tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49177505638263214792024-03-14T03:12:23.738-05:00Trite & HackneyedWrite on, write on.blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-56121983309135797852022-02-17T19:45:00.005-06:002022-02-18T15:20:58.994-06:00The Badass Records Podcast<p class="p1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhVbLarxGIEJf2vQyP2DBS4E0LJmMSnaWsAOhgIRvkI2M-NhskBbCiI4-_4XGnJL0rsN6uhSO4fATFB0jhWZX27osMw2dbNFG5WLLxGWVlo2VFnE7NGt-u1j4_qYfveDyvnoYICvfAhenatSHABwYWRP1ZCkPUhMYLGJ0a3sm56xylYh3lN-XjXbUkKqg=s2000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhVbLarxGIEJf2vQyP2DBS4E0LJmMSnaWsAOhgIRvkI2M-NhskBbCiI4-_4XGnJL0rsN6uhSO4fATFB0jhWZX27osMw2dbNFG5WLLxGWVlo2VFnE7NGt-u1j4_qYfveDyvnoYICvfAhenatSHABwYWRP1ZCkPUhMYLGJ0a3sm56xylYh3lN-XjXbUkKqg=s320" width="320"></a></div><br>I think I took all of my frustrations with the #TeamUSA hockey results out on the driveway snow. Having had a handful of hours to process the women's loss (and a little bit longer to stomach the men's), I've moved on (kind of) and am redirecting my focus on a project that appears to finally have a little bit of life in it. <div><br></div><div> And besides, my custom-made USA Hockey flag should be arriving this evening, so...Yay, timing!<p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But, yes.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That's right.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I'm podcasting.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Don't worry. I know you don't care.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It's fine.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Really.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In fact, you've probably heard me run my stupid mouth about it a time or two across the last 11 months. And for that, I sincerely apologize. I honestly think that my dumb brain makes me say annoying shit to people so that I can then try to understand a scenario better or narrow my focus to see the next step through or hurdle some kind of road block.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It's a weird feeling to feel annoyed with yourself because you can't unsubscribe from certain thought clusters up there in the ol' noggin. So, seriously...if you're sick of hearing about it, so am I. I promise.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyway, I managed to record an episode (and schedule several more), and it's live out there on the Internet, but more on that in a sec'.</p><span></span></div><a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2022/02/the-badass-records-podcast.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-12685965001895953602020-12-26T21:59:00.001-06:002020-12-26T21:59:51.065-06:00I Need to Break Up with Reaction Videos but My Codependency Keeps Dragging Me Back In<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve
attended the Kansas City Hispanic Chamber of Commerce’s annual gala a handful
of times across the last seven years, and on one particular occasion, the
then-president of my employer’s local facility took my (babysitter-related)
exit to make one of his own. Although my short-lived presence at the function
had an aura of gratitude about it, I couldn’t help but feel weird leaving,
having interacted with a number of folks I know well, but with whom I had never
done business. Investing two decades in an industry to then transition to work
for an entity that <i>services</i> that very industry served as a beacon of
false hope in that said transition had come with a murky sense of confidence
that bordered on arrogance.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the
one-story elevator ride, I expressed this sentiment to the then president, who
said, “Let’s schedule a day together to go after some of those white whales.”
Months later, when we made that happen, we visited outside of an establishment
prior to entering and he informed me of his awareness that my documentation
practices did not match protocol, that their completion should be happening in
an individual, time-relevant fashion as opposed to tackling them in bulk. My
surprise probably sounded like a flustered excuse machine, to which he
responded, “Good habits never form until you start them.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That phrase
-- rooted in benevolence, I believe -- zapped me in the moment and became
something I carry with me today. To be clear, I haven’t actually changed
anything about myself; it was just like an, <i>Oh, yeah…good lookin’ out</i>.
And that’s a tough spot, maybe one of our biggest challenges as human beings:
to adjust, to change, to absorb something about the world and fold it in to
your own existence.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Developing
new <i>bad</i> habits, though? Or recognizing the continuation of old ones and
doing nothing about them? Or worse: a marriage of the two? Seems like we’re
pretty good at those. Or at least <i>I</i> am. And my latest doozy is one of
those that jars the noggin with beaming clarity like the clock tower did to Doc
Brown: YouTube reaction videos. Or as my internal mutterings call the concept:
watching people watch shit you’ve already seen.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s.
Bananas.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Like a
Costa Rican grove.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s every
bit of a, <i>What…am I doing…with my life</i>? It’s a time-suck and a barrel
full of bad decisions in terms of consequences, which I imagine most time-sucks
to be, but it’s crazy: the providers find their content monetized and the
viewers experience…well, joy, if you’re doing it right, I guess. I dunno.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve seen
all the top bits of my three favorite comics more times than I’ll ever admit
and the Tube is -- as we know -- the rabbityest of holes; the hours I’ve
murdered watching tons of other stuff are incalculable.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Like music
videos.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We’re
talking dozens of songs I’ve listened to many times over the years. And now I’m
watching total strangers watch the music-video version of those songs for --
often -- the first time. And all of this is going down in the most crucial
portion of the 24-hour cycle: when I should be resting. It’s crazy-making to
ponder all of the shuteye I’ve sacrificed to watch this stuff.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I won’t say
that I’ve spent a ton of time in any particular lane, but I do have my go-to
channels and songs, and sometimes there’s crossover underneath those two
umbrellas; sometimes you just go where the hole leads you. So, I haven’t spent
a lot of time watching grunge-music reaction videos, and I haven’t necessarily
watched a lot of content that was spawned from <i>MTV Unplugged</i>, but there
are particular videos from that show that seem like lots of reaction folks
react to, and the Alice in Chains performance gets a fat dose of run in this
community. I have found myself mentally embedded in “Nutshell” from that
evening for a good bit now. And it never gets old. Ever. It is motherfucking
gospel at this point.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t
want to review the performance, per se, but it borders on breathtaking. All
four minutes, six seconds of it. It is crisp. It is beautiful. It is hollowing.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’d love to
spend a few lines talking about how grounded and amazing Jerry Cantrell is in
it, but I won’t. And I’d love to talk about Layne Staley, but I don’t think --
at this very moment -- that I can.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Alice in
Chains, specifically, was pretty huge, but I never memorized their discography.
I mean, <i>Singles</i> soundtrack? Sure. <i>Facelift</i>? Of course. <i>Dirt</i>?
You know it. After that, I checked out, though. Not on purpose. It just sorta
happened that way. Then came <i>Jar of Flies</i> and <i>Sap</i>. Or rather,
those two E.P.s landed in my lap a little later, I think. Anyway, by the time I
got to know those two records, I’d all but decided they’d been written and
produced for me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was as
if they’d said, <i>Oh, we’re a little too heavy for you at times? How ‘bout
this shit then</i>…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Such great
records. Staples, even. For every collection.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That <i>Unplugged</i>
performance, though…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Like, who
was going to top Neil Young and Bob Dylan and Nirvana and Stone Temple Pilots?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Alice in
Chains. That’s who.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So,
“Nutshell.” And more specifically, the <i>Unplugged</i> “Nutshell.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s the
show opener and the stage-taking fashion is just bonkers.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cantrell,
of course, is already out there…the anchor…<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ksj47HZPmkI/X-gFWs7KJGI/AAAAAAAAWcA/RXj1vE8IPTcMA7FoQAxNUlBIikvbMiRlACLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/nutshell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ksj47HZPmkI/X-gFWs7KJGI/AAAAAAAAWcA/RXj1vE8IPTcMA7FoQAxNUlBIikvbMiRlACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/nutshell.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The bassist
joins him and brings this crisp, velvety, alien-acoustic tone on a gorgeous
instrument with a burnt, hand-written message on it. Two more members join then
Staley takes the stage and just walks right in to the song’s first lyric. In a
world of tarnished and rote language, it is sincerely epic. The whole thing. A
genuine masterpiece.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“We…chase misprinted lies,”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Pretty tough to open a track in a more
intense fashion than they already did musically in this performance, but what
an introductory line. Whew. I don’t even know where to start with those four
words as a unit. If you split them down the middle and start with the first half,
the subject and verb need no explanation. It’s that second half, though:
misprinted lies. I can’t decide if it’s as basic as it was maybe meant to seem
or if there’s a double-negative involved. I mean, basic would mean like, the
newspapers, right? That the vein of conspiracy circulated enough to be relevant
even as far back as 1993? Or was the vehicle meant to include magazines, too?
