last two minutes of the Beatles "Hey Jude" or all of "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Stones. I hate that song...but you can listen to the 314,000 times Ron Wood and Keith Richards sing, "Hoot Hoooo!" in falsetto by clicking here.

John Mayer's real brilliance came in his first hit. Once again, the tune was snappy, so we hum along to it and sing it and don't listen to how dumb we sound...To wit, I challenge you to quiet the room at your Thanksgiving dinner this year and recite this as if reading a poem:

"I am invincible
I am invincible
I am invincible
as long as I'm alive
I want to run through the halls of my high school
I want to scream at the top of my lungs
I just found out there's no such thing as the real world
just a lie you've got to rise above
I just can't wait for my ten year reunion
I'm gonna bust down the double doors
and when I stand on these tables before you
you will know what all this time was for."

If someone doesn't form tackle you before you finish, I suggest you quietly get a good last look at anyone you considered a friend and head for the exit.

My friend Rob brought up another sub-genre in bad lyrics when he called out America's "Horse With No Name"...forced rhyming.

"You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name,
it felt good to be out of the rain (doing good so far with the rhyming guys...nice work)
In the desert, you can remember your name (uhhh, already used that word, but ok)
Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain."

What? I imagine Yoda, wearing a cowboy hat and playing a tiny guitar singing that line.

Andy suggested another terrific forced rhyme from The Beastie Boys (who in this instance fit the bill of being both sublime and savage) from their song, "Professor Booty":

"You've got the boomin' system
But it's blasting out doo-doo
You think it's chocolate milk
But it's watered down yoo-hoo"

Come on guys...nobody expects Paul Simon, but how about a little less Funkel and a little more ArtGar?

I could probably write a thousand pages on this subject as bad lyrics are easier to find than I thought, but I'll close with the cosmically-worst lyrical song ever. Many have tried, but few have ever reached the murky depths of bad as the B52's hit when their Chrysler (that's as big as a WHALE) bottomed out with "Rock Lobster". This song has everything... forced rhymes, suckiness, a bad beat, weird shrieking and chanting, and dreadful lyrics (actually it has a great surf guitar hook, but it gets choked). I guess I should say that this song has nothing. Here it is for you that forgot it or never had the pleasure. Nice add, Brett.

Of course, anyone who ever saw me perform "Rain Drop", the only hit by a band I sang for in the late 80's called SKB (the Sweet Kick Butt Band) might have an argument in favor of never letting me judge anything musical. But you didn't.

"I feel like a raindrop
Falling, falling for you"

You get the idea.

Cher sucks.

What the f@% did he say?

Gorgeous George

$h*#!
D#@*!
M#@#$% F#$$%!

I've got a problem with you.

You just read that blog title and then four words...umm scratch that...you just read a blog title and four jumbled-up, character-filled pieces of nothing. $h*# is not a word.

But what word did you say in your head when you read it? Did you say "bleep"? Did you say "shoot"? Did you say "S-word"?

I've got news for you, folks. You either said "shit" or you're full of it. You, dear reader, are a vulgarian.

But I either type the word or I censor myself with $$ symbols and you infer the word, right? Who the h#!! are we kidding?

Here's my problem:

By the time you're 13, you've heard pretty much every vulgarity in the book. We cross our fingers as your  parents that you haven't used them in practical speech. But that's what they are...vulgarities, pure and simple. Vulgar being defined as distasteful. Distasteful being defined by the mores and standards of society at any given time. Remember that for the first twenty years of primetime television, married couples slept in separate beds. Have you ever watched Desperate Housewives?  Golly, even the title of the show is vulgar compared to Ward and June hopping into detached bunk beds.

So we create words to describe things. We add words to the dictionary every year to keep up with the evolution of the English language. We label them. Some words are harmonious and peaceful. Some words are technical and necessary. We have verbs and abverbs, pronouns and participles. In the end, they're just letters strung together and pronounced in such a fashion as to evoke an understanding of the meaning from the speaker or reader. A meaning. That's really the issue, isn't it?

Walk up to your dog and get in her ear. In the meanest, most thunderous voice you can muster I want you to scream, "I love the daylights out of you, you beautiful wonderful dog! Can I please take you to the park later and buy you an expensive bone?!" I want you to channel the voice you used the day your dog ate your favorite pair of shoes. You should almost be throwing up.

Lassie should cower, tuck and run. If not, get her hearing and eyesight checked.

Conversely, compose yourself and turn on "sweetie" voice. Get all cuddled up with her and whisper, "I'm going to hack your f#*%* nose off with a rusty tin can, pretty girl!"

~As a side note, I'm reasonably sure that if we all sweet-talked our dogs at the same time and could somehow harness the energy in their tails, we'd never have to worry about Chilean miners hunting the world's necessary resources. (next blog idea...Dog tail wind energy saves trapped miners. Gold.)~

Back to Lassie...she doesn't speak English. She speaks inflection and body language. So do babies, interestingly. If you conduct the same experiment on your neighbor's five month old son, it will go pretty close to the same way. There are a few differences. For starters, you can count on a little jail time and some counseling, but not until you have your jaw re-attached.

So lets take the inflection and body language out of things for a minute and discuss something. As adults, we can agree that saying the word "shit" in the title of a television show would be classified as "vulgar" by the FCC, pretty much every parenting coalition in the world, religious and political leaders and anybody with a 20th century background in right and wrong. But...

CBS Executive #1: "We need this show. It's an Internet sensation. Shatner signed on. It's funny as heck."

Executive #2: "He's right. But we need to change the title. You can't call something 'Shit My Dad Says' on network television. HBO doesn't even swear in the title of their shows. Although Zach Galifinakis is pitching a show where he takes a crap every week and talks to a live audience during. There's gotta be a vulgarity in that title."

#1: "Let's call it "Stuff my Dad says"?

#2: "Meh, it doesn't have the punch. It sounds like your following your Dad with a tape recorder while he attempts to convince you he was in the Sharks or the Jets."

#1: "I got it!! We can call it '$h*# My Dad Says' in writing, and have the announcers call it "Bleep My Dad Says!!!"

#2: "Brilliant! Anyone with an IQ above the temperature in Arctic Circle will understand that $h*# means SHIT and we won't offend a soul because we haven't used a societally-named vulgarity in writing or in speech! It's code! And we've got the Right covered by casting Shatner, so even Christine O'Donnell will endorse the show."

#1: "Not so quick. Don't forget the Arctic Circle caveat."

#2: "Ah, shit. Good point. Palin, maybe?"


If 13 is the magic age we've all heard the vulgarities, then when is the age we've used them out loud? I remember swearing around my friends with some regularity in high school. It comes slowly, you learn to filter. You learn what sounds cool one day sounds silly and desperate the next. You learn not to swear in front of Granny and Pastor Bill. You get a filter. But you don't forget them, and if you are intending to be vulgar to be funny, you take the chance you'll offend someone.

My point? Intent is everything. Tell a homeless guy bumming a quarter off you that he's a worthless pile of $h*# with venom in your voice and you're gonna sound vulgar. Inform your neighbor that his dog just took a shit in your yard, and would he mind coming to clean it up...well you're being neighborly.

