The latest post in which I appear on the TV show, The Walking Dead, and get called, "dodgy-eye" by a British tabloid.

#limeybastards

After months of anticipation, a scene that was filmed back in July of this year finally aired on AMC's The Walking Dead last night.
Really fun stuff.
A neighborhood bar down the street does a whole Walking Dead night for all new episodes so we went down to watch with the peoples.
They did a raffle/give-away plus a zombie Santa was on hand to take pictures.

I've been doing some actor-y stuff this past year since Atlanta is the new Hollywood.  Most of it has been very background-y with little more than "blurry something way behind principles" to my credit.
But the little thing for The Walking Dead was lots more fun.
A.)  One of my favorite shows
B.)  Zombies
C.)  I got to hang out and play tough - including sitting around on Harleys and playing with machine guns.

That's not a bad paycheck at all.

The other bikers on set were great, especially Matt Bolick who I've become friends with since then.
A nice guy and a dead ringer for Rob Zombie's "Capt. Spaulding" character.

I had the chance to meet the actors who play Daryl, Sasha, and Abraham and they were all incredibly nice - Sonequa (Sasha) made a point to thank each extra with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.
I did not mind that all as she is even prettier in person than on tv - (plus she smelled all purty and girly).
Since the members of the biker gang rode their own bikes to set, Norman - who is a big bike enthusiast and now has his own motorcycle travel show - was really interested to come check them out.  I only got to speak with him for a few minutes here and there between takes but he was just as cool and nice as you could hope or expect.

Very fun times were had by all.

Full article below:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-3339062/The-Walking-Dead-teases-arrival-comic-book-s-brutal-villain-Negan-following-mid-season-finale.html


This is our little biker gang hi-jacking Daryl, Sasha, and Abraham.

Seriously though, Mr. British Tabloid Writer Man - if that IS your real name:
"Dodgy-eye"!?!
How dare you, Sir.
How.  Dare.   You.
My eye is not "dodgy".
It is somewhat wonkey.
Or maybe a bit googley.
Or perhaps even a teensy bit wackadoo.
But never, ever "dodgy".
As a differently-abled American bikeractorpirataperson (who doesn't even get special parking privileges) I demand to be treated just slightly better than everyone else.
Or at least make some free beer and cheap women available.
Rude, Sir.
Just rude.

Happy 'Murica Thanksgiving, everyone!

And remember, you can't call yourself a good American if don't listen to the traditional playing of Arlo Guthrie's, "Alice's Restaurant".
It's just the rules folks.
Traditional playing time is 2:00 PM

Do it!

I realize that many of you think that sassy, overweight, single-mom, and sometimes singer Adele is a real talent and pure musical genius.
But - you're wrong.
It's not your fault.
It's the culture in which we live that celebrates fat chicks endlessly squealing "truth to power" after being dumped for someone that didn't drown their teenage angst in a drum full of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Munkey lovingly poured over a year's supply of Ring-Dings.
This is the world in which we live.

Thank God I'm here to help.
Here is real music, recorded in a time when you had to actually nail it live in the studio within the first 3 takes or be given your walkin' papers.
Frankie didn't have the luxury of endless digital tracks and pitch correctors.
He had to do it for real, get it on tape, and go meet Dean for some light-hearted drinkin' and whorin'.
You know, man stuff.

Or Tuesday as they used to call it.

Anyhoo, without further ado -

Listen to the horns knock it out on this one -and then go throw a box of Ho-Ho's at the next person that tells you that Adele's new track "Hello" is genius.

More Frankie at Camp of the Saints website - scroll down and listen to them all.

http://thecampofthesaints.org/2015/11/21/sinatra-100th-ten-best-albums-no-03/

And a star is born!

My big, little screen debut on a popular locally filmed TV show was last night.
I think you will all agree that I've made a valuable contribution to the acting field and to the world of art in general.
It was a big night to be sure!

Yes - that is my elbow.  (Or a branch or something.)  There's a whole backstory about how that particular elbow and/or branch got into that particular part of the woods - believe me when I say that I went "full Stanislovski" - but you'll have to wait a little longer to get the full scoop - I don't want to ruin the surprise.