Possibly even books? That all the written word we consume is bullshit?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">One notch deeper and you wonder if
the content producers -- the authors -- are giving truths to the printers and
the printers are misrepresenting the writers. Even one click further than that,
though, is that the artists produce fake shit. Lies. And then those lies get misprinted?
So by the time it reaches the consumer they’re already two wrinkles of deception
in? Never imagined a pair of words could present such confusion. If you’re dumb
like me though, and keeping shit dumbed down makes the sea more navigable, then
we’re all just a pack of dumb Americans. Right? I mean, here we are, chasing
misprinted lies, i.e. that good ol’ American dream.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I can’t really envision a scenario
in which you enter a story and find the subject so royally fucked that soon
outta the gate. I mean, this song is basically a 14-line poem, and one line in
we’re maybe being shown that we’re living in some version of <i>The Matrix</i>.
Pretty tough to recover from that and with the mood set visually and sonically
the way they are in this performance, things look and feel pretty bleak. And
super, super sad if you have any back-story inkling.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">My daughter climbed in to bed with
me the other morning and -- as has been the case for weeks now -- this song was
already in my head. She said something that had an element of emotional charge
to it and I reached for my phone. She laid there with me and watched, not uttering
a word until Staley wailed the all-vocal refrain a second time.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Dad,” she said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Yeah, honey?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<div style="border-bottom: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Is his
hair wet?”<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“We…face the path of time.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Fuck, man. Just…fuck. So goddamned
heavy. So goddamned poignant. So goddamned direct. And wild. And unfortunate.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">It’s really difficult to think
about Layne Staley and not think about Chris Cornell, whose also-tragic ending <a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2017/05/it-does-in-fact-seem-like-too-much-love.html">brought the heavy</a>, and it’s really wild to think that -- even with money and
fame -- these guys struggled (and perished) before the Internet changed the
freaking world. I don’t know if the way that the Internet changed the world has
made things harder or weirder or if it just feels that way now in Pandemicland,
but there are obviously folks who have flourished in both eras while
maintaining decent-or-better mental health. It’s just…man.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“And yet I fight,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">And yet I fight,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">This battle all alone,”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Watching these “Nutshell” <i>Unplugged</i>
reaction videos offers some mysterious kind of numbing in knowing that almost
every single content producer relates -- in some fashion or other -- to that
three-line run. The battle can, of course, take many shapes; it can present itself,
once, often, or repeatedly. It can be synonymous with life. Like Louis C.K.
says in his bit about kids eating French fries and asking, “Why?”: “’Cause fuck
it, man! We’re alone in the world! Nobody gives a shit!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">And in that battle line, I imagine
double-entendre. Yes, the literal interpretation jumps, but it doesn’t only
jump; it also barks and bites. There’s also the broader perspective, though,
that the song’s title is addressing human existence, how individual it is, how cold
and how lonely.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“No one to cry to,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">No place to call home.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I don’t know if that’s nihilism or
what one might call it. Desolate, I guess. And probably accurate for a good lot
of people. I imagine that sadness -- being one of the most intense feelings --
often gets addressed with self-soothing and self-soothing alone, and that the
frequency with which one might feel left out or without a special, specific,
carved-out place for them in the world could lend to a feeling of figurative homelessness.
And when the canvas of the world is often painted with the imagery of
community, it just might feel impossible to imagine being a part of a community
when self-soothing in the cold, dark world remains your only accessible remedy.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“My…gift of self is raped,”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">It’s tough to think of a better
example than the word rape when pondering the way an actual word makes you feel
when you see it written or hear it spoken. This one’s possibly an anomaly.
Hearing that word is icky and chilling; seeing it written might wield an even
greater power. It’s tough to consider the word and its meaning and not think of
only violation on a human-to-human level, but -- unfortunately -- its got
greater reach than even that, and I think that collectively the message is that
a person, place, or thing -- having experienced that -- is forever changed. The
fields, your body, or even…your gift of self.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I mean, what. The. Fuck. That’s
crazy.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Your gift of self? Wow.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Imagine living most of your life
never even acknowledging that you in your uniqueness and existence are a gift,
that you -- by virtue of existence -- have value. Your self. Not your
personality or your talents or your love. The part of you that -- as dictionary.com
puts it under the philosophy subheading of the word’s definition -- “knows,
remembers, desires, suffers, etc….the uniting principle, as a soul, underlying
all subjective experience.” Now imagine having had awareness of your you and
its value, and a person or a thing altered your you and your value, leaving you
alone to rebuild yourself, re-appraise yourself, and view the world anew as the
modified you.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The implication is that life, of
course, is a gift, and that as part of life, there’s a sense of self inside everyone
and we’re all moving about on this planet attempting to attach meaning to our
own person and all of the other things in the world, and in doing so seeking
connections between the two entities. Your gift of self, though, wound up
violated and forever changed. Your whole became fragmented, and only at times
feels sealable or that the seal in place will hold.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“My…privacy is raked.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I suspect it to be common knowledge
that us ordinary folks will never understand the concept of privacy on a level
similar to those with fame. It’s just not feasible. We do, however, have a
rudimentary understanding of what private means, or at least what we think it’s
supposed to mean, especially now, in the age of Health Insurance Portability
& Accountability Act (<i>Note: I can’t believe that’s what the acronym stands
for. Why have I assumed all along that the ‘P’ was for privacy?</i>).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Safe, secure, and private, though.
That’s what companies and entities are supposed to be diligent at and
responsible for, right? And let’s not skip over our rights as citizens, either.
We’re supposed to be allowed the freedom of privacy in our lives while
following some semblance of public responsibility, I think. And if that freedom
is jostled or exposed or collected from it really limits our ability to assign
that meaning and make those connections, does it not? Pardon the rhetorical
shit in here. It’s just quite the picture. I’ve been wanting to write about
this song for days and days but the song itself keeps getting in the way. Beyond
capitalism and citizenship, though, is -- I think -- the natural, organic
notion of the want and wish for varying levels of privacy that cognition has
encouraged us to expect and to cherish.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“And yet I find,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">And yet I find,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Repeating in my head,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">If I can’t be my own,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I’d feel better dead.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Jesus, man. And that vocal refrain again,
delivered -- just like the first time -- with seemingly no effort, next to no
mouth movement. It’s all -- the whole thing -- the most frightful combination
of comforting and haunting I think I’ve ever experienced.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">And nothing about this whole
endeavor could bring it home in any other fashion than Cantrell taking back the
reins and delivering the briefest, most-perfect of gorgeous solos just before
closing the chapter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Truly phenomenal musicianship all
the way around.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The reaction videos -- be they
comedy or music or my 47<sup>th</sup> go with “Nutshell” -- are nothing but a double-edged
sword in the lonely battle, though. The producers seldom meet my ridiculously
placed expectation in terms of the whole thing cutting deep, but I think I hold
out for the hope that they will. And I burrow further and further looking to
have that thing met and yet I find that in doing so I get further away from
doing what’s right and good for me: recharging for a better tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I hope it’s a phase. I think it’s a
phase. May be a little seasonal affect with a touch of holiday/winter blues. I
dunno. It’s a wild world out there, though, and until I can shake it, this
thing keeps repeating in my head.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Hopefully these words will help <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9EKi2E9dVY8&ab_channel=AliceInChainsVEVO">put it to bed</a>.<o:p></o:p></p>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-50753471794903078112020-11-22T00:29:00.001-06:002020-11-22T14:18:15.022-06:00"I Was" (not really) "Savin' That Bacon"<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The only
10-speed bicycle I ever owned advertised its make and model -- the Cherokee
Cherokee -- on both bars. I never considered myself a snob or an ungrateful
human, but when I look back on a number of key childhood moments, it’s
impossible not to disappoint my now-adult, father-of-two self. When I see
either of my kids act snooty or exhibit a version of themselves that flirts
with thanklessness, a flash of rage fills me, and I want to dunk their domes in
a sanitary toilet bowl; a sterile swirly they wouldn’t soon forget.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think it
was a Sears special, that roadster, and I’m pretty certain my mom gifted it to
me for my 13<sup>th</sup> birthday. I’ve owned three bikes that I can recall,
the third of which I bought myself off of a guy from Wisconsin named Salmon. It’s
a Giant Iguana and I bought it for three reasons: a) he was selling it and I
needed a bike and somehow came up with the $125 in 1994; b) I thought that
Giant was an established, reputable, bordering-on-badassery brand; and c) The
Salty Iguanas were the (in my mind) hippest ‘90s Lawrence, KS band that broke
my live-music-seeing cherry, if you will. A year or so later I had Shimano
components and a front-fork shock added to it with the assist of my buddy, Mike.