Name a television show "Bleep My Dad Says" and even Lassie is gonna be insulted.

Oprah's Gonna Roll This For Me

Dear Oprah Winfrey LLC.-

Um, remember when Tom Cruise jumped on the couch on your show? That was awesome. When you invented the book club, did you envision idea how popular the idea would become? How about when you invented talk shows and daytime television? Did you think how those would still be around? When you invented the term "billionaire" did you think it would stick? Me either.

I'm sorry you're retiring from TV and running for Congress, on the count of* that's going to free up lots of women each afternoon to yell at their husbands. I prefer giving peace a chance, but you have to do what's best for Oprah. We all get it. Power calls...

Before you go, (and I know you'll reserve your last show to give away each of the 50 States to 50 lucky audience members, so in the show before that) could you do me a favor? Let's be clear...I'm going to need you to introduce, wholeheartedly endorse and pay forward all credit and monetary gain from this directly to me. Kapeesh?

Would you please roll out the Music Appreciation Club© (or MAC) to the world? I'm a co-creator and it's going to be a pretty big deal, so I figured you'd want to go out on a high note. Text me or FB friend me...better yet, just follow me on Twitter and we'll work out the details. It's gonna be bigger than Oprah's Book Club, so put that in your pipe and smoke it. (Or whatever magic it is you do to make people like what you say)

Thanks, babe.