They have wings and yet they cannot fly.

Those few loyal and brave fellows who regularly follow this blog know that I don't often get morally indignant or self-righteous.  Nor do I fall into the trap of allowing my anger to be vented in loud-mouthed ideological rants.
No, sir.
We rise above the more base members of the blogosphere to provide cool headed analyses of daily events.

Until now.

Friends - sometimes in this world, great injustices are perpetrated, the likes of which a truly caring individual, an individual guided by a clear understanding of right and wrong, and provoked by blatantly obvious oppression and hatred and by their deep seated moral rectitude - well friends - then that person can longer acquiesce or remain silent.
It is incumbent upon all of us to rise up and fight against tyranny when we see those without voices - be they few or be they many - who cannot themselves fight.
And such an event has occurred.

I am, of course, talking about the latest Victoria's Secret Fashion Show.
These poor oppressed ladies, forced to walk the fashion runway like so many paraded purebred horses and no doubt coaxed, cajoled, and likely drugged out of their collective noggins remain voiceless and unheard.
Their cries of pain and pity may not be heard or seen thru their glittering T-backs - but it is there, my friends.  Oh, yes.
They cry out to be freed from their $2 million dollar, jewel encrusted, push up bras - even as they strut upon the catwalk in their designer stilettos.

Sadly, they have wings and yet they cannot fly.

Look for yourself and witness the effects of this oppressive male patriarchal gender inequality.

I too feel their pain.

Never before have so many "angels" been forced to endure so much hell on earth.

But who will listen when Candice Swaenpole cries out for freedom?
Who will dry the tears shed by Lily Aldridge?
Who will offer the comfort of the warm embrace of compassion and understanding when Benhati Prinsloo collapses under the immense weight of the narrative of archetypes of cultrural gender boundaries?

It shall be, I.

I too know why the caged bird sings, Candace.
I too.....

The outrage of female sexuality - fought for, won, bought and sold, commodified, repackaged, and resold back to them at the low, low price of their own soul.
Or 2 for 1 Chinese knickers.
Whichever.

Sad.
So very sad.

Just this morning I reread this post from a few months back regarding a man from the neighborhood who had lost his son to a lengthy illness.  I haven't seen him since that evening and I was wondering to myself how he was doing.  This afternoon, after giving "dog" a much needed bath, I decided to go for an extra long walk so we could both dry off.
And there the man was, doing some landscaping on one of the big houses on Lanier.
It's been just over 4 months since his boy passed away and I happened to bump into him that night.
Do you ever wonder if something else is at play when these things happen?

_________________________________________________________________________________

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

I had planned to write a long piece today. One that I've been thinking about for some time.
One in which I cohesively dissemble and then carefully reassemble national and world politics as seen thru the perspective of the anti-smoking campaign that really went full tilt in the mid-'80's.
It was to be my political "cold-fusion" polemic masterpiece.
Yeah.
That damn good.
I've been collecting opinions and editorials like an old woman on Hoarders for the past few months.
Bits of economics stacked over here, dried up pieces of crime and punishment over there, a corner gone moldy with religious diatribes and historical analyses, an entire closest of various graphs and charts concerning immigration, equality, race, and reams of failed legislation.
Not to mention the all important quotes from luminaries as far ranging as John the Baptist to Jack Kerouac, from Churchill to Mother Theresa, and back thru Keats and Kesey.

But then I went for a walk with "dog" and somewhere around the 3rd song on The Gin Blossoms debut album a man wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt pulled up beside me on his scooter:

"I met you last year. You were really nice to me and my son on a couple of occasions. I just wanted to let you know that he had a lot of health problems for a long time, and we buried him the day before yesterday. "
"I'm not even sure why I'm telling you. I guess you were just nice to me and I wanted you to know."
"Anyhow...."

And then he rode off.

I wish I had been able to think of something more "something" than - I'm really sorry for your loss.
If ever I've felt a moment of complete uselessness, it was then.

