Land O Lakes: Eight Things I've Learned About Minnesota

Minnesota has proclaimed itself "The Land of 10,000 Lakes". I've been here for approximately 26 hours and have personally only counted one...and that was primarily because, from the air, it strikingly resembled the Notre Dame angry leprechaun logo. So I can neither confirm, deny or accurately quantify this claim, but hey, let's give them the benefit of the doubt. But remember Minnesota, self applying a nickname is pretty darn cheesy. Just ask Wisconsin.

Eight things I've learned about Minnesota:

1. It's Minneapolis...not Mini-Apolis. It wasn't until the third time I asked if Proper-Apolis was where all these supposed lakes were that the cab driver told me. (annoying)

2. Contrary to popular belief the people are actually very friendly. But know very little about actual lake quantities. (annoying)

3. You are NOT greeted at the airport gate with a lei made of hockey pucks. (annoying)

4. It's situated right in the heart of what is known as The Bible Belt.
* If the bible you read involves eating fried cheese curds until your belt explodes like a pressurized space capsule hatch

5. There's a guy that works in the Minnesota Vikings Team Store at the beautiful new USBank Stadium that can tell you the city each popular American soft drink was born in. Seriously. He sprung this skill on me as soon as the store's entrance door closed behind me.

Purple Man: "Where are you from?"

Me: "Charlotte, North Carolina."

Purple Man: "Pepsi!"

Me: "I beg your pardon?"

Purple Man: "That's where Pepsi was born...blah, blah North Carolina." (he said a city but I was too busy trying to get away to listen)

Me: "Awesome. Well, you have a goo..."

Purple Man: "I know where all soft drinks were born. Go ahead ask me anything. NO, not about lake quantities, about soft drink birthplaces."

Me: "Dammit. Uh, ok...Coke..."

Purple Man: "Atlanta, Georgia...any idiot knows that."

Me: "There's no call to get nast..."

Purple Man: "Just shut up and bring your A-game."

Both of us now annoyed, this battle of wits went on for a good two or three minutes. It was like talking to a purple-emblazoned Rain Man: "Yeah, Coca-Cola was definitely born in Atlanta, definitely Atlanta." I tried to stump this little corn-syrup-encrusted wizard but couldn't get anything by him.

6. The urinals at the Mini-Apolis Airport have courtesy nooks to put your treasured belongings on. I arranged mine very Funk Schway...even stooping down to eye level with my spectacles on to make minute but crucial adjustments. Then I took a whiz and left

7. They like their scrambled eggs dry. Like, not just without extra moisture...we're talking sands of the fucking Mojave Desert dry. Clark Griswold's Christmas turkey (whose voice sounds like a young Chris Rock) was like, "Damn, these are some dry-ass mo-fukkin eggs."

8. They grow grass on the roofs of buildings. Someone said it had something to do with Global Warming. Now when I was a kid, my older brother, who shall remain nameless, was quite the green thumb. He grew some dope on the roof ofour house for the first seven or eight years of my childhood. My guess is the only global warming he had in mind was putting on side four of Physical Graffiti and globally warming his brain into a kick-ass mellow.

Dang. I should have asked that guy about Mello Yello...I bet that would have stumped his ass.

Next time Charlie Babbitt, next time.

.

Minneapolis: You Betcha! I Have to Fly There and You're Coming With

It's been a long while since I blogged...time to fix that. Let's see what Minneapolis has in store for us, shall we?

Flying is always blog worthy...and I firmly believe that every stand-up comic is required by Comedic Law to have at least part of every routine devoted to the wonderful adventure of air travel. There was an actual time when air travel was an adventure. People were genuinely excited. It was an event in itself.

Cut to wide-eyed child with a wispy British accent, glowing cheeks, joyful tears of wonder, hope and possibility in her doe eyes: "Dear father, do you mean to tell me that you, mother and I will be getting in a machine that will lift us right off the ground and into the sky? That we'll soar in the wind like birds...above candyfloss clouds, as this fantastical contraption whisks us at terrific speeds to rainbow-laden wonderlands we would have likely never seen without it? Such a marvel truly exists in more than dreams, father? Holy Father fucking Christmas."