Chris Keefe
CO-CEO South Plaza Music Appreciation Club©
~~~~~~~

Maybe it'll work. Maybe just talking about it here will get it going...who knows. Truth is, I am shocked that there aren't Book Clubs for music all over the planet.

You (in your head): "What a moron. Thinks he invented the "music club" where people get together and make mix CD's and listen to vinyl and drink wine and laugh and share great music with friends. Those kind of groups are everywhere."

Me (in my head last night during our first "meeting"): "There aren't any of these...are there?"

Well, now there's one, and I'm hopeful that after you read this (all 26 of you) that there will be a lot more.

The MAC- What it is.

Your chapter of the MAC can be any color, size, shape and tune that you choose. Reader 18...you already have your name don't you? The CWMAC (Central Wyoming Music Appreciation Club). Nice work.

You chapter should contain the following elements:
-People who enjoy somewhat similar taste in music.
-People with a library they are willing to share (legally) with the group via Mixtape or CD.
-People who love music.

We have three founders in our in the South Plaza chapter. Three weeks ago, we knew each other about as well as you know the lady who cleans your teeth. Now, after brainstorming the idea on Facebook and at an Avett Brothers show, we're in a club together for crying out loud. I envision this chapter growing soon and meeting with regularity and gusto. One of our founders plays the clarinet, so we're going live soon with the jams. (I don't want to embarass Sandy by naming her, so I'll just use the code name, "Wirtel".)

Our other founder (who shall also remain nameless) brought a fantastic and stretchy CD of his musical idol, Bruce Springsteen with some great rare live tracks and accoustics. I said to Rob after I saw it, I said, "Mr. Smith...this is beauftiful." Hearing it in my car today was even better. I dropped three Wilco mixes on them, "Happy", "Jam" and "Dark". Creating those playlists was one of the most fun things I've done in years. Explaining the tracks and your joy for them to rookies...priceless. The people who introduced me to Wilco last year should have a great big parental grin right now. (Your chapter invite is in the mail, kids).

Anyway, start forming your MAC soon. When O.W. rolls this idea out it's gonna pop. You don't want to be a coat tailer and you certainly won't have a book club anymore since they cease to exist without Oprah's reccomendations, right?  

Rock on, America.

*I laughed while typing this because I haven't heard it used since Opie Taylor or Beaver Cleaver. I'm all over using this saying on the count of how cool it counds.

Like a Fox

Imagine that you're 19 again, and that instead of the world being your oyster, its your prison.
Imagine that instead of being given the keys to a new car, you have your right leg amputated at the knee.

Imagine that instead of being told how bright your job prospects were, you were informed that your chances for surviving this type of cancer were 50-50...up from 15% a few years before thanks to new (but expensive) research being done.

Imagine that instead of being wide open to your first job, you were suddenly confined to your first wheelchair.

Would you crumble?

Or would you win three Canadian National Wheelchair Basketball Championships?

Would you waste away from the cancer?

Or would you run? I mean, literally. Get up. Get a prosthetic leg with a clunky, late Seventies metal foot attached and teach yourself to run.

Would you cry about your plight?

Or would you attempt to raise $1 from each of your fellow Canadian citizens for cancer research by, get this, running across Canada?

Need a new hero? His name was Terry Fox. He died after his cancer spread to his lungs and robbed him of the ability to breathe. He died after dipping a gallon jug into the Atlantic ocean in St. John's Bay and setting out with a best friend driving in a donated Ford van alongside him with two goals:
1. Raise money for cancer cures and awareness.
2. Don't stop running until he could dump that water into the Pacific.

He died after running for 143 days in 1980. He ran with a painful gait on technology we wouldn't permit today. His right leg cut off at the knee would bleed and blister as the prosthetic went on grinding against his stump. His height changed with the limp. His back grew tired. He ran 3,339 miles. That's a marathon every single day. That is not a typo.

A few years ago, my wife started running. It was for a cause, but it was for herself too. She was good at it and found solace. An injury has forced her to tone it down and swim for cardio now, but I know she misses it. Running under streetlamps that would go out or come on just as she passed beneath them. The sign of her running angel.

I took her lead and started to run. Not as far and not as frequently, but I started. Then I quit. Started again. Quit for a while. It was like watching a bad last thirty seconds of "Intervention":
           (Fade to black)

"Chris ran for three months. His family visited him once after running and were elated."

        (Fade to black...new frame)

"In June, after a particularly long weekend at the lake and some pretty hot temperatures, Chris relapsed and stopped running."

        (Fade to black then show fat, slovenly Chris sitting on the couch eating a Ho Ho)

"He hopes to restart running some day. We just don't know."

I'm 40 and a little chunky in that, "well I'm 40 and don't always eat salad" kind of way. I want (and now have) exactly the inspiration I need to run far. Chugging up and down Ward Parkway for three or four miles ought to be less of a chore than I make it. I mean, I have two legs, and although I'm carrying a couple of extra chins (4), it's not as if there are any other physical restraints keeping me from going really far.

Maybe it's my equipment. Let's see...I have a shirt. Got some shorts and socks. SHOES! That's my excuse. They were like $12 at Target last spring after I finally blew out the sole in my $11 Target shoes I bought in 2003. Nope. They hold up just fine. In fact, I see plenty of people running barefoot all-ninja style these days. That dude from Discovery Channel's dual survival climbs volcanoes and kicks cactus without shoes.

No excuses.

I have a loaded iPod and a dog (named "Trotter" for cryin out loud) that starts to gnaw on his own leg if he doesn't run for an hour a day.
I have the perfect trail for running 20 yards from my front door.
I have a healthy body (with 4 extra chins) and pretty fair lungs.
I have a role model named Terry Fox.

He intended to raise $1 from every Canadian when he began his quest. There were 24 million of them at the time. He died having raised the eyebrows and hearts of every citizen, and his foundation has subsequently raised $500 million for cancer research.

There are 32 roads and streets names after Fox. There are 14 schools, 14 buildings and 9 running trails with his name in Canada. He has a mountain named after him and a Canadian Coast Guard ship.

A mountain.

Time to take these chins for a really far run.

A Common Sense of Humor

Things I Should Do More Often

-Run far
-Make tons of money and spend it/give it away each day
-Get up ten minutes earlier and pack a damned lunch
-Partake in "drawing contests" when my 8 year old begs it
-Go to soil service and find out what kills my grass every summer
-Listen to my own advice and leave my moody 13 year-old alone
-Watch the Daily Show with Jon Stewart

I've been preaching centrism and moderation for most of my adult life, and, thusly, have never really felt much of an allegiance to either political party. About a year ago, I wrote:

"Conservatives spit at Liberals...Liberals spit at Conservatives. Whatever doesn't hit one side in the face falls into the middle, and I make it my politics by sifting through the mud in the middle to find some rational understanding of the human heart and brain. Most of the time, I find solace in the middle. I can rationalize and empathize with the greatest rationalizers and empathizers in history...Most notably musicians, poets, comedians and huggers (not trees, but huggy people)."

That was in light of the big hubbub over schools not airing Obama's speech to school children. I could be wrong, but I think more and more people are joining me in the mud. The proverbial Pelosis and Palins keep on spitting across the political Mason Dixon line. Increasingly, the mud somehow seems the cleanest place to stand.

Nudging the muddied troops in the ribs with a big shit-eating grin is Jon Stewart.

Stewart plans his D.C. "Rally To Restore Sanity" as a not-so tongue in cheek tip of the cap to Glen Beck and is laying the common sense ground rules with sign suggestions that make me grin, really big.

-"Take it down a notch for America"
- "I'm not afraid of Muslims, Tea Partiers, Socialists, Immigrants, Gun Owners or Gays ... but I am scared of spiders."
-"Got Competence?"
-"I disagree with you, but I'm pretty sure you're not Hitler"
-"9/11 was an outside job."

Doesn't it make sense to step back and filter from time to time? In the same vein that 20% of the world has 80% of the money, 20% of the county has 80% of the venom, hatred and time to be a "winger". Those same people rile people up and give their respective Party a bad name with muddy centrists; creating rifts that lose elections by cutting off their nose to spite their face. I'm not going to even type the name  Christine O'Donnell.