There were moments when I was sick that I found it easier to express my feelings to people I had little to no ties to.
I'm not sure what that is or what it says about me.
It's a weird thing - to be sick or suffer some immense loss like that.
Early on, when I had just received my diagnosis, I was working across town for a small printing company when the owner, Marie, asked me what had happened, why was I wearing the eyepatch(?)
And for some reason I just sat down and unburdened myself.
She was gracious and I was tremendously embarrassed by it but still relieved in some small way when I was done.

Maybe that was what this man needed tonight - to be momentarily unburdened from his loss.

Wish I had had something more profound to offer him than, "I'm really sorry."

Joss Stone is here to make it all better.

Given the option, gorgeous and talented is the way you'd like to go thru life.
Just, FYI.

Never Argue with a Spider (and other reflections on my 10th "Canciversary")

10

Never Argue with a Spider

(and Other Reflections on my 10th “Canciversary”)

On November 18th, 2005 at roughly 3:00 in the afternoon, Dr. Donna Hill at Emory University Medical Center, Department of Neuro-Opthamology, called to tell me that I had a brain tumor.

More specifically, she told me that I had a very rare type of cancerous brain tumor called a clival chordoma and that I would need brain surgery immediately and would likely have to follow up with several weeks of radiation therapy.

It was a Friday afternoon and as she hung up the phone she said apologetically, “I hope you have a nice weekend.”
I wondered to myself, “How bad IS a clival chordoma?”
The internet did not help.
Available research at the time suggested that the average life expectancy of a person diagnosed with a clival chordoma is between 3-5 years from diagnosis to death.

The first doctor I saw in person was a friend’s mom who works as a neuro-psychiatrist - someone who is trained in the intricacies of brain trauma and disease and can assess what level of pre-injury competency and capabilities that a patient might reasonably expect to reach.
Before I could fully pronounce the “-oma” in clival chordoma she had burst into tears and was hugging me hard enough to bruise my ribs.
“Well, that’s that,” I thought.
“The end.”

I was 35.

By early December the tumor had grown large enough to compress my 3rd cranial nerve which controls motor function to the right eye. I put the eye-patch on for the first time when double vision and light sensitivity became unbearable.

In January of 2006, I was wheeled into an operating room at Emory and had my first brain surgery. The surgeon was only able to remove about 30% of the tumor.

In May of 2006, despite dire warnings from my Atlanta doctors, I flew to Pittsburgh to have another brain surgery at The University of Pittsburgh Medical Center. This surgeon, Dr. Amin Kassam, was able to remove all of the remaining tumor using special tools that he designed and a technique that he pioneered.
(The expanded endo-nasal approach.)
(They enter the skull and remove the tumor through the nose.)
(The one and only time that the family schnoz has paid off.)

I spent over 12 hours in the operating room. Though the surgery was a success, less than 36 hours after being released from the hospital the patch from my incision leaked, which resulted in brain fluid running out of my nose.

(Pro-tip: Brain fluid does not taste good.)
(Do. Not. Try.)
(Kinda metal-y or copper-ish tasting. )
(Just, FYI.)

I was rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night where I received an emergency spinal tap.
My big brother held my hand when the doctor put the needle into my spine.

I had a third surgery to fix the leak and was treated for bacterial meningitis.

I spent another 2 weeks or so in the hospital receiving various treatments, recovering, and watching more Law & Order than any single person should ever be allowed to watch.
(I’ll never look at Mariska Hargitay the same way again.)

In August of 2006 I began radiation treatment.

Every day for nearly 2 months I drove to The Winship Cancer Institute at Emory to receive a total of 42 treatments.
(You get weekends off and free parking.)

Radiation is measured on the “gray scale”.
Chordoma cells are killed at 78 gray. Healthy brain cells are killed at 56 gray.
You can quite literally smell your brain burning when they turn the machines on - like a vague whiff of bacon being cooked on a plastic skillet - coming from inside your head.
It took a full year to recover from the radiation.
Sometime in 2007 I was given an all clear.


Since then I have:
Swam in the ocean below the Mayan temples of Tulum, Mexico

Walked along the blooming cherry trees that shade “The Philosopher's Path” in Kyoto, Japan.

Gotten drunk while doing shots of Schnapps with German tourists in Prague.

Received a Swedish massage from a grumpy Hungarian in Budapest.