Now it's viewed with utter dread and loathing, finding itself slightly ahead of the DMV on the Just Fucking Shoot Me list of things to do. Seriously...and if there's a restless baby on the plane? Mother of god.

Actually no real complaints about this flight so far. It has been uneventful with no babies, no delays, no horrible odors, etc. But I wish this little British girl beside me would shut up and stop calling me "father".

 

Ten Years After: Does Anybody Wanna Rock and Roll??? Revisited

Welcome to where I jumped the shark...my White Album.

In the fall 2004, after a long hiatus from writing and performing music, I began work on a collection of tunes that would ultimately be released in the summer of 2007 called Does Anybody Wanna Rock And Roll???. I use the word released very loosely here, because I had no record label support and a shoestring budget. So released, in this scenario, can be translated to: burned a bunch of copies, designed and printed my own covers, sold them in a handful of stores and gave a lot away.

 If you happen to have a copy, thanks, consider yourself one of a very select few.

And before you think that this is going to be some sort of self-indulgent, misguided, delusional, love fest as I wax poetic about my own songs, let me say this: I think I suck. Really. I'm not fishing for compliments. I'm not looking for any stroking. Ask anyone who actually knows me, I really do think I suck and I'm okay with that fact.

So yeah, I have a love/hate relationship with my musical compositions. I love to create, but then hate my creations. I've made a few records through the years, and with the exception of a riff or two here and there, a magic moment of melody or a nicely turned phrase, the majority of these songs and collections are very forgettable. I say that without a shred of sadness or doubt. Yes, I consider myself an artist. Yes, I consider songwriting my primary creative outlet and, as I've said before, that's really all that matters...me getting what's inside, out.

I think it comes down to the finished product. While I'm creating and swept up by the moment, nothing is more important than the next brush stroke on the canvas...the next step to creating the picture in my mind. But when it's a finished work and I "hang it on the wall", the picture that was in my mind has become a soul-less collection of paint splatters. Especially when it sits next to the work of my favorite artists...artists that so effortlessly create beautiful, stunning landscapes that stimulate the deepest emotions of my being. Uh, yeah...I suck.

I've painfully realized over the years that in the grand scheme of things, I just don't have "it".

I can play guitar.
I can sing.
I can write songs.
I can perform, put on a show and look cool doing it.
I've lived life in a van, on the road, paying my dues.
I'm a pro.

So what is this crucial, intangible it? Sorry folks, if I knew I wouldn't be an insurance agent.

That brings me back to 2004. For whatever reason, the stars aligned and I created a collection of songs that (to me anyway) sound real, genuine. There's no soul-less paint splatters staring back at me when I look at this collection. I was mining some emotional gold at the time and I feel like it comes through...at least to me it does. So with all that being said, I'm going to share this art here in my blog. Hopefully a song a week, with an accompanying YouTube video and a (clears throat), brief explanation of where the song came from.

At the end of the process I'll put the whole collection out on Dropbox as free download for anyone who wants it. So in the words of Marty DiBergi, "Hey, enough of my yakkin'; whaddaya say? Let's boogie!"

Track One: Does Anybody Wanna Rock and Roll???

When I picked up an electric guitar for the first time in about two years, the main riff that starts the song immediately came out of the speakers. I loved it.

I was listening to a lot of The Shazam at the time and they had a song with a lyric of, "I'm gonna rock and roll with my rock and roll rock and rollers". Pretty damn ridiculous but that fed my mindset at the time...YES! I'm ready. It's time. Who's with me???

My favorite part is the guitar harmony solo that basically plays the vocal melody from the verse. I've always liked songs where the solo was a simple reflection of the vocal melody. Voila.

The line that starts the second verse, "Heaven is off for the night..." came directly from a visit to a Myrtle Beach strip club while on a company golf trip around that same time. I overheard a guy tell a very disappointed gentleman, "Sorry bud, Heaven is off for the night." Awesome.