I think a good sense would save our country. Sense of duty, sense of responsibility to self and others, sense of humor, and the ever fading and not-so-common common sense.

George Bush did not plan the 9/11 attacks to win an oil war. Obama is not a Muslim terrorist.

Depeche  Mode said it well back when I had hair, (a sweet soccer top swoop-mullet with badass bangs in case you're wondering):
~"People are people so why should it be, that you and I should get along so awfully?"

The answer, of course, is pride and ego and cowardice and envy and greed and sloth and every other reason that people argue, fight and divide. So no, I will not sit here and type Lenny Kravitz said it best in his lyrics to the song "Let Love Rule a bunch of lovey-dovey crap about turning the other cheek and loving thy neighbor...err..wait? When did that become uncool?

Anywho...I like Jon Stewart. He's smart. He gets the story straight, or tries to. He picks on everybody and demands sense where there is none. To top it off, he's damn funny (or his writers are) and that's why I need to make it a daily habit to watch the Daily Show. Maybe the country could save itself with a little common sense of humor.

Sticker Shock

A recent survey conducted by the Midwest Institute of Fabricated Surveys has revealed the top 5 experiences people most want to avoid, but cannot according to rules of society.

Number 5: The Awkward Office Hallway Head-Nod.
You know, the one you share with everyone in your office you either don't care for, or that you've never met, or that you've already said the Office Hallway Hello-To on that particular day. And heaven forbid you get the Head-Nod from someone you've already said Hello-To and you forget and say Hello-To for a second time in the same day. There are only so many shades of red.

Number 4: Renewing your tags
You know, the longest line ever, regardless of how many people are in it. I've been the second person in line before at the DMV to renew tags and still waited 4 hours to be helped because 1. everyone except the person helping the old lady in front of me took the day off, and 2. because the old lady in front of me was required to ask every conceivable question about tag renewal know to man in the slowest, loudest possible voice. Now I would never punch an old lady...again.

Number 3: Jury Duty
You know, the human gene pool meeting at City Hall. You're the only normal one there, and you get to sit in between people who are employing the Stanislavski Method for mental illness/incompetency to try for a pre-coffee excusal.

Number 2: Public Speaking
You know, everyone finding out you're a fraud and an idiot, and that you say "bowlth" instead of "both". People who die from this fear, and there are thousands of them per year, usually soil themselves front and back before kicking the bucket.

Number 1: Buying a Car (in a freaking landslide that makes the Stevie Nicks version look like a, uh, I don't know, a really small landslide.)
You know, the experience where you have your IQ reduced by 75 points the minute your feet hit the sales lot, and everyone wearing a name tag inherits those lost points. You know, the day you go home and scrub your hands harder than a brain surgeon with OCD to get the filth of being swindled from under your nails.

Well, sometimes fear is nothing more than a big old nasty lookin' self-fulfilling prophecy, that doesn't quite swallow you whole for one reason or another. I just went though meat grinder number 1 from above, and while I make it a point not to be overly gracious to anyone who hasn't endorsed or sponsored my blog, I did want to say a public thanks to Mike Williams and Molle Volkswagen in KC.

Two days of talking, test driving, education, haggling and getting to know him have changed my mind about the fear of buying cars. Don't get me wrong, I did lots of homework and tried to be as educated as possible, but there isn't a trick in the book that could have swerved him off the path of simply being an honest guy selling people a car. You can tell he loves what he does and that probably makes all the difference. If you're shopping for a Punch Dub in the KC Metro, go see Mike.

I think you'll leave with a car and without feeling lighter in the wallet. Who knows, perhaps you'll get the strength to leave the diapers at home the next time you have to give a presentation at work...

In the Mail: Honk if you're horny vs. Have a good day

I don't have many readers per se, but some of you are vocal enough to warrant reprint of your comments to me, both personal and public, regarding past blogs. In a sense, I'm ripping this idea from Bill Simmons, who ripped it from Dave Barry, who stole it from me during my days as a Branding Iron columnist in Laramie, Wyoming when I wrote a fake advice column under the pseudo-pseudonym "Dear Fred". In other words, these requests, discussion points and criticisms are mostly made up, but lend themselves to more funny fodder for me to expound upon.

Mary R. in Chicago emailed...

"A blog entry every three weeks? That's a little skinny, no? Maybe you could spend less time on Mario Bros. Wii and more time with a pen. You're the one calling yourself an aspiring writer."

Mary, thanks for the inspiring words. Also, thanks for somehow installing a web cam in my house and watching what I do when I'm not writing. How many fingers am I holding up?
To your point...I'm trying to be more energetic with words. I want to be profound and topical. Unfortunately, I have to go to work every day and make donuts. I'm tryin. You'll see.

Dave from Denver Co. emailed...

"I like your blog. It's insightful, creative and inspiring. It gives me something to talk to my friends and family with every day. You are a true wordsmith. Keep up the great work, Cory."

Hey Dave! Thanks for the note. However, I think you meant to send this to Cory Feldman. The full text you sent also refers to "Dream a Little Dream" and being "sorry for my loss...it's tough to say goodbye to your best friend" and things that make me think you meant to send it to Feldman. In fact, Feldman forwarded the one you intended to send me, and it read:

"Your blog is weird. I'm afraid I don't get it. Get linear."

Thanks for that Dave. If by linear you mean making reference to Eddie Vedder's beard gristle in the same sentence whereupon I'm trying to relay my disdain for Fyodor Dostoyevsky...I hear what your saying. It's a slippery slope.

Lisa from KC messaged me....

"Um, I kind of liked the blog about hackneyed phrases in the English language. I'm definitely not saying I like your blog. I don't. At least, not yet. It's not linear and it doesn't have enough, you know, content. But you could expand on that list of horrible phrases that need to go away and it might make me like it a little more. Maybe."

Lisa, you frighten children. But, I'm a sucker for even the most backhanded compliment...anything to make you happy.

And now for more non-linear and thinly sliced looks at anachronistic sayings we need to purge from our popular speech!

There have been moments when I caught myself saying or repeating something that made me wish I'd included it in the 2010 Banned List of Words and Phrases. There are simply hundreds of things we say to each other that are lazy and trivial and need to be sharpened and thought about or discarded. It's basically like having a clutter purge and grarage sale of the overused expressions we overuse without expression.

"A watched pot never boils."

Something someone says to you when you are anxious.
Imagine being 12 years old and waiting by the front door for your best friend to come and pick you up to go camping. Imagine your crusty old man walks into the room and glares at you and your backpack...glancing at his bare wrist to imply that he sees you have twenty minutes left to wait for the scheduled pickup time...

"A watched pot never boils," the watch-less old crankshaft says to you.
(How many fingers is he holding up when I turn my back on him, Mary in Chicago?)

What a stupid thing to say. A watched pot never...Yes it does. A watched or unwatched pot boils at 212 degrees farenheit. It takes a while to get there. You don't just snap your flipping fingers and have a cup of coffee. If you turn the heat up and stand there it'll boil pretty quickly. Hell, electric stoves these days can boil water in thirty three seconds. If you dunk a live hand grenade in a pot of water, it will boil.

What you mean to say is, "Stop being so anxious...it's pissing me off as a relaxed person who doesn't share your enthusiasm to watch you wait anxiously. My blood pressure is rising to match yours and I need to chill out and make you do the same.  I, too, wish your friend would arrive and whisk you away for the weekend so I can watch football in my underwear for the next 48 hours."

"Never say never and and never say always."

So dumb. I can tell you a million reasons why this is completely false.
1. I never want to press a thumbtack into my eyeball.
2. I always close my eyes when I sneeze.
3. I never shared a doobie with Chris Farley or John Belushi.
4. You always smile when you think about Chris Farley singing Fat Guy in a Little Coat."

Do I need to keep going? I always win this argument, and conversely I will never lose it.

"You staying out of trouble?"

People say this to you after you say hello to them. People say this to you when they don't know anything about you or what you do in your spare time. People just batter the snot out of this phrase one and it's not always pretty...

Father McDonaghy: "Hello there."