(Pro-tip: “Swedish massage” apparently means something really scary in Hungarian.)

(Pro-tip #2: “Hungarian” and “grumpy” are synonymous.)

I saw The Black Crowes in concert, on the final night, of their final tour ever, in a converted church in Amsterdam.

(They were back on tour 8 months later.)

(You owe me $1,200 bucks Robinson!)

I trained an amazing German Shepherd who “starred” in The Hunger Games.

(They cut his scene but I’m still counting it as a win.)

I’ve fallen in love.

I’ve fallen out of love.

I had my heart broken.

I had the dog that I trained to protect me save my life by climbing a jungle gym and coming down a playground slide just to cheer me up when I was most depressed about that broken heart.
(He did it twice that day and not once since.)

I gave my mother the nickname, “The Source of the Trouble”, and got her to embrace it.

I partied like a rock star as the only guy on a pub crawl with a dozen of The Blue Ridge Roller Girls roller derby team in Asheville, North Carolina.

(Pro-tip: If you ever have the opportunity to party with any roller girl, anywhere, at any time, I will personally track you down and smack you hard in the face if you don’t take it.)

I was part of the World Cup celebrations in Madrid.

I saw the palace and cathedral in Seville and Rembrandt’s “The Night Watch”.

I felt humbled and small at Anne Frank’s house.

I had a beautiful little French girl absolutely melt my heart when she took my hand as she and her mother and I walked the streets of a tiny French village on the Cote’d Azur looking for perfume and soap and candles to send to my aunts back home.

I bought a Harley and rode it cross country, from Atlanta to Vancouver, even though I’d never owned a motorcycle or even ridden one in 15 years.
(I still don’t have my license.)

I reconnected with friends I hadn’t seen in ages, made some new ones, and lost a couple old ones.

I walked in the rain with a pretty woman.

I got in a snowball fight with the neighbor’s kid.

I saw a Hitchcock film in an old theater and saw the old church where he filmed “The Birds”.

I made a porn star mad.

I had my own t-shirts made.
(El Pinche Pirata del Fuego Summer Tour 2012.)

I saw The Leaning Tower of Pisa in the early pre-dawn minutes when I was the only person around.

I saw the kindness of strangers up close and personal when my Harley broke down in 106 degree heat, 40 miles from everywhere, out near Ft. Stockton, Texas.

I met a lady tow truck driver out there whose grandfather is from the same small town in Spain as mine.

(Salamanca.)
I had dinner with her and her family.

I shot beer cans off a fence post and raced go-carts.

I saw my baby niece graduate from high school, turn into a young lady, and get married.

I lost one girlfriend in Barcelona, another in Tokyo, and had a third none too politely ask me to leave France.

(Pro-tip: It’s possible that I’m not a very good traveling companion.)

I saw the lights of Marfa.

I saw the Golden Tori.

I said a prayer for the dead at Hiroshima.

I made out with my high school sweetheart.

I was stone cold sober when I saw the face of an angel, clear as day, form in the clouds above me in Lordsburg, New Mexico. I could see his pupils, his lashes, even the tiny rolls of baby fat under his chin. It was gorgeous and breathtaking and there was a moment of serenity there unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before or since.

I rode an overloaded Harley Springer 30 miles down a dirt road, deep into the wilds of Arizona, so I could spend the night on top of a mountain drinking Peyote tea and communing with my spirit guide.

Mine was a tarantula the size of a pie plate with a shitty attitude.

(Pro-tip: Never argue with a spider.)

A rattlesnake crossed my path.

I got chased by a bull.

I crossed Mobile Bay on a ferry for 8 bucks and crossed the Mississippi and Eel Rivers more times than I can count, as well as the continental divide and The Golden Gate Bridge, all on motorcycle.

I bought shots for the house.

I rode thru a tree.

I listened to live jazz in a smokey basement bar.

I bought a cake for a stranger because she was upset.

I worked on The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Art Institute of Chicago, The High Museum of Art, The Dia: Beacon, The Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial, The LA County Museum of Art, The Standing Bear Native American Museum of Art in Ponca City, Oklahoma, The Silver Spur Saloon and Brothel turned Welcome Center in Roanoke, Texas and even got a call from museums as far away as China and Israel.