Varied Christmas: A Personal Gift History from Triumph to Tragedy

Christmas rules. But let's not forget the true meaning of Christmas. Yeah, yeah, yeah...Mary's boy-child, mangers, swaddling clothes, peace on Earth, Silent Night, Nights In White Satin, Knights Who Say Ni, yada, yada, yada. We get it. Make with the presents why dontcha? Kathy Mansell's Man-child is ready to rip open some damn gifts. NOTE: said present(s) better be wrapped and by you personally. And Jiminy Christmas take some pride in your wrapping:

1. Use good paper...you know the ones with the cutting grid on the back. Not the shit at Target with Santas and snowmen. Use that for your kids. Those selfish brats don't give a rats ass about wrapping. Screw it, just give them cash.
2. Crisp scissor cuts
3. Sharp creases and folds
4. Invisible tape...do you people actually have to be told this? Not too much, but not too little. We want a nice tight wrap. So Goldilocks that mofo...you got it, Chief???

And none of this Hallmark, gift-bag bullshit. If you give me a gift bag you're getting it back filled to the brim with some of Milkshake's homemade yule log.

And to make my gift-getting even more spectacular, go ahead and throw in a tree, lights, decorations, music, eggnog, Mistletoe, movies, shows, specials, animation, claymation, and any other kind of XMAS-related ation that exists. I eat that shit up...but only after December 1st. Let's have some boundaries here for X's sake.

Now that I have that out of the way, let's stroll down memory lane and I'll give you a few high and low-lights of Christmas gifts in my past.

THE GOOD

1974 - Not many gifts are duds when you are four, unless it was clothes or something practical. Luckily my parents knew who they were dealing with and stepped up to the plate when it came gift-time. I believe it was this year that I received my first incarnation of this:

Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle by Ideal. 

Holy Mother of God what can he jump next? I can still smell the gyro launcher...and for fucks sake do not touch the back wheel when it is still spinning. I still have the pinch marks on my hands.

To keep this blog within 5000 words I'll throw in similar gifts from in and around this time period that really knocked my jammies off. You can say that all of the following qualify for Ho-ho-honorable Mention:

Mego Superhero Dolls

Yes, we boys were so bad-ass back then we weren't afraid to call them dolls. It wasn't until Star Wars came along that Kenner decided they should be called "action figures". I especially loved Spiderman, Batman and Captain Marvel. These were hot stuff.

Losing their boots was a problem but Spidey wore a onesy so no worries for him. And damn it, I always lost Captain Marvel's lightning bolt sticker within the first hour and he was just ruined after that.

I remember my dad catching my next-door neighbor (and supposed best friend) Eric Johnson trying to sneak out of my house with Batman up his shirt...dick. I got him back, one day when I was probably 6 years old I called him a "pancake" and threatened to never play with him again.
 

The Six Million Dollar Man doll 

The red jumpsuit-clad Steve Austin even had a rubber-sleeved forearm that rolled up to reveal his bionics. I also had the Space Capsule and Bionic Repair Station, Oscar Goldman and Maskatron dolls.

GI Joe with Kung-Fu Grip. I loved his hair and beard...it was like the smallest, tightest afro in history.

 












1975 - My old man (much to my mother's dismay) playing off my idolization of Evel Knievel, jealousy of my older brother and evidently my desire to look like Easy Rider-era Peter Fonda, weaved a Christmas spell of ultimate, unparalleled joy with this combo:

I remember unwrapping the helmet under the tree and being excited but puzzled. Then dad giving me the old, "Maybe there's something that goes with that. Let's go look in the basement." I still get a bit choked up thinking about that frantic walk down the stairs and seeing that beautiful orange Honda 50 parked there with the front wheel cocked to the side. If I had known he was only going to be around one more Christmas I would have hugged my dad even harder. Nominee for My Greatest Christmas Gift Ever.

1976 - Thanks to John McMonagle the two gifts I will mention here are directly due to his influence. He was a couple of years older, our sisters were best friends but for some reason he didn't mind my hanging around. I got home from his house and probably immediately started lobbying my mother, elves, Santa...anyone and everyone who would listen for these two items:

KISS Alive!
What on earth could have possessed my mother, a devout Catholic, to allow "Santa" to give me this record? You know what? Who fucking cares...my life changed forever when needle hit vinyl. "You wanted the best and you got it! The hottest band in the land KISS!!!"

