Well, fuck. Just learned of the passing of Leonard Knight, whom most of you probably don't know. While it was probably time, it still doesn't make it any less of a bummer.

I'm not a religious person, really. "Spiritual", I guess. Seems that's the conclusion most folks our age kind of end up coming to, doesn't it? I've always joked that eventually maybe I'll find Jesus or Buddah or King David or whatever somewhere down the line that will help lift me up from my darkness and mind crud and daily struggles. Like finding whatever that is will just magically end all of that sort of human emotion, right? Like all of a sudden I'll be all on the perfect path and be one of those perfect people I hate so much. You know those assholes. The ones who always know the exact right thing to say, the ones who know exactly what games to play to "achieve", well, at least in the short term. The ones who always look so picture-perfect...not only on the social media outlets, but in real life too. And that's the real hard-core shit, because making oneself look totally completely RIGHTEOUS on social media is really quite easy. It's a totally different animal to continue that parade into "real life".

These last few months have probably been some of the most difficult of my life. Through it all I'm doing everything I can to not feel completely alone, to stay as strong as I can, while being supportive of everyone else, and there are times where I've completely lost it. Which is weird. I've cried harder than ever, wanted to die at times more than ever, yet still felt more than ever. "Totally losing it" was a somewhat familiar pattern years back...but, looking back, what was I acting out and "losing it" for? Kind of stupid, selfish, almost adolescent reasons, really. But that's all part of growth, isn't it? So now the feedback loop of the goddamn UNIVERSE has looped back to a similar place, but it's harsher. And way darker. It is a tad wiser, however. Hopefully. And all I can do is hope that somehow there's some sort of light at the end of the tunnel that will lead back into the more peaceful, chipper part of the universe feedback loop.

Can you dig that? Does that make sense? I won't go into specifics but hopefully you can [DIG!] on my stupid generalities.

Leonard's passing has sent my mind into overdrive, because I am reminded of a time about 5-6 years ago where I was going through a similar dark, shitty time. During this time there were some incredible souls that entered my life - some are gone, some remain, yadda yadda - who essentially saved me. We decided to head down to the Salton Sea one weekend because 1) we're weird, 2) one of us wanted to explore the deep appreciation of such a horrific place, and 3) one of us needed a weekend away to soul-search.

This was before I became a travel-bug. Simpler times, really. But, in actuality, shittier times. Any second away from the literal Asshole of Southern California that was the 101/405 interchange (some would argue Bakersfield...oh, and they're right. I digress. It's still pretty much being in an anus, though) was a second I lapped up like an eager puppy dog who'd been left out in the desert for a week without a drop of water. Anything away from that place somehow restored everything that was lost/sucked out on a daily/hourly basis...much like water, a life-sustaining...you know, life-sustaining type thing!

I'll let you research Salvation Mountain and Leonard and all the information that's out there if you care to. All I know is this place sent a surge of rejuvenation through my whole entire body I'd never felt before in my life. I'll never forget being lucky enough to see Leonard and having him give us the tour and showing us how he made all the trees and windy roads and flowers and all of the amazing, incredible, colorful, joyous subtleties that made this mountain pretty goddamn other-worldly. At the risk of sounding like a dramatic piece of crap, to this day I truly believe something about this place saved a part of my soul that day.

Thank you, Leonard, for everything that you did in your unique, bitchin', crazy life. May you rest in peace and enjoy all whatever the other side has to offer. I truly do hope that, in your words, it's eternally keeping things simple in letting love and letting (if you believe in it/him/her) God.

You're Not Allowed To Like Anything You Like...Ever.

I was originally going to post another 7-paragraph, intentionally-ranting, obnoxious Facebook status about this random, having-to-do-with-nothing memory that just popped in my head. Then I remembered I have a blog (and a podcast) that is intended for my inane ramblings, and this is a good thing, for passive-aggressive statuses screaming "Pssh, you old, retarded Fuck-A-Tron, Facebook isn't YOUR THERAPIST!!!" would likely follow, or I'd get one of those smart-alec comments underneath the oversharing status that end up getting more "likes" than your original post. That really is the Price Is Right fail horn of life, right there. 

Write or share enough of your soul so that family members will "unfollow" you and proclaim that you're just too weird or out there to understand, which is nice, although it's a-okay for them to air out super highly personal grievances into the ether once actual things start happening to them. But we're not here today for those kinds of niceties. Nope, I will once again focus on all things music, and try to pathetically wrap up in a big ol' virtual word tortilla on how my life tends to go. Because this incident happened years ago, yet it still feels like it's the main theme. The Main Theme. The Main Thing. You know? With everything. Relationships, work, (trying to) stay fit, starting to finally learn music theory...

Staying true to the "Fucking hell I'm an awkward dork-butt" theme, Rush became a huge part of my life in my early 20's. My early 20's were screwed up like anybody else's, but I didn't really outwardly look weird. Some would say I was once maybe-sorta kinda "cute". Meh. It's like trying to turn the universe inside-out when you tell a human being who feels like an extremely strange muppet-butt on the inside to look and feel "sexy"! That shit comes easy for some folks, and god bless them. I envy those people. It must be, like, relaxing, or free up your mind to focus on other shit, to be totally ok with who you are.