The morning of my 42nd birthday I woke up in Los Angeles and rode my motorcycle to Elton John’s house in Beverly Hills to discuss business.
(You can see my work in the February 2013 edition of Architectural Digest.)

A few hours later I was in Malibu watching Pam Anderson order a latte at Starbucks.

I’ve argued politics with friends and family and strangers.
And won.

I benched 220.

I felt the hands of God shield me in his grace when I lost control of my bike and left the highway at over 50 mph.
I walked away without a scratch on me or my bike.

My cousin/brother Rhonnie and I got kicked out of the same bar 3 nights in a row in Austin, TX.
We laughed about it every time.

I told a girl I really loved to, “...get the hayull outta my truck...”.
(It broke my heart but she had it comin’ - don’t judge.)
(You can take the boy outta Clay Hill.......)

I nearly had a complete nervous breakdown in a grocery store because I couldn’t find taco mix.
(It was a long year - don’t judge.)

I shot crazy big weapons with a crazy nice former Green Beret who, along with his lovely (and only marginally crazy,)) wife, welcomed me into their home like a long, lost brother.

I saw the Grand Canyon from a helicopter.

I ate mushrooms on a houseboat in Amsterdam.

I’ve come to consider the dancers and staff at The Clermont Lounge my personal friends and felt like a big shot when the doorman pulled me and my friends out of line one night and told me,
“C’mon dude - this is not for you. Go on and get inside and have a beer.”

(I can’t get enough of the way the dancer “Lady Godiva” at The Clermont Lounge calls me “her little pirate-man”.)

(Protip: The Clermont Lounge is not a strip club; it’s an historical institution and one of the last great American dive bars. Act accordingly.)

I saw Meatloaf play “Bat Out of Hell” live at Austin City Limits and met the band the next day.

I met “Darryl” from The Walking Dead on set and spent the day pointing a machine gun at him.
(He called me Snake.)
(Snake Plissken - Escape From New York.)

I was at the family reunion we held after my grandfather passed away.
We toasted grandpop and his life.

I met my great uncle Joe, a former WW II Navy fighter pilot and test pilot and all around badass.
(He flew Hellcats. Helldiver Joe was his call.)

I hurt my neck head-banging to The Scorpions, “Rock You Like a Hurricane” with a couple of heavy-set Mexican fellas.

I’ve heard “Arrrgh” shouted at me more times than any single person could ever reasonably be expected to hear it and not go completely bat-shit crazy.

On occasion, I’ve gone completely bat-shit crazy.

I played badminton in the dark, on a school night, in downtown Atlanta, with a rather pretty young lady.

I had a member of The Outlaws slap me on the back and shout, “Yer awright, Brother!” when I told him I knew Reverend Anne at The Peyote Way Church of God.
We proceeded to trade shots of tequila and drink Bud Lights until I could barely stand.

I took classes on Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, ballroom dancing, white water rafting, kayak rolling, 15th century British Literature, Rhetoric, Philosophy, and both Russian and German languages.

I was asked to never, ever speak French again.

I learned that I’m a helluva lot more dangerous in a ballroom than in a dojo.

I learned how to “scissor” from a lesbian.
(It was a long year - don’t judge.)

I wrote a paper and gave a speech.

I got an “A”.

I danced 70‘s disco with an 80 year old woman.
(That old broad could shake her damn money-maker!)

I saw a gorgeous fiddle player performing in Nashville, Tennessee and convinced her to call me without ever saying a word.
(And then immediately scared her away.)

I challenged three men to a fight.

I read On the Road, The Life of Pi, For Whom the Bell Tolls, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and Brave Men more times than I can count plus most of Shakespeare, William Service, Hunter S. Thompson, Stephen Ambrose, much of the great histories of the world and Stars in Their Courses by Shelby Foote.

(I don’t ever get tired of hearing Shelby Foote speak.)

I’ve memorized much of the dialogue from True Romance, The Usual Suspects, and The Big Lebowski - it’s just that good.

I went to the symphony.

I put hot peppers on everything.