The KISS On Tour book that came inside the lp was enough to fry my six year old brain...I remember looking at the pictures of them and almost feeling like I was doing something wrong. Rock and roll. Another My Greatest Christmas Gift Ever nominee based on the sheer lasting impact it made on me.

Super Toe Super Jock Football
You smashed him on the head and he kicked field goals. The ball was made of the most pain-inducing hard plastic money could buy. If you got hit by an errant kick it was the one-way express to Tearsville. John also had the soccer one which I have yet to find to this day. Lucky SOB.

From my own personal collection!

Honorable Mention:
Mattel Electronics handheld sports games. Good grief I loved these things...still do. Football II I'd have to say is my all-time fave, followed by Soccer, the original Football and Basketball. I hated the baseball one and never owned it. Fuck baseball. They should call it Fat Meatheadball. I digress...

I never had the Hockey version even though I asked for it for about 5 straight years. Patrick Trillo was the only kid I ever knew to actually own one but I had vivid memories of playing it...once in the side playground at St. Leo's School. Holding its beautiful blue plastic with all its blink-y, button-y goodness in my hands. I was haunted by this until last year when my amazing daughter gave me one for Christmas that she found on eBay...mint condition and in the original packaging. I felt like I was 7 years old when I opened it. I believe a few tears were shed. Thanks Babs.

Let's fast-forward a bit here and I'll mention a few more honorable mention gifts:

1980 - My first electric guitar - a Kay that kinda looked like Angus Young's SG
1986 - My second guitar...an Ibanez strat-style guitar. This one I actually learned to play. Funny because now I absolutely hate Fender Stratocasters. Tone...schmone. If I could buy all the Stratocasters in the world and use them as kindling to burn Eric Clapton at the stake I would. I'm only sort of kidding, folks.

1999 - The last one I'll mention in the "Good" section came in 1999. Allison's mom and I had recently separated and it was hard time for all of us, especially when the holidays came around. Allison was 6 and was shuffling back and forth between my place and her mom's. I was by myself in an apartment for the first time in many years and the prospects of Christmas celebrations seemed a bit bleak. I wasn't really even considering getting a tree or decorating...which for me was huge. A couple of weeks before Christmas Allison and her mom showed up at my door with an early present...a little tree that they had decorated and trimmed just for me, because they didn't want me to be sad at Christmas. I still have it and can't express what this little tree means to me. I put it out every year, exactly as it was given to me. I have only had to change the lights once. And judging by how I feel even writing about it right now, we can go ahead and award this one the prize: My Greatest Christmas Gift Ever

THE BAD

1979 - Mr. Quarterback
Don't get me wrong, I LOVED this thing. Being a kid with only two older sisters and a mom in the household coupled with living in the goddam boondocks made the prospects for tossing a football around virtually non-existent. Until...da da da daaaaaa!!!!! Holy schmutz, here comes Mr. Quarterback riding a tight-spiraled Christmas dart flung from the golden arm of Baby Jesus channeling Roger Staubach.

Here's how it went down in my front yard on Christmas Day after tearing open the box and reading the instructions:

Step One: Placed football in Mr. Quarterback's "arm"
Step Two: Cocked the arm in launch position
Step Three: Set the timer
Step Four: Pretended I was Billy "White-Shoes" Johnson
Step Five: Sprinted 20 yards and caught the first and only pass this piece of shit would ever throw

No joke. I played with it one time and it never worked again. I even remember getting it back out on numerous occasions for months, maybe even years after the fact trying to "fix" it. Why it was never returned or exchanged who knows...maybe I was worried my mom would think I had broken it and get mad. Still haunted...

1986 - Johnny Reb Hat

This is the period where I believe my mom started to smoke crack. Did they have crack yet in '86? Anyway, yes the eighties were very bad for fashion. But even while the eighties were happening, when I was wearing parachute pants and bandannas around my neck, never once did I ever find my self looking in the mirror and saying to myself, "You know Reid, what you really need to complete this ensemble is a Confederate battle cap." Evidently my mom thought I needed one...complete with Rebel flag insignia on the brim.