Anyhow, Rush. Oh, boy, did I go all out fangirl for them. Still do. I have a freakin' Rush tattoo on my arm that people tell me is supposedly there for the rest of my life. Huh. That's funny, because permanence was definitely not on my mind when inkin' up or walking down the aisle to get married. That's sarcasm, and if I have to tell you twice, go away, oh, but grab me a pineapple smoothie and a wheatgrass shot and an e-cigarette should you choose to come back, asswipe.

This was before their Beyond The Lighted Stage documentary that quickly ended up being everyone's favorite Saturday-morning-hangover film, because VH1 Classic replayed it like every Saturday for 387 Saturdays, or something, it might have been 784 Sundays. Things get mixed up. There was a tragic shortage of cool Rush gear, especially for chicks. So I'd end up making a lot of my own Rush merch, with iron-ons that you could print out through your computer. My favorite was this bad-ass Power Windows shirt I made, on a dark charcoal girlie tank with this supreme image on the front:






Then, one night, all proud, I stupidly wore it to the Rainbow. And proceeded to get the Lecture Of All Lectures about what is acceptable rock music to listen to and what's not. And, oh, my god. Butt metal gets enough crap, but it lives on and on and on and on and on forever and always will at the Rainbow Bar and Grill. So, for instance, a Bang Tango shirt would be acceptable. Prog is more artistically/critically acceptable to some degree, but in most normal social situations you'll be made fun of for that, too. I mean, it's not like you take a chick home and immediately put on like, Gentle Giant or Camel for the evening's love-making soundtrack. Can you imagine? I love butt metal, prog, shitty boy bands, and 70's AM pop hits, so my music defense armour is pretty darn thick. Plus, I just don't give a shit. Never really have, and this is getting worse with age.

So I'm outside on the patio, you know, stone-cold sober as it always was in those days, and this greaser-hipster dude starts talking to me. Then he noticed my uber bitchin' homemade Rush shirt and got, like, legitimately angry. Like, it really disturbed him. Which I guess is understandable. There's this cute young chick and BOOM! It's like the homemade Rush shirt was a scarlet letter of HURDEE-HURR-FUCKER-I-LISTEN-TO-MATH-ROCK-AND-PEE-THE-BED or something. This is more or less how The Anti-Prog Lecture of 2003 went:

Grease-Ass: "Rush?! Oh, my god...are you serious with that? What did you....did you pick that up at a thrift store? Please tell me you're being ironic."
Me: "Haha, actually, no. I legitimately like them, a lot."
Grease-Ass: "Do you have a problem listening to GOOD, ASS-KICKIN' rock and roll that's just in 4/4?!"
Me: "No, not at all, I..."
Grease-Ass: "WHY DOES EVERYTHING YOU LISTEN TO HAVE TO BE IN SOME FUCKED UP TIME SIGNATURE?!?!!"
Me: "Dude. No. Not at all. I just like...."
Grease-Ass (shouting at this point): "OH, HI, LET'S MAKE THE MOST COMPLICATED MUSIC EVER TO EXIST IT'S SO BAD! IT'S SO ROBOTIC!!! WHY DO YOU LIKE THIS?!"
Me: "Dude. I LOVE 4/4 rock n' roll, you have..."
Grease-Ass: "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH JUST 4 ON THE FLOOR ROCK AND ROLL!?!?!?!?!"
Me: "Nothing, dude. Calm..."

As he's screaming about 4/4 rock and roll, he harshly stomps his cowboy boot so hard on the ground, like Tommy Lee or Alex Van Halen would be TOTES JEL of the conviction and hard-core force this dude had, and I swear the concrete might have started cracking. Oh, and he was also clapping his 4/4 rock and roll, fuck-shit-fuck-shit rhythm like right in my face and looking me dead in the eye all intense, almost like he was on a mission to exorcise that asshole 19/4-loving demon in my soul OUT so I could just goddamn enjoy REAL ROCK AND FUCKING ROLL. I was buzzed and probably not as scared as I should've been. Never in my life had I wanted to laugh so fucking bad, but I knew that wouldn't be good news for the remainder of the night, so somehow I bit my lip and kept it in, as I'm getting a lecture about my horrific and offensive prog rock habits by this...dude.

Thankfully by this point I'm done with my cigarette and say, "Dude. I dig Sex Pistols and Aerosmith too," walked back inside, and the Grease-Ass, as far as I could tell, looked like I just slapped him in the face.




Some of my smarter friends have asked me why I used to frequent places like the Rainbow and Club Vodka and crap. "You're too smart for that," they'd kindly say, which I appreciate now, looking back. Since I feel like a complete moron 99.9% of my life.

Perhaps I was "too smart". I dunno. I'm glad I partook, though, because then where would stories about prog-hating Grease-Ass come from? A toad's butthole? A chipmunk's scrotum? A piper's fiddle? Pssh, I think not.