I rode it some, but it has mostly sat or hung wherever I have lived. (<i>Note:
In editing, I’m reminded of a fourth, the one I learned on. I can’t really picture
it, but I’ve got this The Wonder Years intro blob of a memory of practicing with
both my dad and my stepdad. Fuck. Divorce is such a bitch</i>.) (<i>Additional note:
Fuck. Now I’m remembering a fifth bike. Or at least a fourth. I’m recalling a
blue bike and a black bike that came before my 10-speed, but I can’t remember
if the blue bike’s the one I learned on. I’m pretty sure it is. We’re sticking
with four</i>. <director’s voice> <i>Alright! Back to work, people!)</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s the
bike I own and ride now and it still looks cool with its nerdy, front lamp and
vintage stickers. The rear wheel got bent years ago, and that shock has oozed
grease for longer than I care to admit, but it’s my bike and it’s what I use
when I go riding with the kids. I’m still proud of it and I still like riding it.
I’m also too stubborn to replace it as it doesn’t seem as though it’d be a wise
spend at all.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My mom
surprised me with the Cherokee Cherokee, though, that day, as she opened the garage
door to her shake-shingle Prairie Village house. And I was somewhat surprised
and grateful to receive it, but my eyes cast judgment upon it at first glance,
which I probably hated about myself then, but certainly do now and have in
hindsight. It was red, fully functional, and got me out of dirt-bike mode,
which had been embarrassing in our new neighborhood with every kid having
transitioned to 10-speed land.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I mean, my
buddy Mike hastened to diss it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
Cherokee Cherokee,” he said with volume and feigned gruffness. “And I thought
the Roadmaster Scorcher” was bad. Mike’s parents had gotten him something a
notch above the Cherokee, but each bike was a tough swallow as Nate zipped
around on his Bianchi. He’d also had a different 10-speed and a badass dirt
bike (a Mongoose, probably) with the pegs. And he <i>still</i> had them all.
His parents not only gave him the goods, but they also let him have <i>options</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway…yeah,
I rode that thing wherever a kid would ride his bike. To friends’ houses, the
park, the pool, down the street to the Village Shopping Center then back up
that brutal, undying hill.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I also used
it to get places, though. And by “get places,” I mean errands. And by “errands”
I mean to Peaches and Sound Warehouse at 75<sup>th</sup> & Metcalf or to Musicland
or Sam Goody at Ward Parkway Mall. Once or twice to Xanadu for a poster or a
tie-dye, but mostly to buy cassette tapes. Once old enough to drive, I had to save up to buy my car and I
had to put gas in it and insure it and buy some of my clothes and pay some of
my school fees (not to mention eating-out spends or reloading on alcohol and
tobacco (when the time came)), but I always -- were it the bike era or the age of the vehicle -- managed to have some leftover for
tapes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I would
probably whine like an ungrateful brat on the ride there, cursing traffic and
inclines, possibly the weather. Not the ride home, though. That shit was always
dope. I’d have that plastic bag swinging from the handlebars -- some days
fuller than others -- carrying the cargo of precious, new cassettes in that
form-fitting plastic with the adhesive to seal it at the tabs. The ride home
was blissful, the taste of victory in my mouth, the crack of the cassette hinge’s
first opening in my ear, the smell of fresh liner notes in my nose.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And that’s where my money went in
middle school and high school and college and a little bit after, too. It’s
weird reflecting upon those memories and all of those dollars invested in
sitting at a desk focused on active listening to and reading about the
product you just purchased. And each thing took up space. You had to have them
arranged and organized and stored, as opposed to now with just…household WiFi,
a streaming subscription, and a device on which you can also watch shit on and from which you could send
messages.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway…money’s
been a weird thing for me all of my life, I guess. I mean, growing up in the ‘80s
probably didn’t help much -- and probably everyone thinks this about the
generation of their childhood, but -- I always looked like such a dork. My
clothes, my haircuts, my sometimes-janky knockoff gifts/possessions. Now, being
an adult with some level of awareness and wisdom, I can look around and say, <i>I
recognize that I’m a dork and I’m kind of okay with it</i>. It just feels weird to
look back at pictures and sit with your memories that all kind of point to
being put in a dork’s <i>costume</i> as a young person.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Another
thing that’s probably true for parents -- I mean, we’ve got novels full of the <i>When
I was your age </i>variety -- is that they think, believe, and feel that their
kids have it better than they did. I’m no exception, hence the ragey toilet
thing. And it feels totally justified and completely reality-checkish to think
that very thing right now. With <i>my</i> kids.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I dunno. They
have it decent, I guess. No, better than decent.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What they
don’t know, though, is that things have gotten pretty complicated of late.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I mean,
just a handful of months ago, I took them to a Coinstar machine, and with our
loot we bought Legos. Literally on a cold and rainy day, and as a gesture of
kindness and gratitude for how good they were through the whirlwind of
unexpected homeschool and quarantine.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And today,
I used the last remaining piece and-a-half of bacon and folded it into their
scrambled eggs, which I served with Monterey Jack, hash browns, grapes, and
banana bread that my daughter and I made Sunday night.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I cooked
the last six ounces of bacon last night for bacon cheeseburgers for dinner,
essentially 86ing me on bacon. Today, after I dropped them off at their mom’s,
I took the latest ration of coins to a Coinstar and cashed them in. One hundred
twenty-nine dollars it yielded me. One hundred fifteen after they took their
cut.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’d made them
think that this was a thing we could just do all the time, though, and now --
having faced Internet and electricity cutoffs this week (along with paying a plumber
and an exterminator) -- I was deviating from the idea and using these funds for
trips to the hardware and grocery stores. And I couldn’t get away from the
vanishing images of those lone strips of smoked pork belly.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I never run
out of bacon.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I mean, I
live and shop by backups. It’s the chef in me. And bacon should of course be
viewed as a luxury item. No one’s going to go hungry because they don’t have
bacon in the home. No one’s quality of life is going to dip ‘cause Daddy <i>had
to</i> “make the breakfast with no hog.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That shit
is bananas expensive, though, and I’m picky about my bacon. I insist on center-cut
(thick for speshes occazeseges) and my go-to option for some time now has been
the Hormel Black Label stuff, which rings in at like $8.39/pound. Think about
it when you buy bacon. If you’re off-the-rack shopping at your local grocer,
those packages are usually 12 ounces, so that price you’re seeing isn’t by-the-pound;
it’s higher, Jack. And my par is a pack and change.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B1nQgIZ0OCw/X7oFAb2iLNI/AAAAAAAAWZw/Zpqfl-8uHEIlTyirEJkWF9sXGdo_wNoEwCLcBGAsYHQ/s423/bacon.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="423" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B1nQgIZ0OCw/X7oFAb2iLNI/AAAAAAAAWZw/Zpqfl-8uHEIlTyirEJkWF9sXGdo_wNoEwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/bacon.png" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, when I
would pedal the Cherokee down the street to the Village Shopping Center there
tended to be one of only a few destinations. Perhaps Nill Bros. Sporting Goods.