My mom was born in Scotland, grew up in England so she was not making any political or racial statements here...she just thought it was "rad" or "bad" or "brad" or whatever we used to signify coolness in 1986. I remember her being genuinely disappointed that I would never wear it.

1990 - Alan Jackson-esque Full-Length Denim (Acid-Washed) Duster

Imagine me in this but in denim...acid-washed denim

Mom had graduated from crack to mainlining a Molotov cocktail of heroin, crack, methamphetamine, Robitussin DM, LSD, MMDA, PCP, THC, followed by an entire bottle of Blue Raspberry Mad Dog 20/20. This is my only explanation for my mother, who I had known for 20 years at that point, being so profoundly out of touch with both my personal tastes and all that is right and good in the world.

You think Ralphie was embarrassed having to try on that pink fucking bunny costume in A Christmas Story? I still can't believe I didn't projectile vomit into the box when I opened it. What had I done to this woman? Was I being punished? Had she found out that I had broken Mr. Quarterback? Was this some kind of a Randy Travis/Mainstream Country nightmare?




Jennifer, Allison's mom was present for this clinical, surgical, complete and instantaneous destruction of my self-esteem by my mother...and still laughs hysterically about it to this day. I quickly remind her though that on that same Christmas she received a set of Washington Redskins Zoobas that were only microscopically less humiliating and soul-crushing. Nominee for My Worst Christmas Gift Ever.

2000 - My soon to be second wife, and later to be second ex-wife made it her goal (either consciously or unconsciously) to ruin my Christmas every year from 2000 - 2007. But it was that first Christmas we spent together that told of the potential misery to come. I say potential because subsequent Christmases were filled with lots of caveats, instructions and me saying things like, "Sarah, if you ever get me shit like that for Christmas again I will be out the door before the wrapping paper hits the carpet." So no Christmas was quite as bad as the first, but she tried. Here's a few Jim Dandys from XMAS 2000.

Tupperware set
Sheets
I'm stopping there...I get irritated just listing the goddam things.

So the winner for My Worst Christmas Gift Ever is....mom's Alan Jackson-esque Full-Length Denim (Acid-Washed) Duster. 

Thanks for reading, folks. Here's wishing you and yours a Merry Christmas and may all your Mr. Quarterbacks be Peyton Manning. Now cock that arm into launch position and start running.

Top 10 Reasons Why A KISS Football Team Rules

10. Regardless of the action on the field, you're guaranteed to see at least one person spit blood. 

9. Paul Stanley will smash a guitar over the head of the opposing team's starting quarterback at a strategic moment of each game.

8. Halftime of every game will consist of a 20-minute drum solo. 

7. Since placekicker's are a bit spacey to begin with, the LA KISS kicker will always wear one orange shoe and one red shoe. 

6. When was the last time you ate a KISS hotdog on a KISS bun while drinking a KISS beer? Oh and all arena food is cooked by fire-breathers.

5. The LA KISS offense will not run the shot gun formation, rather the much more badass Love Gun formation.

4. Although slowed somewhat by platform turf-shoes, the studded leather uniforms will make the KISS players much harder to tackle.

3. Not only will the t-shirts rule, the t-shirt cannon will be attached to the headstock of a smoking Gibson Les Paul. 

2. Paul Stanley will belt out all in-game announcements over the public address system. "That's a KISS first down!!! Lemme hear ya!!! Awwww-right!" 

And the number one reason:

With Gene and Paul involved, the cheerleaders alone will be worth the price of admission. All the girls will be Hotter Than Hell, wear the number 16 and have Nothin' To Lose.

I don't know about you, but sign me up.

