Archive for February, 2014

This Would Have Been So Great

February 28th, 2014

If you had told me when I was a child that I could pay a mere ten dollars a month to see WWE pay-per-views, I would have been so excited.


If you had told me that not only could I get their pay-per-views but EVERY pay-per-view they had ever done up to that point, whenever I wanted to see them, that would be even more incredible.


Add to that the ability to watch pay-per-views and television shows from old pro wrestling companies (like the AWA, WCW, ECW) and I could watch these whenever I wanted, that’s like setting me loose in a candy store.


For ten dollars a month. It sounds so good. My body (odor) is ready for the WWE Network. But my mind is not. I don’t want to give the WWE any of my money.


You know how you non-wrestling fans watch The Walking Dead or Boardwalk Empire or whatever and you hate it when the show spends too much time on one specific character? Like you really hate them and they are boring and their story is boring and you wish they would move on to something else?


Imagine if Boardwalk Empire decided that Nucky Thompson was no longer the focus of the show and decided to shift the focus to his ex-wife Margaret. In an hour-long show, Margaret and her life was the main focus and Nucky was relegated to the sub-plot or sub-sub-plot and precious little screentime. The viewers would stop watching the show. That’s what WWE does to its’ fans. They put the focus on the wrong guys.


It wouldn’t be a problem if the WWE were actually like Game Of Thrones and was taped months in advance of its’ premiere. But it’s not, it’s a live show in front of a audience of thousands of people who paid to cheer and boo.


What’s the most common wrestling trope? Good guy vs. bad guy. One guy exists to be cheered and one to be booed. But what happens if the audience boos them both? That’s what we’ve got right now in WWE. The “feud” between Randy Orton (the bad guy we’re supposed to hate) and Batista (the good guy we don’t care and boo out of boredom). Meanwhile, there is a good guy the audience wants to see take on Randy Orton, and that’s Daniel Bryan (who has grown out his beard and hair like Communist Jesus). This is worse than watching Margaret Thompson work in an insurance office or that one Stark daughter who always sits around waiting for someone to marry her.


This is why I can’t give the WWE my money. They won’t listen to their fans. If I give them my money, I’m condoning their dumb anti-fan, anti-fun ways.


WWE is what Saturday Night Live would be like if Mitt Romney were executive producer.



A Dream About Eddie Kingston

February 22nd, 2014

The following is true in that I had a dream that featured pro wrestler Eddie Kingston and chose to write down the details of it in order to tweet it to him.

Eddie Kingston: a man who doesn't want to hear about your dreams

Eddie Kingston: a man who doesn’t want to hear about your dreams


A young Eddie Kingston quits high school and runs away because people are firing arrows at him.


He keeps running and soon he is in Southern California running down a gravel road. Sometimes he stops and hits the deck as a top-down convertible passes by aiming machine gun fire at him.


He continues to run like Forrest Gump in that jogging montage. A song is playing with vocals from a unknown vocalist. Eddie chimes in for a verse of the song, which turns out to be about him.


The untitled-so-we’ll-call-it “Ballad of Eddie Kingston” ends up being thirty minutes long and the second half of it is sung by Steve Perry of Journey. The “ballad” becomes a major hit and is praised for being, as this reviewer puts i,t “the ‘Alice’s Restaurant’ or ‘American Pie’ of contemporary Christian rock-pop.”


Eddie attempts to long-jump the first paved road he sees. It is a busy street with a median. He clears the median but lands on the hood of a moving car.


The song is adapted into a movie, as Eddie plays himself in a post-apocalyptic California trying to protect a family of three from top-down convertibles driven by atheist thugs who shoot the hashtag #justfacts into the open.  Damien Sandow has a cameo in the movie, dressed like Aladdin.


After the #justfacts drive-by, Eddie tells the family about his fall from faith. He talks about traveling across the country to half-heartedly tell schoolkids to worship Jesus and not do drugs. In his school lectures, he makes up a story about playing on the soccer team and trying pot for the first time while rehabbing for a leg injury.


I woke up after that.

You Cannot Do It!

February 21st, 2014

Dear podcasters and fans of podcasts,


It has come to my attention that many of you have started your own podcast or online audio show. Congratulations on your latest venture. Hopefully the time you spend on this will prevent you from starting a band.


In your life, you have probably heard a lot of radio. You have seen the talking heads on TV. The little chatterboxes with with their own soapbox and access to millions of viewers and listeners. Perhaps this inspired to say “I can do that. I’m at least as terrible as that person.”


I hate to inform you of this but with the exception of a privileged few, you are not as good as that person on the radio or TV. Pick a broadcaster you can’t stand and think should be shot into the sun via nuclear cannon. That person is better at broadcasting than you. You cannot do their job better than them.


I know this because I’ve heard your podcasts. I’ve heard you turn on the computer mic and sit around the room. Because of this, I’m familiar with your air conditioning and heating patterns. If I wanted to hear you say “um” and “uh” a bunch, I would just have a conversation with you. You want me to give you five stars on iTunes. You want me to give you a participation ribbon. You don’t want honest criticism.