Maybe the Jones Store Co. Possibly Bruce Smith Drug. In all honesty, though, it
was mostly Wendy’s and the video store. I don’t remember what it was called,
but you could -- with the appropriate membership card -- rent anything. And I
went all in -- I mean all in -- on horror movies. All of the<i> Nightmare on
Elm Street</i>s, all of the <i>Friday the 13th</i>s, <i>Texas Chainsaw Massacre</i>,
<i>Halloween</i>, you name it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had a
phase. I was intrigued by gore. And hey -- no shortage of boobs in those
flicks, either. Am I right? I think I overdid it, though. I mean, I can’t watch
scary movies now. Like, at all. They just give me an intolerable level of
anxiety, and as I near the downward slide toward 50 years of age, I just don’t
have room for that on my plate anymore.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One movie
that I really enjoy, however, is <i>I, Legend</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And that’s
not even accurate. I don’t <i>really enjoy</i> it. I like it. It’s a good
story. I’ve seen it a couple of times, so I know the parts that’re gonna make
me jump. I just like it. In fact, I’ve considered asking my daughter if she’s
interested in watching it with me. I don’t wanna give her nightmares or
anything, but I’ve <i>considered it</i> as an example for introducing her to
the genre.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If you
haven’t seen it, it’s a pretty wild tale about disease cure gone wrong. Will
Smith plays the main dude and late in the gig he gets rescued by a woman and a
small boy. They take him back to his place and in the morning -- while he’s
still struggling to recover from his physically rough outing -- the woman
prepares some breakfast. When he wakes she tells him how wildly lucky she was
to uncover a ration of the morning meal’s favorite swine product. And he gets
pissed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I was
savin’ that bacon,” he says.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I couldn’t
get away from that line last night, and it haunted me again this morning.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>I was
savin’ that bacon</i>, I said to myself as I discarded the rinsed, empty
packaging. To be fair, I wasn’t, but I literally refrained from putting bacon
in my cart this week at the store because I knew I wouldn’t have enough for it
at the checkout line. I heard it run through my head again this morning as I
crumbled those Tupperware’d pieces into our eggs.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve taken
to lowering my par-replenishment numbers when shopping. I’ve re-introduced
Ramen into my life for the first time since college. I cut cable and the
newspaper months ago, and refinanced my student loans for a lower monthly payment
until last week when I turned off auto-pay and e-mailed them the line, “I can’t
make these payments anymore.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yet none of
it seems to be shifting me in a significant-enough direction that suggests that
my kids and I can continue to live in this house. It’s sad and it’s frustrating
and depressing and overwhelming and frightening. It’s also numbing and
paralyzing to stand in the middle of it all as things appear to be collapsing,
and to counter it all I want to do little more than nap.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This has
been a pretty perfect house in a pretty perfect neighborhood on a pretty
perfect block. As I once wrote on another blog post in another lifetime, this
is my 25<sup>th</sup> home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I thought
it’d be my last.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s tough
now, though, to think.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I mean,
period.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
literally tough to think when you suddenly feel like you -- having been a
person that has moved for a lot of different reasons -- now have a new one. And
that new reason is hopelessly associated with the feeling of inadequate parenting
and provision. I mean, it’s literally -- on occasion -- suffocating.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes
the clouds part, though, and clear thought broadcasts its blue, and I can’t
help but think about -- had I grown up with money -- whether or not my spending
habits as a young person framed who I became. I have impulses and buy shit
because I want it. Seldom do I save. I mean, I parcel aside, but I don’t
demonstrate reserve, per se.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I dunno. I’m
trying to figure it all out. Now and always, I think.<o:p></o:p></p>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-26801440943221510642020-06-23T23:33:00.010-05:002020-06-23T23:42:57.382-05:00The Water<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0A62l3zSV4U/XvLXXIQ7kpI/AAAAAAAAWRE/jtYUh5_C1m4_KvlDfAb2Z8Bz52egWa4cQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/collage.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0A62l3zSV4U/XvLXXIQ7kpI/AAAAAAAAWRE/jtYUh5_C1m4_KvlDfAb2Z8Bz52egWa4cQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/collage.jpg" width="320"></a></div><font face="times" style="background-color: white;">
At one
point during the hot minute that Dane Cook was on top of the comedy world, he
had a bit about knowing a cry was en route. I think today has been one of those
moments, but right now it’s acting like that sneeze that just won’t come
already.<o:p></o:p><br>
</font><div class="MsoNormal">
<font face="times" style="background-color: white;"><br></font></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<font face="times" style="background-color: white;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s the
first heavy, summerish day of 2020 in Kansas City. I’m in my home that I don’t
know how much longer I’ll be able to stay in, the lingering threats of COVID-19
are looped around the ears of the face-masked, and American unrest rises by the
hour with every heinous act committed by police officers and the stubborn,
unchanging minds of so many who just can’t seem to shift their thinking by two
millimeters.<o:p></o:p></font></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<font face="times" style="background-color: white;"><br></font></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<font face="times" style="background-color: white;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m about
halfway through <i>A Deeper Understanding</i> by The War on Drugs, and via a
shot in the dark, I’d say this is my 50<sup>th</sup> listen. This record serves
as a kind of medicinal antithesis, and what a dose might do for an ailment seems
to be the opposite with depression; your brain magnetizes to things that seem
to only pull you in a step further.<o:p></o:p></font></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<font face="times" style="background-color: white;"><br></font></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<font face="times" style="background-color: white;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve taken
two naps today (one of which was in the same room my kids were watching
something), and worried continuously across the week that my air-conditioning
unit will vanish like a dying Jedi at any moment. From my dining-room-window
view, an Amazon van slows but doesn’t stop.<o:p></o:p></font></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<font face="times" style="background-color: white;"><br></font></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<font face="times" style="background-color: white;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The shit is
thick and so I turn to one of my only forms of healthy therapy and start the
mower.<o:p></o:p></font></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2020/06/the-water.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-40685614826433024252020-06-20T23:56:00.001-05:002020-06-24T18:04:37.970-05:00Dream Fiction no. 7: Raccoons & Fishermen<br>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qHpdz4NRtCs/Xu7oS-cg26I/AAAAAAAAWQU/FoAJX4iNvV8yXU7WDenB9rQ1Y96iSivSQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/raccoon.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="168" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qHpdz4NRtCs/Xu7oS-cg26I/AAAAAAAAWQU/FoAJX4iNvV8yXU7WDenB9rQ1Y96iSivSQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/raccoon.png" width="320"></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Had I done a better job, had I had
the wherewithal at age 30, I would’ve better documented the Ireland trip, and
in hindsight, some key experiences cry out from memory lane, lamenting the
faintness of their existence in my mind. Fiddle-playing John Madden from
Killarney will always burn the brightest, but the Portuguese fishermen in
Dingle remain a close second.<o:p></o:p></span><br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There’d been the aged what-the-crick
bartender who held a fleeting residence in the romantic corner of my mind, and
of course my girlfriend at the time, whom I’d eventually marry (and eventually
divorce). I’ve never been able to take my mind off of those fishermen, though.
Their fervid drinking, wind-chapped faces, and hands that resembled those of Oswald
Cobblepot. That I thought for a moment that I could converse with them proved somewhat
correct; I knew Spanish, but had never heard Portuguese. Hell, it had probably
never even occurred to me that other versions (beyond Castilian) existed.<o:p></o:p></span><br>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This young brunette, Rachel, and her
son, me and my kids along with Emily and Jaden, Tiffany and a friend of hers, and
Customer Service Manager Mickie Hammer, all of us…holed up in my old room, along
with my mom, and a few others…the lot of us crammed into a somewhat-dilapidated
version of my mom’s old house. There were wind gaps and leaks, snow on the
ground outside, a possum that’d repeatedly gotten in, and then there was the
Ben Katz crew at 5:00 in the morning with their dog that bites a lot…the angry
fashion in which I’d asked them to leave shortly after their arrival.</span></div>
<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2020/06/dream-fiction-no-7-raccoons-fishermen.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-57492016073372990252020-05-31T11:42:00.000-05:002020-05-31T13:35:11.709-05:00The Album-Cover-a-Day Runners Up<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’ve seen
the album-cover-a-day challenge on Facebook. Maybe you’ve enjoyed them. Perhaps
they annoyed you. You might’ve even participated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The rules
are that you do it for 10 days and you can’t say anything about the records
that the album art represents. No reviews, no nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A bit of
the way into mine, my sister commented that she imagined it might be hard for
me to only pick 10, to not review any of them. And she couldn’t’ve been
righter. So much so that I’d already been concocting a list of the albums that
-- for one reason or another -- didn’t make it in to my top 10.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No one said
you couldn’t make <i>that</i> list and review <i>those</i> albums. So that’s
what this post is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2020/05/the-album-cover-day-runners-up.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-83598759847051924332019-12-13T17:49:00.000-06:002019-12-14T00:00:17.324-06:00Mr. Completely<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IrbGUXHajvs/XfRxpqlaImI/AAAAAAAAV-E/iI45mef0gHsiRPx_Z672rmLPvY8yDIOzgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/tupps.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IrbGUXHajvs/XfRxpqlaImI/AAAAAAAAV-E/iI45mef0gHsiRPx_Z672rmLPvY8yDIOzgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/tupps.JPG" width="240"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I sent her with soup and made a litmus-test joke. She had them clean and waiting for me. I'd forgotten them. They're home now.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>"</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Hearts will billow when the dream, dream comes and it comes in to me"</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">-- Trey Anastasio, </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kansas City
International Airport<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Somehow three months have slipped
by since my last post.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A lot has
happened since then so it’s not been on account of laziness or disinterest. I
mean, it’s mostly business as usual with the regular-life stuff: work is work,
the kids are still sweet and good and busy, the house is, well, standing, I
suppose. I’ve been editing a manuscript for a writer who plans to self-publish.