Person: "Hey Padre. How you been? You stayin out of trouble?"

Father McDonaghy: "Why? What have you heard?"

And while I can't remember using this phrase, it ranks right up there with the

I don't know or don't remember your name salutations we revert to in a crisis.

They include referring to someone as:

"Hey... Chief*"

* The list is massive, but accordingly shrunken to these examples

"Bud!"

"Man!"

"Dude!"

"Kiddo!"

"Fella!"

"You!"

"Holmes!"

"Stranger!"

And so on. We all do it. It's a shame these conversations can't be more honest.

Person approaching me: "Hey Chris...how've you been?"

Me: "I have been fine, person I think I should know! What is your name? This is weird. You called me by my name but I've temporarily forgotten yours."

Person standing in front of me shaking my hand with a blank stare on his face: "It's me, Casey."

Me: "Oh right! Casey! Man, great to see you old friend! You look terrific, Casey!"

Casey: "Keefe. Your brother. Casey Keefe."

Me: "Uh, well take it easy there, Chief."

In the world of customer service, there are some really annoying ones we need to toss out.

"Have a good day."

Even at your angriest, have you ever uttered the opposite to someone?

You: "Well, your service here is awful."
Waiter: "Sorry dude, we're understaffed."
You: "Have a shitty day."

Wanting someone to have a good day is pretty much implied. Unless you're talking about opposing soldiers in the battlefield, two people in the same vicinity of one another generally want the other one to have a good day. Even after the Super Bowl, 350 lb. lineman from different teams slap each other on the ass and say, "Good game. Have a good rest of your day."

We gotta come up with an alternate "walk away" phrase, or better yet, about twenty of them to put into rotation that actually express some meaning. I don't know, like...

"Don't get hit by a bus!"
"Exit through the door there and go back to your car. Drive home and enjoy surfing the internet for pictures of J-Wow."
"Don't forget to brush your teeth later."
"Honk if you're horny."
"I hope you find a ten dollar bill in an old jacket tonight."
"That was a weird conversation we had about the weather just now...let's promise each other to never do that again."
"I hope you win a radio call in contest this month!"
"You have a goofy face, but you were fun to chat with."


That's all for now. Have a good day.

Are you it?

Remember playing "tag" when you were a kid. Do you ever watch kids play tag now that you're grown? I chuckle watching the kid who unwittingly becomes "it". He take the responsibility so seriously. When you get tagged, you need to get rid if "it" and pass it on to someone else, chop chop. Being "it" kind of sucks, but hey...you're the one who got tagged. Do something about it....you can't just stand there. 

So I was talking to my Mom yesterday when this idea hit me. An exemplary citizen, my Mom, and quite possibly the most conscientious person walking the planet. As such, I draw a lot of my strength and inspiration from her. Let's face it, resiliency is never easy, especially when it comes to growing older, learning from mistakes and trying to become a better person. Stiffness is much easier. Rigidity comes naturally. Doing nothing is much easier than bending over backwards.

To my point, my Mom has the joyful task of grandmothering my 4 month old niece lots of weekends this summer. She and Quincy Rose have spent some really good time together (I'm jealous) and you can literally hear it in her voice. It gives her deep and sweet peace to be in the same room with her newest grandchild. My brother and his wife went through a lot to get to this point in their lives. They have been so patient and determined, and they are excellent parents in complete love with their daughter. They are lucky to have a grandmother nearby to free them up...and I know they appreciate that fact. But it takes a lot to commit your time every weekend. It takes a lot and she doesn't feel even slightly obligated. She'd have it no other way than to pack a suitcase and drive an hour there and back through 1-25 traffic. Sounds like a standard grandparent, but not everyone is like that.

You have to have giving in your blood. You have to work at it for a long time for it to seep into your veins. It gets easier over time. You get good at giving it all away and not feeling drained. You get back far more (silently) than you give. You don't get giving in your blood without resiliency and practice. You gotta do a lotta back bends.

As my Mom is telling me about her summer of repeated two and three day stays in Denver to watch QR, I'm wondering how impactful that intentional and quiet donation of your time could be if we re-directed it around our neighborhoods, workplaces and to strangers.

Here comes the liberal in me...tearing out from under my moderate summer skin.

You and I do not, as a rule, give enough of ourselves to others. You and I are selfish.

I know there have been countless national efforts to stir people to donate time or money to a charitable cause. I'm not talking about the (wonderful) Salvation Army or (fantastic) Habitat for Humanity. I'm not talking about organized volunteerism, not referring to any activity that yields you a T-shirt or a certificate of completion. I'm not even talking about Random Acts of Kindness. Those are terrific, but people could be overflowing with R.A.K if they were raised up right and taught to open doors for people and say "Bless you" to a sneezing stranger in the grocery store. Teach your kids to do that, please.

I'm talking about intentionally and specifically giving of yourself, your time and your effort all day every day on a conscious and subconscious level to people around you who are capable of doing the same once they see you mean it and it makes you feel good. I guess I'm talking about collectivism. And no, I'm not suggesting socialism.

I think we can live in this country and have progressive and capitalistic blood in our veins and still give it all away every single day...knowing that others would be giving it back in our direction. It would be hard work. It would require serious effort. It would be risky. (See Our Founding Fathers, Pioneers). And don't think I mean give away your fortune each night after a hard day of work. I don't think you should deposit your paycheck into a stranger's checking account. Moreover, I'm not advocating making the same deposit into a panhandling cup. But you owe somebody thirty minutes a day. After that, you can do what you want. If you still feel good giving after an hour, keep going.

I see it as three tiered, this notion of collectivism. On level one you've got Random Acts of Kindness. RAK's are quick, on the spot, and they feel good. Good to give and get. Few and far between sometimes, but evident in our culture and recognized when you give one or get one as going out of your way. On level three, you have full time selfless souls like Mother Theresa and a relatively short list of people who exclusively give without ever needing to receive. Most on this list refuse to receive anything in return for their full donation of self. So like any pyramid, there are very few people at the top, tons of people struggling to get up to and stay in the middle, and too many people piling up at the bottom doing little or nothing. TAG's are the way to get out of the cluttered basement. TAG's are your ticket to level two. Eat it, Abraham Mazlow.

I challenge you to commit a Targeted Act of Giving. It probably takes less than thirty minutes out of your life. TAG a person and keep giving to them unrelentingly and never ever question if they pass the TAG along. Intend to do all this silently and without them noticing. Trust that they will; like that insurance commercial where people see a guy hold the elevator open for a lady and then the lady from the elevator subconsciously passes on the random act of kindness and the world becomes more responsible...Except you do it on purpose. With all your heart and without expecting anything in return.

I can't tell you what your TAG is going to be. It would kill the spirit to try to list some ideas of what I think you might do, and I won't bore you with what I intend to do (or keep doing). But if you're having a hard time imagining what I'm suggesting, walk outside and look around you. Do you have a neighbor that could use some help with cleaning their gutters? Do you have a ladder and a free hour?

Go to work and look at your office mates. Does someone need an ear because they are having a really rough time with a spouse? Do you have an ear and ten minutes? Someone need $50 to get them through to payday? Don't expect it back, and put it in an unmarked envelope discreetly in their desk when they aren't looking.

Imagine your family tree as a giant mural...I can almost guarantee you that a phone call for no reason to someone on that tree would do some good.

Keep it going. Forge and don't expect thank you cards. Move on to giving to people who may not need anything. Be a pioneer about it. Give to those close to you...your friends, spouse or kids. Give them your time and energy. TAG them and see how they change. And be prepared to receive. Be prepared for people to return the giving in your direction. Accept it wholeheartedly and without guilt. You're "it" again, brothers and sisters.

Being "it" sucks, right? Not really. It is hard work and it means you have to go after people and leave your comfort zone. It means you feel alone, too. But if you smile, being "it" keeps the game going, and people keep playing.