George Jones

George Jones died today evidently. When I was 14 my Twin City team was in Blacksburg, VA for a soccer tournament. The hotel where we stayed was filled with other teams from all over the Southeast...including girls teams. Some of these young women had caught the attention of myself and Martin Hunt who I was rooming with. Needless to say, there was lots of posturing, giggling and parking lot shenanigans...much to the chagrin of the father of the main girl I had set my sights on. He let us know, in no uncertain terms, that he would bash our faces in if we came around to their side of the motel again. This directive was overruled in my brain by raging boy/man hormones, so about 30 minutes later Martin and I found ourselves in a mad, panicked full sprint through the parking lot, chased by this man. I ended up in the motel lounge...probably pale, out of breath and babbling something about having my face bashed in. Martin was nowhere to be found. Long story short, two hefty male bar patrons escorted me back to my room. En route we encountered the face basher who was scraped up and soaking wet from head to toe. During the chase his portly, middle age-yness had caught up with him and he'd tripped and fallen head first into a mud puddle. I found this rather amusing but was still so terrified by this raging man that I dare not show it. The bar patrons had to physically restrain him from getting to me and they personally assured him that if he touched me he'd have to answer to them. (Note: this was the second time I'd been rescued from certain pummeling by strangers...see my Thunderbirds blog post) His anger then turned to a weird, whimpering southern whine as his focus shifted to his ballcap, which he blamed me for ruining. He held it up for us to see, I swear I could almost see his eyes well up. It simply read, "George Jones".

Jesus, Vatican Square Garden confirm Benedict's Retirement

Pope Benedict XVI and the Vatican Fighting Catholics will part ways as of February 28, 2013— an event that seemed fated once the holy franchise acquired Carmelo "The Second Coming" Anthony, an immense talent whose individual praying style clashed with Benedict's spread-the-salvation offense.

The tension between The Pope and Anthony has been building for 13 months, since Anthony arrived in a controversial trade with the Dublin Protestants. It reached a crisis point over the last two weeks, as the Catholics lost 8 of 10 games, while Anthony bristled over his role and lack of ornate headwear.

Finally, on Monday morning, The Pope asked to meet with Jesus and with The Holy Ghost, the Vatican Square Garden chairman. Benedict asked Jesus if he would be open to trading Anthony before Thursday’s 3 p.m. trading deadline, according to a person briefed on the meeting. When Jesus said no, The Pope offered to resign.


“I was surprised,” the Son of God said at a news conference before Monday’s game. “I wasn’t sure exactly what he was saying. So I asked to clarify, ‘How f#%ing stupid are you Benny? I mean, ME! What do you really want to do?’ ”



The decision stunned The Pope's friends, as well as the Catholics’ players, a majority of whom were loyal to Benedict and believed strongly in his system. Many were angry and disappointed, believing that the figure head may be being pushed out.

“The vast majority of our team wouldn’t be in the situation we are without Benny,” said one player, who asked not to be identified because of the The Vatican's charged political atmosphere. He added, “If God Almighty gets behind Benny and gives him a two-year extension, this doesn’t happen.”

Holy Trinity, LLC characterized the parting as mutual, but the decision to walk away “was absolutely his holiness',” according to a Vatican Square Garden associate.

The Catholics were 18-24 as of Monday morning, and in danger of missing the holy playoffs. Their schedule for the final 23 games is brutal, which could only have exacerbated the tension between the figure head and the star savior.

Benedict never fully sold Melo on his offensive system, which is predicated on player movement and the premise that whoever is open saves a soul. Anthony thrives in isolation play — the antithesis of The Pope's philosophy — and he is most comfortable as a primary soul-handler.

“It’s an unfortunate situation,” Anthony said after the Fighting Catholics’ 121-79 rout of the Jerusalem Trail Blazers. “There’s no bad holy blood between myself, Benny, the guys on the team or anything like that. We respect Benny's decision. He said he did what was best for the church at this point in time right now.”

Asked if he was to blame for The Pope's resignation, Anthony said: “Sh#t, I don't know. I just go out and pray. I pray my ass off every time I walk on that court, but I can't walk on water."

The Catholics style will presumably be tailored more to Anthony’s game now that Benedict will be gone. The Fighting Catholics are expected to conduct a broad search for a new Pope. Phil Jackson will top the wish list, although the chances that he will come out of retirement, or want to wear a robe in public are slim.

Benedict was in the final season of a four-year, $24 million contract. He leaves with a record of 121-167, a mark that largely reflects the Fighting Catholics’ messy rebuilding process over his first two years. His best season was in 2010-11, when the team went 42-40 — their first winning record in 10 years — and made the holy playoffs. They were swept by the New Jersey Devils in the first round.