My rec’-league hockey team is off to maybe its best start ever. The Blues are
playing well and the Chiefs have a shot at clinching their fourth-straight
division title this weekend. I’ve finally gotten consistent again with swimming
a few times a week and while that’s great, I still need to ramp up the
discipline to make three lifts a week happen. Baby steps, I guess.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br>
</div><a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/12/mr-completely.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-35354187171444324842019-09-18T22:49:00.000-05:002019-09-19T04:06:04.930-05:00Fatherhood, Part II<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eI0a1c-UV8Q/XYNEh5gU58I/AAAAAAAAV4c/SKsfU7NCfJMn02qfqlotbfzCJOSF6pCpACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eI0a1c-UV8Q/XYNEh5gU58I/AAAAAAAAV4c/SKsfU7NCfJMn02qfqlotbfzCJOSF6pCpACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/boy.jpg" width="320"></a></div>
When my
alarm sounded at 3:30 Mountain this morning, I felt mostly in control of my
travel anxiety. All my clothes were washed, neatly folded in my suitcase, the
contents of my carry-on tucked and zipped in their necessary compartments. I
avoided snooze, had my morning pee, showered, shaved, and summoned an Uber.<o:p></o:p><br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Richard and
I made the appropriate amount of conversation for 4:15 a.m. and his Toyota
Prius puttered along the Colorado freeway with efficiency. The security line
was buzzing as usual at Denver International Airport, and once I was through
it, off the train, and seated at my gate, I found myself purposelessly jumping
in and out of apps on my phone. When I’d grown tired of this I looked up and
noticed a woman across the aisle looking at me. I looked back down in what was
likely a normal bit of social awkwardness, but was quick to return another
glance when she spoke my name.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Lesley
Speer,” she said. I jolted out of my chair, likely energized by the strange
feeling I’d had in Richard’s Prius that I would run in to someone I know, which
happens more often than not when flying to Denver from Kansas City, or in this
case, the opposite.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I sat with
her for the 10 minutes or so until it was my turn to get in to the Southwest
Airlines’ numerical-order line, and -- the flight being at capacity -- that was
the end of our exchange. I’d already downloaded a podcast that was nearly the
exact duration of the flight, and as we prepared to taxi, I snorted at the
preview for the upcoming <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Between Two
Ferns</i>. I repeated my out-loud chuckles as I consumed the podcast, and
probably made the couple sitting next to me think I was a little bizarre.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/09/fatherhood-part-ii.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-32694555159100779092019-09-02T14:14:00.001-05:002019-09-02T14:15:06.591-05:00Dream Fiction no. 6: The Janky Pontiac & the Soaked Tuxedo<br>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZHq0Psz8wk/XW1p3oC_2mI/AAAAAAAAV3A/HDTYJoz33JArf8OUUbuVO_gyXjQviijiQCLcBGAs/s1600/dude.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="722" data-original-width="633" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZHq0Psz8wk/XW1p3oC_2mI/AAAAAAAAV3A/HDTYJoz33JArf8OUUbuVO_gyXjQviijiQCLcBGAs/s320/dude.jpg" width="280"></a></div>
When Phil
and Jennie’s big day’d arrived, my anxiety had reached a pinnacle that likely
rivaled their excitement. Their private ceremony, now six weeks in the
rearview, along with its 25-person guest list, had carried the energy back to
the grind with everyone, but had never waned. Not even, or so it seemed, when
it came to me living in their newlywed space for the duration.<o:p></o:p><br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The three
of us had managed to avoid toe-stepping in Phil and I’s old East Fourth Avenue
pad, but I’d only wound up staying there by accident: car troubles, coupled
with their wild generosity, had landed me back in my old college bedroom. The
time had come, though, for the party to happen, for my exit to springboard them
into their real life of marital bliss.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was,
of course, the matter of my ’88 LeMans, and whether or not the
suffocated-by-faulty-exhaust engine would be able to get me from the San Juans
back to the Front Range. The brakes still had enough life in them to get me
down the mountain passes; summiting them, though, was a different story.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At least
the heat and the stereo still worked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/09/dream-fiction-no-6-janky-pontiac-soaked.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-68626223883667187352019-08-27T22:47:00.000-05:002019-08-28T07:23:19.490-05:00Freewriting: Black Pants<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You came to
me in a work setting and we were bound by circumstances. Well, at least I think
we were. I know I was. And even though it was a lifetime ago I can still
remember those black pants. They were over there. By the copy machine. You
rooted through the file folders and they were on you, calling to me in a whisper
so loud I scanned the room twice, unsure if others’d heard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Across a
handful of months we crossed paths from time to time, never without mutual smiles.
Seeing your name on the computer always brightened my day and the few live
conversations we had I cherished. You were good at your job, I think, but that wasn’t
why; our dialogue always turned my motivation on its head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After a
time I was gone and the same would soon be true for you, too, both of us
returning to the grinds from which we came. And the tiniest connection we had
evaporated into the skies of our respective lives.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Trying to
quantify everything that has transpired since feels like an attempt to assess
your cloud-flanked altitude before the pilot announces it. There’s just…too
much of everything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br>
</div><a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/08/freewriting-black-pants.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-92079956360348219682019-08-22T16:16:00.000-05:002019-08-27T23:53:29.810-05:00Untimely Reviews: "In Long Lines"<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FvwTjzbH274/XV8Fr6FhQsI/AAAAAAAAV1Q/HUg4WkFrw-AgsfpN4l_hmu2A8MsQ2NQBQCLcBGAs/s1600/long.lines.pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FvwTjzbH274/XV8Fr6FhQsI/AAAAAAAAV1Q/HUg4WkFrw-AgsfpN4l_hmu2A8MsQ2NQBQCLcBGAs/s320/long.lines.pic.jpg" width="179"></a></div>
Don’t think
I’ve ever done one of these for a song, but I’m doing it now. And you should
know: There is an enormous chance that this could be the most boring thing you’ve
ever read. Could be zero redeeming elements for your invested time. So, now’s
your chance to bail.<o:p></o:p><br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I lost
track of my listen count a few days ago, which is really a bizarre feeling; it’s
typically fairly clear-cut when my obsession over a certain song reaches that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Okay, that’s enough</i> feeling. Hasn’t
happened yet for this one, though, and I can only chalk it up to it being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that goddamned good</i>. If you want a
reason to judge me the last time I remember this happening was when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sigh No More</i> by Mumford & Sons
dropped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Go ahead.