Enough blabber. I got stuff to do.

I'm "it".

   

Fear and Self Loathing in Cleveland

This is my knee jerk, off the cuff, forgive me for the typo version of a blog I can't not write.

What the hell just happened?

I just spent really valuable time in my life caring about LeBron James, a guy who used to be a kid I liked. An athlete I used to admire for his talent. Another selfish idiot.

Who in the world deserves that type of adoration? NOBODY. I watched the entire "show".

I am the problem. I am the reason advertisers signed on and paid him to tell us he was selling out. I'm the fringe NBA fan that spent reserve time away from family to put up with that shit.

I cannot absorb the depth of selfishness I just witnessed.

Sorry Cleveland. As a KC resident I can sort of feel your pain. You guys loved that kid. You adored him. You invested 101% of your sports 401k in that kid (and maybe some of you put a couple bucks in Brady Quinn stock). You bought his jersey, watched his shoott arounds and listened to his talk show. You kicked Drew Carey to the curb for this kid and he just peed on your lawn.

I'm so pissed.

He had a chance to do something really cool with that TV show. Show some highlights. Talk about his choices. Wax poetic about life in Ohio. Introduce his newest teammate, Chris Paul and start down the road to Cleveland fame and lore. Even make sense of the setting. Instead, he uses this purchased time with ESPN to pimp out twenty kids from the Boys an Girls club ("Sorry kids...it's not the Knicks!") and ressurects Jim Grey to say nothing, do nothing, and make me feel like a complete idiot for caring about the NBA.

The NBA is the most selfish league in the world. I am an idiot for not realizing it until now.

This is all my fault.

Thank you Ubaldo Jimenez, Soccer, quiet signings like Paul "The most loyal guy in the world" Pierce, Paul Goydos for shooting a 59, women's beach volleyball and anything except the NBA for being around today.

Lebron, you could win 15 championships and you would still be the biggest sell-out, whore, misguided bandwagon guy I ever saw on TV. Of course, I lined your pockets tonight and watched the show, and I wrote this backlash blog...so you got what you wanted, what the "Stars" of the NBA all want...the spotlight.

Well, it's one bulb dimmer after that garbage.

In Memoriam

I spring from a weird generation. They call us Gen X. We don't quite fit a mold, and yet, as times inexorably moves along, we are now being primed to take over for our predecessors. We are about to be handed the keys to the car...and our folks are more than a little nervous.

What about Gen X'ers defines us? Where do we largely fall politically? How does our education, socioeconomic stratification and collective "world view" make us ready to get our learner's permit to test drive the planet?

When Roger Daltrey song "My Generation", he was talking about the color-bursting, edge-pressing side of his generation...The Me Generation. The Baby Boomers. The Hippies that turned Yuppies that turned Reagan Republicans that turned into what they are now...very possibly the last recipients for Social Security. They are my parents, and a generation that had it tougher than I did, but not nearly as tough as the one that preceded them. That is, of course, the way it always works. But the Boomers had really big shoes to fill. Impossible, you might say, and perhaps that's why they never felt comfortable in their own skin. For all the growth and wealth and achievement the Boomer's felt, something was always missing.

I was born in the twilight of the Vietnam conflict. My Father served in the military. My uncle served in Vietnam. My maternal and paternal Grandfathers fought in World War II. I pay my deepest thanks and respect to those men and women who have given me the freedom to own a piece of the Internet where I can write nearly anything I choose without fear.

Gen X'ers always have had war, or conflict. So, in a way, did the Boomers. They were largely conceived in the shadows of Armistice Day, but were ushered into their teens in the backdrop of Korea, and bore the brunt of the horrors Vietnam produced. But when I say that my generation has always had conflict, I don't mean we had more wars or skirmishes in our youth to deal with than our parents and grandparents did...I mean that we saw it each and every day with our own eyes. And got kind of sadly used to it.

It strikes me that the two generations of Americans that fought hardest to preserve our freedoms and maintain peace for their own children were the same bright minds that invented all the channels by which war and starvation, slavery and brutality are now shown to us via television, movies and the Internet all 24 hours of any given day. Perhaps it was meant to be, that for future kids to understand the freedoms they take for granted, the spoken or written word was never enough. Filmmakers had to generate hours of footage, re-create those images into the scores of movies, documentaries television mini-series, books and video games that remind the viewer of what happened.

Now, with the Internet, you can watch war any time you like. You can see murder and brutality any time you like. You can witness oppression whenever the mood strikes you. I'm numb. We're numb. My Father had to be told what it was like by his own Father and their friends.

We have Afghanistan. Iraq parts I and II. Homeland terrorism, and hot spots around the globe that flare up all the time. There are certain to be places we are fighting that you and I aren't even supposed to know about. We have the threat of Kim Jong Il. We have the insanity spewing from Ahmadinejad. We have little Hitlers challenging us to an arm wrestling match every morning for breakfast. We're numb. We don't get it.

We don't know how scary it must have felt to get on a ship, and have no idea where in the world we were headed. To never have heard the words Guadalcanal or Okinawa or Hiroshima. The world was massive back when my Grandfathers were handed the keys. It was HUGE.

Now, my kids can watch a border skirmish in Dar fur on a web cam. They can see troops patrolling the dunes in Kabul with a mouse click. Totally numb.

The Boomers are handing us their own modified, souped up version of the keys to the world. It's a lot smaller now, and fits in your hand. It's easy to start, self-navigating and can parallel park itself. So you wouldn't think we'd be able to screw it up...but we might. If we don't hold on to some of the basics and remember from where we came, we might. Happy Memorial Day. Do yourself a favor and call or seek out a vet from WWII today and listen in for a while. I'm lucky enough to be able to call my Grandpa, and I plan to.

(Not at all) Sad

Forgive my overstating the importance of a stupid concert from last week, but I memorialize May 3rd, 2010 for my own bad memory, the memory of my kid down the line, and my own Dad who wants to know how it went...

The KC Pearl Jam Review Slash-Blog-Slash Best Concert of My Life Blog

I was really nervous, which is saying something because I never get uptight about anything (Insert M*A*S*H* canned laughter) let alone about how this experience would "go" for me and the boy.

Bear in mind that I'd just paid for his first stick of deodorant about 10 days before...at his request.
Bear in mind that I am an idiot compared to other people on this planet that know about cool things, music and fun.

So, I was nervous that I would embarrass the hell out of Sam and push a "great time" on him and force laughter and act way too cool and just blow the whole thing...well, because that's what you do as a Dad.

We both put on concert t-shirts (with long sleeve undershirt). It was instinct. Nobody mentioned it. You don't talk about things like that, you simply let it ride.

We drove to the Sprint Center with my I-Pod on full Pearl Jam mode...him driving (the song selection) and me allowing him to drive. He did a good job. He mixed it up, moving from "Daughter" to "Amongst the Waves" and collapsing with "Red Mosquito" at 20th and Grand.

We argued (philosophically) about the first song we thought they'd play as we sauntered about the spring/city/evening traffic. He voted for "Sad" which he knows is my favorite song they ever wrote, and it hit me then like a frickin Mack truck...This kid was listening to me at some point in his life. We have contentious times. He doesn't always like me, but...he gives a shit about my opinion. He cares about the old man a little bit. We...are...friends?

I played that song for him two years ago. Found it on an AOL sessions website that captured some great studio time on giant Persian rugs with all of the band playing surrounded by about 95 guitars and no audience. It's real and raw and right here if you want to watch it. It remains a favorite place of mine to visit in ye olde cyberspace if I'm searching out a place to feel right.

Anyway, I shared that video with Sam a while ago and he asked me later why it wasn't in my ITunes library.

I had no good answer. After all, it was my "favorite song".

He got an ITunes gift card for his birthday and dropped 99 cents of it on me one night. He burned the single song CD for me. He gives a shit what I say. We're buds.

We parked at the Cashew (you know, for the free parking) and jogged to make the opening act. I think I felt as alive and ready at that moment as I have in a long time when it came to being a Father... simply because I was back in control and not being guided by anything other than a desire to make that moment happen without pretense. It was like his birth. Ironic and contradictory though it sounds.