The hosts who tend to have the best podcasts are people who have experience talking and communicating to large groups of people. Performers. Stand-up comedians are thriving with podcasts right now (Marc Maron, Bill Burr, Doug Benson, and Joe Rogan being just a few examples). You are not them. You can’t go on stage and stand in front of crowd. I myself couldn’t do it if I weren’t playing music in a band. Save yourself the embarrassment of hearing these later on down the road: Podcasts are the modern equivalent of 1970s polaroids of your dad wearing a medallion.


This will not stop you. “Anyone can play guitar” (c). But can you do it well. Can you keep people listening? That is how you will inevitably know.

I Fantasize That I Am Not Me

February 12th, 2014

What I am about to share with you is something I have never thought to share with anyone.


In my daydreams, I fantasize that I am not me. There is another me in my fantasies and that is the substitute for the real me. The distance between the real me and the not-real me is so wide.


I get it, Hollywood. I get why you cast good looking people in lead roles instead of normal or schlubby character actors. Maybe when we daydream, we don’t see ourselves as ourselves. We see ourselves as Bradley Cooper or Jennifer Lawrence or whoever. Nobody ever daydreamed of being Philip Seymour Hoffman (RIP).


Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m the only one. Maybe I’m the only one who has fantasies that I’m not me. No physical resemblance at all. I should ask a professional if this is normal. I hate looking at pictures of me. They don’t reflect what I see in myself, or what I want to imagine I am.


All the world is a stage. Nearly all of us are extras, which means nobody spent any time on us in makeup or wardrobe. What a gyp.

I Went To Double Dogs

February 10th, 2014

If you are in the mood for good food in a sports bar type of setting you can do better than Double Dogs in Bowling Green, Kentucky. It would not be difficult. There’s a Buffalo Wild Wings down the block, for example.  I could end this review right now but I won’t.


Double Dogs is where the old Tumbleweed used to be on Scottsville Road. Even though the restaurant has changed, the music they play is the same: Eric Clapton, Bon Jovi, Eric Clapton, Eric Clapton, Dire Straits, Cream, Derek & The Dominoes, and Eric Clapton. They have lots of TV screens so you can watch sports games but this is February and NFL is over and basketball isn’t interesting yet so I attempted to watch a Premier League game where Piffleton and West Undergut United played to a scoreless tie.




Apparently, Double Dogs has some really cushy booths but I wouldn’t know because my party didn’t get to sit in one of those. We had to sit on a raised table on some stools that made my butt hurt. I hate raised tables and I hate sitting on stools. Your restaurant is not a bar. It is a restaurant. Stop trying to be a bar, restaurants.


Mary ordered a cheese dip appetizer, which was presented on a plate and the cheese dip looked like a Nerf ball that termites had somehow gotten to but Mary seemed to enjoy it and she was the only one who had any. I looked around and saw people at other tables eating nachos out of silver dog bowls. I found this disturbing. I realize it keeps with the theme of “dog” but how could any customer think that eating out of a bowl is novel.


Fortunately, my meal was served to me on a plate like a normal person. I had a bbq bacon burger with hand cut fries. It’s hard to screw that kind of thing up, and they didn’t. Big Dave got the same except for onion rings and I think he liked them a lot. Jon ordered a ten-inch pepperoni pizza and didn’t even get through half of it. He offered me a slice and I couldn’t even finish it. How hard is it to screw up pepperoni pizza? There was a big cold glob of tomato sauce (paste?) on top of my slice and I scraped it off and took another bite and decided that America had too much freedom.


I like food. I like sports. I like combining these two things, whether I’m eating a snack and watching a game or inventing a new sport called “Semi-Full-Contact Fried Chicken Softball/MMA.” Don’t go to Double Dogs if that’s what you want. Go to a restaurant where the servers wear tight pants or tight shorts or don’t admit to you how sick they are before they bring your food out.


God is dead and Double Dogs is the proof of this.





Out of Nowhere, A Childhood Memory

February 5th, 2014

I wanted to share a memory with you from my childhood.


My grandfather had been in the hospital. I don’t remember what it was but it may have been a heart attack, as he had a few of those. I might have been five or six years old. We were going to see him in the hospital, and I remember running down the aisle as fast as my little legs could take me just to get to him.


My family yelled for me to stop and walk with them but I couldn’t. I felt compelled to run to him. I saw him standing in the hallway, in a gown with the back out and he was attached to an IV drip. I ran and I ran and I ran and he held out his arms for me and had the biggest smile in the whole world and I ran and wrapped my arms around him.


I ran past orderlies pushing carts and nurses and people in wheelchairs and stretchers. There was every chance I could get clipped in my tiny underdeveloped skull by anyone on a blind corner. I didn’t know or care and nothing felt as good as hugging my grandfather. I have been running back and ignoring the risks around me just to get him ever since. Just to tell him I’m here and so is he and I love him.

There’s Always A Catch

February 3rd, 2014

There is always a catch. There is always a price to pay for the good times. A silver lining will always keep you from cutting through the clouds.


You are not a winner. You have a predisposition to losing. If you are lucky, you win just enough to not quit altogether.


Are you a sports fan? Do you root for perennial winners like the Patriots or the Cardinals or the Heat? I’m sorry to tell you this but you are the Cleveland Browns of your own life.


You were meant to lose. This is what you were put on the Earth for. Resistance is futile.


Give yourself up. You are completely surrounded. Come out with your hands up.