Think what you must. That record was crazyfuckinggood before they as an entity
blew up. Also from the for-the-record department: It still is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A little
background, though: Trey Anastasio released <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ghosts
of the Forest</i> in April, and I did the thing I usually do when it comes to
Trey Anastasio solo projects: I didn’t jump.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/08/untimely-review-in-long-lines.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-79470715416915996182019-08-14T19:19:00.000-05:002019-08-15T02:25:02.390-05:00Freewriting: Sometimes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_WAbxKjEDYw/XVUIv2n0yII/AAAAAAAAVyA/PsfQuWrBDPMG5ZMfQbtsAz4WLz8GCpqrACLcBGAs/s1600/sometimes.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="1590" height="160" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_WAbxKjEDYw/XVUIv2n0yII/AAAAAAAAVyA/PsfQuWrBDPMG5ZMfQbtsAz4WLz8GCpqrACLcBGAs/s320/sometimes.jpeg" width="320"></a></div>
<br>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><br>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The grinding of the coffee beans and the songs on the phone,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
kids’ bedroom doorway and the smells of sensory hone.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
trash day, the compost bowl, the dishes to put away,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
hours-long wrestling match to remember the name of this day.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The concept
of a manual has perched atop my brain a number of times in the last year and
change, its landing style the fashion of double samara. After marination, the
concept of grooming youth for adulthood wafts, a familiar, strangely
unidentifiable fragrance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pages, it
seems, have been ripped, Cliff’s Notes editions composed by a novice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes
the difficulty of squinting the eye just right so that the open one can look
through the lens and not only see its own lid and lash seems like the hardest
part. For some, the contents of the slide always present dollar signs. For
others it might be fame. In both cases I think early-life circumstances
scrunched something, skewed the vision, knocked the gears askew.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Those can’t
be the things.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
</div><a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/08/freewriting-sometimes.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-29399004862814674082019-08-12T21:27:00.000-05:002019-08-13T09:41:04.655-05:00Sports Nostalgia: The Stanley Cup Champion St. Louis Blues<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Two months
ago, to the hour and possibly the minute, I was watching the St. Louis Blues
celebrate their first Stanley Cup championship in 51 years as a National Hockey
League franchise.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Note
was part of the league’s first major block of expansion franchises and they
accomplished a lot of things along the journey, but never could find that extra
gear. They went to the championship round their first three years in existence,
once strung together 24 consecutive seasons of post-season qualification, won a
President’s Trophy (best regular-season record), had some Hall of Famers on
their rosters, and, well, played a lot of really good hockey.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/08/sports-nostalgia-stanley-cup-champion.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-22540594350527129572019-08-11T15:17:00.000-05:002019-08-11T15:17:19.690-05:00Behind on Laundry, The First<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yld_5NwKcrA/XVB2sclsxfI/AAAAAAAAVxA/wP4EF96qrlw2y9UxHTOHeiPvDN9QmII8QCEwYBhgL/s1600/laundry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yld_5NwKcrA/XVB2sclsxfI/AAAAAAAAVxA/wP4EF96qrlw2y9UxHTOHeiPvDN9QmII8QCEwYBhgL/s320/laundry.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
I haven’t
fleshed out what this series is going to be about, but off of the cuff I think
there’s a literal and a figurative hybrid behind the motivation.<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By that I
mean that right now I am remarkably behind on laundry. Both hampers in my room
should have already been transported to the basement and appropriately sorted.
There are six baskets of clean, terribly wrinkled clothes in my guest room that
need folding, put away. This is not how I’ve been accustomed to managing
laundry for most of my life. In the worst of times, the contents of three
unfolded baskets would trigger my anxiety, but the only thing this particular
state of the state is harming is my ability to be ready for the day and out the
door a couple of minutes sooner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Laundry’s
not the only thing, though. I’m behind on the completion of my to-do list, the
creation of the next one(s), bills, exercise, and, above all, piles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If you can
relate to the piles piece, there’s love in my heart for you. If you don’t know
what I mean then you, my friend, have really got life figured out. Or at the
very least I envy that element of your existence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think
what I’m getting at is angst and the bizarre comings and goings with my
willingness or ability to tolerate it, shrug it off, or let it attempt to
consume me. On most days it feels like the day itself is completely doable.
There’re logic and reason, start times and deadlines, and bare necessities that
seem to govern the bulk of things between wake and sleep. And a lot of the time
I’m fine -- or at least I’ve convinced myself that I’m fine -- to just plow
through it all, head first, correcting mistakes both on the fly and after the
fact.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There’re
other times, though. And it’s occurring to me that those other times are often
fastened to the absence of my children. There aren’t immediate needs and
schedules pinned to every hour and so the collective can kind of sneak up,
huddle around, linger.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I don’t
know…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Managing
life is an imperfect art, is, I think, the gist of it all. Maybe learning to
clumsily dance along with that art is the answer. It sure doesn’t feel good
sometimes, though.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve been
trying to implement a few new changes to my household, possibly because I
wonder if they’ll make me more comfortable in my own skin. For example, I
randomly suggested to my daughter that we could try to become a shoeless
household, which she jumped on, so we’re doing that, which has made me begin to
sweep my kitchen floor every day because the feeling of crumbs under your bare
feet is super annoying. I’ve been putting effort in to giving my smoothie
preparation extra blend time so that both of my kids will down a small glass.
At least that way they’re guaranteed to get some greens in to their system once
a day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve seen
some improvement in them picking up after themselves, requiring fewer reminders
to do so, and through all of this there seems to be less bickering in general.
Of course summer is slamming shut and what that looks like once the screen-time
allowance all but vanishes and bedtime reverts back to an earlier hour remains
to be seen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Somehow
I’ve conjured the discipline to put my butt in this chair enough to get some
recent words onto paper. I’ve booked a couple of flights for upcoming trips and
am slowly watching a vision unfold in terms of what I’d actually like the
inside of my home to look like in terms of cleanliness and organization. Still,
though, Friday’s work tends to spill in to Saturday, making Sunday come too
soon. I worry about things I probably shouldn’t, like whether or not my yard is
getting the proper amount of attention or if my kids are getting enough outside
time. I wrestle with bouts of loneliness and feel hyper-critical of some of my
less-than-healthy life choices.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think,
though, what it boils down to, is that I’m afraid of death.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not in a
sense that it petrifies me or that I feel somehow empowered to control or avoid
it. Instead I just stress about the possibility of my time coming quote/unquote
too soon, that I won’t live to see my kids graduate high school or college,
marry and have kids of their own, become professionals and find their own ways
in the world. I worry about whether it’s warranted that I worry about
publishing, whether that benchmark deserves the level of esteem I’ve assigned
to it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I
worry, in general, about being calm, content, connected and happy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I suppose,
though, that those over-arching, broad-and-general concerns manifest themselves
as angst over laundry, crumbs on the floor, and making sure there’s not food
going to waste in the fridge. Sometimes all of those things feel very warranted
and legitimate; others it seems foolish when there are so many other grave
problems in and around the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway, I
guess this is all just a game of chips and putts. Sometimes you can crush a
drive, but more often than not you’re in the rough or dropping a ball and
taking a stroke penalty. Maybe life is about how you manage all of your
scenarios on both an individual level and in a macro-sense. Perhaps each phase
of life is like 18 holes and it’s up to each of us to develop patience, master
techniques, and approach the next round with a keener sense of savvy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For now,
though, I guess I’ll get after a basket or two. Not that it wasn’t obvious
before, but I’m painfully aware of the fact that that shit ain’t gonna fold
itself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-52309224215387973702019-08-08T23:07:00.000-05:002019-08-08T23:07:40.988-05:00Yesterday on the Internet: The Handmaid's Tale<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8DgLL0STXTA/XUzxCc3f-wI/AAAAAAAAVwo/FwXYCrq3mQoQ0ZzkfsDhQg0eeIwGa6RIwCLcBGAs/s1600/handmaid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="737" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8DgLL0STXTA/XUzxCc3f-wI/AAAAAAAAVwo/FwXYCrq3mQoQ0ZzkfsDhQg0eeIwGa6RIwCLcBGAs/s320/handmaid.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I don’t
recall how I got dialed in to this show, but it’s the best thing I’ve watched
in a long time. To be fair, I watch very little television, and I consider that
a good thing, as the very precious commodity occurs almost never in the light
switch known as a week.<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s so
freaking good, though, and of the many reasons why, one cannot be overstated:
We are, in this country, insanely close to this setting being a real
possibility. And if that doesn’t alarm you then you should probably consult a
psychiatrist.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At this
point I don’t have any intention of being an expert on the program, so the
chances of me botching a detail or two are pretty high. And as of right now, I’m
only toying with starting over with episode one of the inaugural season for the
purposes of constructing a per-episode feature.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The skinny is
more or less this, though: The United States as we know it has been taken over.