We fought the dopies and moshers in the halls with joy. Every person we saw was a freak and a brother. They all had the same love for the place they were in as we did. Sam took all of it in stride...the swearing, stammering, crowding, screaming, beer spilling and the grinning. I saw it in his eyes that he got it. He knew that this was an exception to the norm...that this was an adventure to soak in.
This was a pool to not fear swimming in.
These were people that would never laugh at his dance moves.

We tried to buy a $3 poster before the show got underway but missed out. It was ideal (price for me and longingly viewed by him as we passed it on display) for us all, but ultimately, I couldn't pay the drunkest guy on the concourse 10 bucks for the same cardboard tube the vendor sold out of- so we decided that souvenirs were not part of the plan.

Seats...great. View of the stage...great. Opening act (Band of Horses)...great. Anticipation...great. The feeling we shared when the lights dimmed and the bass start to hum was just marvelous.

They played for two and a half hours and honestly never let up from the minute they took the stage except to reload on water or wine or a smoke. They played everything in the arsenal. It was so great. I don't even want to ruin how terrific that show was by trying to over-talk it.

We left with our ears ringing and heads spinning from the dopey behind us with the one-hitter who couldn't stand up. Sam knew what all the chaos was, whether he understood the delivery method or the brazen smokey discord that surrounded him. We took it all in stride and and I kept watching his eyes. They were fixed on the stage. On the way out of the front door I proudly invested in a tour t-shirt for him.

As we got close to the car, he asked me why they didn't play "Sad".

I didn't have an answer for him, but I definitely wasn't sad they hadn't. It was the best concert I ever saw.

I parted, and it was worth it.

So last night, I buzzed on over to the 75th street brewery wearing a blaze orange "golf" shirt I bought at TJ Maxx (where you get the max for the minimum) for about $7 and I sent an email to some person I'd never met and told him/her that I'd be at the bar wearing an orange golf shirt. My phone hummed a couple of times and the email reply came, "See you there."

It could have been that creepy dude from Dateline waltzing in with cameras blazing.
It could have been my next door neighbor.
It could have been some 80 year old feller with metal hips. I didn't know.
Maybe it was gonna be 25 kids with billy clubs come rushing at me to steal the $170 bucks and go wilding.
Maybe...just maybe, it would be Jen Aniston.

But whoever it was that agreed to meet me, sight unseen, in a local brewery to exchange a hundred and seventy smackers for two tickets to see Pearl Jam next week would know my shirt color and name...and I would not know theirs. It dawned on me that I'd tipped my hand. This person could order a beer, spot me from across the room and have a little fun. They could send me another email and watch me open it. It could say, "You said orange. That's not orange. This deal is dead." Then, they could watch me look at my shirt and swear at my phone, and text back, "Ok, burnt TJ Maxx Orange." They could make me wait since they had hand and I had zilch. They were up one with none to play.

But instead, old Joe strode up. He tapped me on the shoulder (see: scared the shit out of me) and called me by name with a hearty handshake. It occurred to me that I could get even with this guy if I just stared at him and said, "No, my name is Stacy," and then went back to staring at the Royals blowout on the flat screen behind the bar (8-1 loss to the less pathetic Jays.)

We exchanged pleasantries, then some Larry David deep-eye stares to affirm trust levels and some careful perusing of the merch. He wanted more than ever in his life to own a counterfeit pen, and I wanted the number to Ticketmaster Fraud department. We settled for the handshake and each other's new found enjoyment of Band of Horses (the opener) to serve as proof that the transaction was cool.

I parted with $170, and it was worth it. I get to take my teetering-on-the-edge-of-puberty first born son to see Pearl Jam in two weeks. I'm horrendously cheap, so this was a big deal for me. I tried winning tickets on 96.5 The Buzz for almost 58 straight hours when they went on sale, but couldn't channel the luck and wisdom of Sgt. Todd B. Hays to assist me in that attempt. I tried throwing the Facebook status post of "Looking for PJ tickets!" in the hope some lovely friend would giggle and retort.."I like this...thumbs up! And, I have two tickets I won't use! Come get them!"

Nothing worked. Eventually I broke down and helped churn the American system of bartering and trading, commodities and exchanges, haves and have not's, and ticket mastering come to full circle. I moved the dial on Wall Street and coughed up real dough for something I didn't need. Write it down. The Recession is over...I used Craigslist.

I love a lot of bands. I really, really love music. I can't honestly go very long without humming or singing something or listening day-long to my Ipod really quiet. I wake up with some song in my head every single morning. When the a.m. shower time rolls 'round, I'm trying hard to sing "Sweet Caroline" out loud just to shake whatever other tune has been crammed in my cranium.

I really love Pearl Jam.

I know they're too commercial for some people. They're too liberal for others. They're over-rated. They're undershaven. They're past their prime. They peaked at Ten. I don't really care about all that.

They lived my life with me. They played for multiple bands in the mid to late 80's and early 90's. They collaborated and sent me Mother Love Bone, Temple of the Dog, Mad Season and ultimately, a refined version of Mookie Blaylock. They matured as I matured. They screamed and leaped and threw shit as I did. They grew hair and wore flannel and lost hair and got glasses when I did. They got married and got smarter and chose a path when I started to reckon.

Luckily for me, both of my boys allow me to over fill them with my love for Pearl Jam. They scream the line "I just want to scream, Hello!" during E.W.B.A.C.I.A.S.T and they savor the simplicity of Vedder's solo pluckings on "Rise" and "Soon Forget" when Eddie has only a ukulele and his heart. You may know the former now if you watch Discovery Channel have seen the promo for the new season of Deadliest Catch.

I simply can't imagine a life where one day I look at my kid and say, "I was going to take you to see Pearl Jam when you were 12. But, it didn't work out. "

You might as well throw in, "So, how's prison?" at the end of that statement as much as I'm sure I'd have failed him as a Dad. See, it wasn't just to churn the Ticketmaster circle of life or to re-awaken Wall Street that I parted with the cash...

It was to keep Sam out of jail. And it was well worth it.

The Recipe for Happiness

What exactly constitutes a "good day"?

Humans ask each other, "How was your day?" every single day. Not a day goes by that someone doesn't reply..."I had a good day." It's almost as bad as asking, "How are you?" without really wanting an answer...

My favorite answers to the BS version of the question, "How are you?"
-"I'm on the right side of the dirt."
-"If I was any better I'd punch you in the mouth. Lucky for you I'm just OK."
-"I am depressed and angry. Do you have fifteen minutes? It started when I was twelve and I visited my Uncle's farm..."

Sometimes I'd much prefer to reply to "How was your day?" with...

"Rot in hell. Go eat a fern and quit smiling."
"You don't really care at all, I can tell by the way you haven't even looked up from your meatloaf."
"Just give me my groceries, Wanda...Cashier with 3 Years of Service."
"My day was loaded with disappointment and trimmed with chaos. Can I get a family size pepperoni and a side of shut-up-and-make-my-pizza?"

I never do this, partly because its rude to be honest with people. There's also the commonly held notion that a meaningless icebreaker question or interruption of silence between strangers should be dealt with in the most pleasant way. Like pretending to be on your phone in a really important conversation as you pass a panhandler on a crowded street...

Panhandler (spots you from 100 yards and stares, then walks toward you)...
You (Answering a "call" from a dying friend): "Hi Leroy...how the heck are you? I heard you were terribly sick!!" (loud)
Panhandler: "Tryin' to make a down payment on a cheeseburger...can you help me out?"
You: (Pointing to the phone with an expression of, "I would but I'm on a really important phone call with my dying best friend.."): "Sorry friend! God bless!"

Magically, your friend is cured 15 feet later and just in time for you to go shopping for a book at Barnes and Noble. You weren't rude...just not in the mood.

But what happens when you have a truly, authentically, unforeseen and wholly unexpected Good Day? How can you capture this feeling and replay it for someone without being drippy or sounding disingenuous? How often does is even happen??

Ice Cube laid out a good day in song once. It included getting high, not getting shot and hanging out. For Bill Gates or Alan Greenspan, that would not be a good day. But for a kid from Compton...pretty good. If Greenspan even owned an AK, it would not be a very good day. So you see, a good day is clearly in the eye of the beholder.