Repossessed, restructured, and refashioned. The government has been overthrown
and the nation (or at least a part of it) is being run by a collection of
dictators and authoritarians that have basically instilled martial law.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The biggest
takeaway, literally and figuratively, is basic human rights. As in, they’ve
been stripped and reconfigured to only include straight males, most of whom are
white.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Women have
been categorized into three sectors: the fertile, those whom cannot bear
children, and the rejects. The fertile, handmaids, are assigned to a
high-ranking official: commanders. They live in the home with the official and his
family, and they are forced to participate in a ceremony in which the handmaid
lies on the marriage bed, arms clutched by the wife, while the commander pumps
repeatedly until his proverbial load is dumped in the handmaid. It is, by
definition, rape, and is periodically referred to as such in the program. It’s
not what one might normally picture, however, if that concept is a thing you’ve
either envisioned, experienced, or witnessed. It’s all in the name of
procreation, which, in a sense, makes it even creepier than the definition of
rape you might’ve previously had.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway, the
handmaid then delivers this baby and it becomes the child of the commander and
his wife. The women whom cannot bear children are called Marthas. They serve as
maids, butlers, assistants, housekeepers, etc. Slaves, basically. Unlike the
rejects, who have been deemed rebellious, gay, criminal, what have you. They
are sent to these mines where they’re harvesting something that basically dumps
radiation into them and they die, which, once it’s over and done with, is
probably a blessing considering how horrific the conditions are and the
treatment is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The people
that commit crimes or behave inappropriately, i.e. express homosexuality, a
desire to change gender, or anything outside the norm, get masked in cloth and
murdered. They are hung and placed on a wall, displayed in the square like
sausages in an old-time butcher shop. It is nothing shy of horrific.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And in
fact, most of the show is horrific. It’s dark. It’s wickedly intense,
frightening, and stressful to watch. The positives in this environment appear with
four-leaf-clover frequency.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The show’s
protagonist, June Osborne, displays a first-hand example of what life in Gilead
(the new United States) is like. The initial episode shows her, her husband,
and their daughter fleeing the country. They’re making a proverbial run for the
border (in this case Canada, not Taco Bell) when they become separated. Her husband
escapes; June and Hannah do not. From that point on the program centers on June’s
varying tolerance of her new normal, how she combats it and in many instances,
how she is consumed by it. The level of horrible she experiences is almost
impossible to stomach and in a number of circumstances she doesn’t have it as
bad as some of the other handmaids.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I first
discovered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Handmaid’s Tale</i> two
years ago, I consumed season one in two sittings. It’s that good. Waiting an
entire year was brutal, but proved worth it. Season two did not disappoint.
Stakes were upped, worse got worser, and the balance of hopelessness versus possibility
was suffocatingly perfect.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Marking off
the calendar days for the current season to start felt akin to trying to get
the last couple of doses out of the shampoo bottle, but once it was here, it
was great to be back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Season
Three has had a couple of valleys in the sense that I, on a couple of
occasions, wondered if the writers and producers had painted themselves into a
corner where new variations of the same theme were going to turn the show
stale. Where these trajectories periodically dipped, however, the ensuing peaks
have more than made up for what might’ve been construed as monotony, perhaps
all of which was by design.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And now we’re
on the cusp of another wait, as only one episode remains.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway,
yesterday’s episode (12 of 13) followed a wild episode 11 and kept up the intensity.
Serious shit is taking place within the primary-character circle, and the way
they have the season planned to end has likely got most viewers on the edge of
their seats. I mean, that’s how these things go, right? Big to-do in a season’s
closer, get you mentally committed for next year.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m not a
television expert, but this has got to be top-notch production. The acting
rings with real emotion, the selected scores scar, delight, and sometimes taint
with irony. And again: The very-real, very-frightening possibility of this world
shifting from construed to the shelves of non-fiction is alarming and
unsettling at best. The environment of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Handmaid’s Tale</i> is the very reason why those that preach inclusion are in
perpetual clash mode with those that do not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If you
haven’t gotten on board, now’s the perfect time to do so. You’ve got the better
part of a year to indulge in three seasons of remarkable television. And hey -- Who doesn't love having their life surrounded by terrifying, omni-present, indecipherable citizen's-band-radio garble?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-33630514240724793662019-08-06T22:55:00.000-05:002019-08-07T19:08:14.811-05:00Fatherhood, Part I<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m not
supposed to do this for a couple of reasons: 1) their mom is worried about their
social-media presence; 2) this means I have to -- to hopefully alleviate future
issues of confidence -- do a post about my son, too. Which is fine. I have no
problem with that and will actually long for it at some point, I’m sure.
Hopefully I can get to it right after I’m done composing the Facebook photo
album in his name that features 10 dozen pics of him being new in the world
like I did for his sister. Then I gotta figure out a way around the time-stamp
issue. Oh, the miseries of making sure your second-born is treated just like
your first-born.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway, my
daughter’s now closer to nine than eight, and she’s so many things. She’s
super-sweet and considerate. She’s empathic and considerate. She’s also wildly
too old for her own age and greased with commercial-grade asshole potential
that she can spray you with as though she were the sprinkler you thought you’d
perfectly timed and could traverse while staying dry. It puts me absolutely off
my rocker that she can literally be the best thing and the worst thing to ever
happen to her little brother in the same afternoon. Sometimes within the same
hour. Occasionally inside a 15-minute swing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br>
</div><a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/08/fatherhood-part-i.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-54119498118678831852019-08-05T22:59:00.000-05:002019-08-06T00:25:02.222-05:00Dream Fiction no. 5: The Hatchback & the Quart of Breast Milk<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ID2GPjqFcRM/XUkOf_avl-I/AAAAAAAAVwM/WG4zps254_IMrZgvqOmIajhmrn_l9nwdgCEwYBhgL/s1600/milk.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ID2GPjqFcRM/XUkOf_avl-I/AAAAAAAAVwM/WG4zps254_IMrZgvqOmIajhmrn_l9nwdgCEwYBhgL/s320/milk.webp" width="320"></a></div>
It was
pretty goddamn cold out. Not quite to that level where you’d roll your eyes at
a friend who claimed it to be freezing, but still. It was that moisture-level
cold where it felt 20 degrees colder out than it really was. Not the
take-your-breath-away cold but the kind of feel-it-to-your-core cold, where --
even after half an hour inside -- you just couldn’t seem to warm up.<o:p></o:p><br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’d lost
track of what city we were in or near; the exits had started to blur about 10
minutes ago. Maybe more. I think we were somewhere east of New Brunswick but I
coulda sworn we still hadn’t seen the signs for Edison.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/08/dream-fiction-no-5-hatchback-quart-of.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-53667429762171638602019-08-04T22:56:00.000-05:002019-08-05T01:51:27.975-05:00Phish Tacos<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I gotta
talk to you about tacos.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Let’s get a
few things outta the way first: Tacos are awesome. So are cheeseburgers and
pizza. And a nice wedge salad or seared steak that’s been done solid justice.
Taco, though, initially meant “snack.” It just happened to involve the
ingredients with which we’ve become familiar because those ingredients have
always been cultural staples of the people that, um, invented tacos.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You sharing
your tacos on a social-media platform or mentioning that you like them on
dating app is, uh…Let’s just say you’re getting put in a folder.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/08/phish-tacos.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-54335687791194441522019-08-02T22:39:00.000-05:002019-08-03T01:57:45.538-05:00Them Phones, Them Phones Gonna...Walk Around<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s Friday
night. Kids’re in bed. The Sonos is on the clock. There’s a cold one on my
coaster and I’m feeling a little troubled. The dinner dishes have been tended
to; coffee’s prepped for the morning. Everyone has clean clothes to wear. The
bills are relatively paid. Car has gas in it. Grass needs mowed, but I’ve still
got two days to get to that before my anxiety starts to churn. Summer’s sunset
is upon us yet we’re mostly dialed in in the back-to-school department. Couple
of fun trips on the horizon and of course, we have our health. In spite of all
that, in spite of everything that’s relatively amazing about the world right
now, there’s a fairly heavy albatross around our necks. And let’s be honest: It’s
gaining weight by the day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IjDih2IdUKI/XUUvVcMjfTI/AAAAAAAAVvo/ZX5o2OvGkVEsdIAzMntVeQWx4SgA124GwCLcBGAs/s1600/phones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="726" height="163" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IjDih2IdUKI/XUUvVcMjfTI/AAAAAAAAVvo/ZX5o2OvGkVEsdIAzMntVeQWx4SgA124GwCLcBGAs/s400/phones.jpg" width="400"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I mean, I’m
completely glossing over that our country is still way too unhealthy, way too
full of hate, and way too helpless to do anything about the fact that there’s
an idiot in charge of us all, but for the most part, I’d imagine that the lives
of many United States citizens is pretty okay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What I’m
talking about, of course, is the goddamned devices that most of us wake to, sleep
by, and are engaged with perhaps more than anything across the average day. I
don’t need to elaborate on this. You know exactly what I mean. I’m no exception
and, what’s worse is that I don’t have a solution.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/08/them-phones-them-phones-gonnawalk-around.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-65241486859716873762019-08-01T22:27:00.000-05:002019-08-02T02:21:49.379-05:00Confessions of a QuikTrip Junky, #2<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MGlEqNyIw6w/XUPkLLzNo0I/AAAAAAAAVvc/JGTdORZ0TBYcTarh2R4DcaDsdYWl-brhgCLcBGAs/s1600/qt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="500" height="256" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MGlEqNyIw6w/XUPkLLzNo0I/AAAAAAAAVvc/JGTdORZ0TBYcTarh2R4DcaDsdYWl-brhgCLcBGAs/s320/qt.jpg" width="320"></a></div>
I’m
greasing the wheels here a bit in an attempt to get some fresh momentum
stirring, but this is a series I’ve wanted to do for a number of years now. I
tried to get it off the ground some time ago with a story about how I almost
soiled the leather interior of my mother-in-law’s then brand-new car, but I
never went back to the well. At least not outside of my mind.<o:p></o:p><br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Regardless,
the gist is this: The QuikTrip Corporation figured out some time ago that the
blueprint to dominating your marketplace is simple: Be undeniably better than
all of your competition. Be it by far and be it all the time. When it’s time to
take it up another notch, do that. Without question. Hold standards. Be
attractive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Because of
this -- their official approach in my mind -- I love QuikTrip.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I not only
love QuikTrip and strategically plan various elements of my days based upon
their locations (or lack thereof), I at one time became (and since maintained)
and elite level of gas-station/convenience-store snobbery.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I mean
that to my core.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/08/confessions-of-quiktrip-junky-2.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-18707760657902886132019-07-21T15:11:00.000-05:002019-07-22T21:55:00.889-05:00Blessings<br>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8M8ioy3glIw/XTQeWkC2gQI/AAAAAAAAVuw/c7lobhl2h24OPy0-Y7RzCW03RXERkESUgCLcBGAs/s1600/shutterstock_1063994864-800x552.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="800" height="220" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8M8ioy3glIw/XTQeWkC2gQI/AAAAAAAAVuw/c7lobhl2h24OPy0-Y7RzCW03RXERkESUgCLcBGAs/s320/shutterstock_1063994864-800x552.jpg" width="320"></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">May 7, 2018 (or
somewhere thereabouts)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Beginnings<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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The pieces resemble leaves of a
windy fall afternoon. The pile looks right, the mouth of the bag waiting, but
when scooped they scatter, pushed to the neighbor’s lawn, the gutter, the air.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I keep
wanting to target 2002 even though that’s not right. Maybe it’s because that’s
when we met; maybe it’s because Dad died that year. His time ended on the cold
floor of a hospital room, a bruise on the brain his ultimate undoing after the
conclusion of a weeks-long bender brought him to the one place he wasn’t
supposed to go: home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now I fear,
among many other things, that I have seen myself take my first step into
becoming George Webber.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Regardless…we
didn’t get together until the following spring, and everything, like the
arrival of a new season, seemed so exciting. Our families bubbled, observed.