If Lebron James scores 11 points in front of 10,000 people and gets paid $145,000 for the effort, he would get booed off the court. He would have to answer questions about his mediocre day for hours after the game. He would spend the rest of the evening hearing it from his teammates.

If Fennis Dembo could un-retire and score 11 points in front of 10,000 people and get a check for $145,000...that would be a good day. Ya'll Wyoming folks know what I'm talkin about.

I had a good day today. It wouldn't pass as a good day for Carlos Santana or Martha Stewart, but it was a good day. I wanted to tell you about it because I realized that they just don't happen very often once I gave it some thought. Every day is not a highlight reel for most people. Every day is boring. Sometimes, every day is like Sunday and everything is silent and gray. But once in a while, you simply beg with your eyes for someone to ask how your day was, so that you can explode on them with your joy. It doesn't have to entail a visit from the Publisher's Clearinghouse or Shakira's car breaking down in your driveway, either. Sometimes a good day can spring from simply achieving what you set out to achieve.

When you get up tomorrow and look at your to-do list, go ahead and erase it and put your clothes on backward. Take an alternative route to the office and call your Aunt Judy for no reason. Fix that damn garage door handle and spring for lunch for a total stranger. Make a big deal out of how nice your spouse looks, and hug your kids extra hard. Take your neighbor's newspaper up to their front door and change a light bulb in your basement that you've intended to change since August.

Whatever you do...do it because it makes you feel good and because it needs to get done and it benefits someone else as well. Then, and maybe only then, you can gush about what a great day you had. If that doesn't pan out, just keep faking it with the kid at Papa Murphy's.

A Lottery Dreamblog

I need to put this all down before I forget...it's been an absolutely crazy day and if I don't pen the plan, I'm gonna explode. This is a big week, and everything needs to go off right.

Tomorrow is Monday, and I get my big oversized check (I actually got and spent most of the money last week) down at Sprint Center. Tickets to the event went on sale this morning and were gone by noon...even at a hundred bucks a pop. Nobody wants to see me get my check for $113 million (lump sum after taxes) bad enough to pay...but I had the idea to hold a Haiti benefit concert at the same time and U2 were kind enough to headline. I was a little shocked that Pearl Jam agreed to open for them, but it substantiated the ticket price. Their decision to tour the States together this summer was theirs, though I might have suggested it to Bono and Eddie over drinks Saturday at The Well. (Wink-wink, nudge-nudge.) I gladly took them up on the offer to tag along with them, and my kids needed some additional music lessons anyway, so they'll spend the summer with Edge and Mike McCready on the road.

After the show I've got to beat feet for LA to do the Conan O'Brien show's first official FOX taping. He's a good dude, Conan, even letting me bring my co-workers. They're friends of Coco from way back, and it was their writing letter campaign alongside my "donation" to Rupert Murdoch that got the show back on the air. I understand Conan's desire to make a splash with the first show-and believe me, I'm humbled to be considered for a quick spot at all-but I'm afraid it might get dicey having Leno and Letterman on the couch at the same time. I'm just glad the audience will have already enjoyed the the newly reunited Led Zeppelin three song set in case Jay and Dave get cold feet.

Tuesday starts in the air as we leave L.A. and head to Colorado to meet all my western friends and family for a quick house hunting get together. Looking for something spacious in the Denver area...might have to "settle" for Aspen. There should be around 200 of us searching for the Colorado palace and doing lunch somewhere in the mountains until about 2:00. Once I pay for the house, we head to Arizona to get the winter retreat picked out. I talked to United and they agreed to just take all of us on a DC-10 for the week (so if your reading this, pack your bags!) Kind of random that Captain Sullenberger will be our pilot for the week...but hey, life is weird that way.

Tuesday night we've got the Super Bowl at Cardinals Stadium. Well, not the actual Super bowl, but the mother of all Super Bowls. One of my buddies dreamed this up the day my winning numbers got pulled. He suggested that I use some of the cash to entice all my childhood heroes out of retirement to play in one last game...split them into equal teams and hire John Madden and Erin Andrews to call the thing. Murdoch helped finance, and after my Executive Producer cut, I'll recoup the ten million I invested in the idea and make ten million more off my share of the TV revenues. FOX is having a nice little week, too. Simon Cowell is our sideline reporter and apparently has never seen a football game, so it should be sweet. Elway versus Montana...Deion Sanders matches up against Jerry Rice...you get the picture. They'll all be there. None of them even flinched at the stipulation that they go 100% or get benched. I'm pumped.

Wednesday, the entourage heads to the Keefolympics in Vancouver. We had the IOC leave everything intact following the games. I just figured people would have a good time trying each of the events. I'm looking forward to ski jumping and luge. The Boblsed has a long sign up list...as does curling. Budweiser agreed to cater the whole week as long as they could be the title sponsor for the curling match (we're having it televised since it's Fergie's favorite sport and she's tagging along for the day and then doing a show Wednesday night). I'm not sure if my Laramie/Casper friends are ready for my KC friends or the level of competition the curling match up will provide, but we'll figure it out. We're also going to have a Cornhole/Bags tournament televised around lunch on CBS. Nantz is a huge bag-tosser and graciously accepted the Captain spot for one team since it will pit him against Bobby Knight on the other side. ESPN is pissed they couldn't get a piece of the action. they wanted to call it the "Fergalympics". Lame.

Thursday is a more somber day. We fly to Haiti and work all day...it's not much, but we'll have raised 50 million plus from the concert, legalized book betting on the Super Bowl and Keefolympics action (I negotiated a 20% take from Steve Wynn) and we need to spend it quickly, efficiently and in person. The 150 orphans we've rescued will be flown to their new homes by Captain Sullenberger next week.

Friday we head to Hawaii for some R&R. This time we've opened it up to more friends and family, and United agreed to lend us three jets. We land and hook up with Dog the Bounty Hunter for a quickie demonstration and then reunite with Eddie Vedder for a morning surf. The Radiohead concert is our lunch entertainment (even though Thom Yorke isn't much of a sunbather) set against the fading sun on Waikiki beach. Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews round out the night show. They're touring in celebration of the Marijuana Legalization Act of 2010. I don't smoke it, but I talked to some people on behalf of some friends and, BAM! Next thing you know, the bill becomes a law. I had no idea the power of a little Washington grift. I just got a text from Mathematician Malcolm Gladwell...it says, "Crime dwn 85% after passing the MLA bill. U were rite. Gd jb!"

Saturday it's the big finale...back to the Sprint Center for the celebration of the return of our troops from Iraq and Afghanistan. All of downtown KC is being cornered off for the parade from the Wheeler airport to the Sprint Center. The White House will be there, of course, along with anyone wanting to celebrate International Peace Day. I'm still amazed how paying 5 million to Dog the Bounty Hunter yielded such quick results in capturing Bin Laden. It was over in 2 days and worth every penny. Hell, he gave the money to the New Orleans rebuild project anyway, so it was a double win. What a joke of an organization the Al-Queda turned out to be...cut off the head and the rest die like roaches. Mass suicide is never pretty, but at least they didn't take anyone with them. In less than a week, Bagdhad has become the new Prague. Airlines can't spend the tourist-flared dollars fast enough to remove seats and make their planes more comfortable to accommodate the demand for now-safe international travel.

Now that unemployment is less than 1% world wide, Sunday will be a day of total rest in order to get everyone recovered for the return to the workplace Monday. Some attribute the meteoric rise in new industry to the Bin Laden capture. Fear disintegrated, people started looking around and getting off their ass. Travel skyrocketed, the tourism industries of the world swelled and needed workers and the dominoes fell fast. Stocks rose, governments stopped bailing, banks started repaying, taxes decreased, jobs sprung out of the ground. What a great week the economic recovery was. It's nice. People are happy again.

I need stop by Quick Trip on my way to work Monday to get another Powerball ticket since we haven't solved the energy crisis yet. Don't let me forget...I have a busy week.