Our introductions to friends teemed with glee.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We lived a
party life that spring and summer of 2003, some combination of envy, happiness,
and annoyance in the eyes and minds of our co-workers. We logged significant
poolside time, shared beds, and closed down bars. By fall we were never apart,
having tucked-in conversations about our lives ahead. And the following
February I moved out of my buddy’s house and into my own place, a joint she
helped me find, a pad her father came with us to inspect. I’d received an
acceptance letter from my graduate school of choice; hers had come in the form
of rejection.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2019/07/blessings.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-54212094924958752292018-12-27T10:31:00.000-06:002018-12-27T22:51:23.575-06:00The End of an Era, Indeed<br>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gW5ThWwp9SA/XCT9awrmAUI/AAAAAAAAVM4/a_euO9eEwhoPogfDyMvfjPDWFUrHWPI9QCLcBGAs/s1600/shots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1190" data-original-width="1600" height="297" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gW5ThWwp9SA/XCT9awrmAUI/AAAAAAAAVM4/a_euO9eEwhoPogfDyMvfjPDWFUrHWPI9QCLcBGAs/s400/shots.jpg" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> (<i>photo courtesy of <a href="https://epagafoto.com/" target="_blank">epagaFOTO</a></i>)</td></tr>
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April will
mark 19 years that I have been back in Kansas City, and to be fair, use of the
word “back” there is not geographically honest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I bounced
around a bit in my youth and any previous area dwellings were all on the Kansas
side, but the far reaches of the city that go north, span east, trickle west,
and run south are all rooted in this great, great city of ours. It’s not
better. It’s not the best. It is not bad and it is certainly not good. Kansas
City is a great city for more reasons than I care to list and you care to read.
It’s home to many, a lot of whom don’t live here anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was once
one of those and just as I was gone long enough to start feeling like my new
home was home, I was called back to the City of Fountains, the Paris of the
Plains.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2018/12/the-end-of-era-indeed.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-24885210872781928982018-09-29T17:37:00.000-05:002018-09-29T17:37:10.911-05:00The Man Outside the Window<br />
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the man outside the window<o:p></o:p></div>
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standing in the rain<o:p></o:p></div>
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with his shorts, orange wand<o:p></o:p></div>
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can't see the lush green land<o:p></o:p></div>
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that drops into the river.<o:p></o:p></div>
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the illuminated sign<o:p></o:p></div>
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confirms anxiety,<o:p></o:p></div>
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once more beckons change,<o:p></o:p></div>
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instills hope along with a vision<o:p></o:p></div>
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of the next offspring embrace.<o:p></o:p></div>
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how many promises,<o:p></o:p></div>
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how many pressures,<o:p></o:p></div>
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how many propositions<o:p></o:p></div>
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earn a tally mark<o:p></o:p></div>
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that suggest fulfillment?<o:p></o:p></div>
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the Sap in The Jar of Flies<o:p></o:p></div>
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sends peculiar messages.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-91543052598582488752018-08-14T07:42:00.001-05:002018-08-14T07:42:46.245-05:00But Anyway...WTF<br>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C6XLS5qlYGk/W3LNSYeWCXI/AAAAAAAAUdU/YQBqf7f6LAIKZMbQMfLjiQNOcGYzGhNBQCEwYBhgL/s1600/Maron.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="504" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C6XLS5qlYGk/W3LNSYeWCXI/AAAAAAAAUdU/YQBqf7f6LAIKZMbQMfLjiQNOcGYzGhNBQCEwYBhgL/s320/Maron.png" width="256"></a></div>
I decided I
would write a blog post this morning.<o:p></o:p><br>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s been 16
months since I last wrote one but that’s not why I decided to write one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I decided
to write one because of Marc Maron, actually, and I was thinking about Marc
Maron because I was on his “WTF” <a href="http://www.wtfpod.com/" target="_blank">Web site</a> trying to see how deep the archives
went. I was in that place looking for an episode he’s supposedly done with
Carlos Mencia and I was there because Demitri Martin’s Wikipedia page suggested
Carlos Mencia’s Wikipedia page to me and I was on Demitri Martin’s Wikipedia
page because I’d just watched his new Netflix special.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sixteen
months ago I wrote about the passing of Chris Cornell and prior to that I hadn’t
written since Donald Trump had been elected president of the United States.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This is
probably all trivial and boring to you, but I’m writing for myself this
morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2018/08/but-anywaywtf.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917750563826321479.post-27913734790082084622017-05-20T15:10:00.000-05:002017-05-20T15:10:00.863-05:00It Does in Fact Seem Like Too Much Love is Never Enough<div class="MsoNormal">
All of
these years later, I will still give you $100 if you can hit the high notes of “Say
Hello 2 Heaven.” You have to do the notes justice and you have to do it on
video, but…free money, people.<o:p></o:p></div>
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More on that in a minute.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The first time I saw the word “Soundgarden”
it was on -- as Shelly Marcone said in <i>The
Last Boy Scout </i>-- “a very enlightened place”: Angela Kircher’s ass.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IDRkBxbV8JQ/WSChEkXWVTI/AAAAAAAASnc/If5xdoeXRG8mWfm7xaHM5V7_fQulpkacQCLcB/s1600/jeans.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IDRkBxbV8JQ/WSChEkXWVTI/AAAAAAAASnc/If5xdoeXRG8mWfm7xaHM5V7_fQulpkacQCLcB/s400/jeans.JPG" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><i>(photographic re-enactment)</i></td></tr>
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The word,
emblazoned in black Marks-a-Lot across the seat of a cutoff jean-shorts, not
only served as the first time I would set eyes on the band’s name, but the act
of inscribing (done by her older sister, Mary Susan), far pre-dated any
fabricated clothing that would boast “pink” or “juicy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://www.blairjjohnson.com/2017/05/it-does-in-fact-seem-like-too-much-love.html#more">Read more »</a>blairjjohnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05038552228026370088noreply@blogger.com0