I had a psychic in Jackson Square tell me that I, “ …was on a journey…”.
("Nooo Shhiittt!!")

I dated a redhead.

I sent Godiva to my high school sweetheart’s momma.

I memorized Billy Collin’s poem, “Forgetfulness”, a dozen times.

I held my brother’s newborn twins when they were too small to leave the hospital.
(When they were old enough I taught them to love barbecue, sweet tea, and fried okra even though they’re a couple a’ damn yankees.)

I learned to like sushi, yogurt, greens, olives, and tomatoes and to cook the best damn ham hocks and lima beans you ever tasted.

I tried snails, pickled herring, fried anchovies, and bone marrow.

I dropped an IPhone into a pitcher of margaritas.

I tried to surf.

I tried but failed to ever appreciate a good wine or an old whiskey.

I tried but failed to ever appreciate modern art.

I saw The Foo Fighters, Old Crow Medicine Show, Van Halen (with David Lee and Sammy Hagar), The Scorpions, Band of Horses, The Black Crowes (many times), Shovels & Rope, Dehlia Lowe, The Lumineers, and Lyle Lovett, both with and without the large band - all live in concert.

I met the great blues singer Francine Reed after a show and very nearly got her on the back of my Harley.

I was voted “hottest white dude in Publix”.
(Ponce de Leon location only.)

I saw the first black man get elected president of The United States.

I stayed in a 5 star hotel AND ordered room service.

I drove a 26,000 pound, 80 foot boom lift thru Central Park - with police escort.

I went back stage.

I got tattooed.

I got scarred, broke a bone, and tore my rotator.

I grew an excellent beard.

I got a private tour of The Met.

I planted and grew a fig tree that came from my great-grandmother’s farm in Perry, Florida.

I got stopped and frisked.

I held momma’s hand when we crossed the street.

I had to pay $50 AND pick up the garbage.

I got kicked out, snuck in, led on, brought down, pissed off, lifted up, lied to, and talked about.

I got dressed up for no reason.

I was blocked by the editor of The Rolling Stone and “favorited” by Danny Trejo.

I kissed a lot of pretty girls.

And I. Planted. My. Fucking. Flag.

(Seriously - I have my own flag. It’s flying out front of the house right now.)

I’ve been called sweet as pie, mean as a snake, genius, insane, psycho, thoughtful, concerned, uncaring, a “shell of a man in a sham of a business”, a good friend, a son of bitch, beautiful, sexy, stupid, an angel, an asshole, a jackass, a poet, a pirate, a creep, and a Goddamn shame.

I’ve made it a point to be nice to strangers and to buy donuts for friends and random folks in my neighborhood. (The good ones - not that Krispy Kreme bullshit.)

I bought chocolates for a neighbor because I saw her crying on Mother’s Day and blasted heavy metal at another because she wouldn’t shut her damn dog up.

I made a bunch of mistakes and occasionally found myself being ornery, contrary, crazy, and/or intolerable - even to myself. I’ve made friends and strangers laugh, cry, scream, and occasionally jump around and break stuff - sometimes in the same afternoon.

In short, I’ve lived more of my life in the past 10 years than I did in the first 35 and I did it on my terms, for better or worse, when, where, and how I wanted.

Maybe that’s what those over-exuberant “Embrace Life” bastards were talking about all along.

To those I’ve hurt, made mad, disappointed, offended, or just plain irritated - I offer you my most sincere apologies

To those I’ve not I say, “Good intentions and good luck do occasionally cross paths.”

I’ve had more good days than bad days and having brain cancer gave me the opportunity to learn more about myself and the world around me than anything else I might have gone thru or done.

It was a terribly difficult event - but a profoundly meaningful and positive experience.
And I am truly very thankful for it.
And more thankful to those who were there with me thru it all.

That being said, I quote a wise man who once advised me to, “Fukabuncha kaincer buulllshit!”
Which is exactly what I’ve tried to do.

If you find yourself in the vicinity of the Virginia-Highlands neighborhood this November 18th at roughly 3:00 PM, stop into Limerick Junction and share a toast to celebrate 10 years of life.

If not, I hope that wherever you and your loved ones are, you will pause for a moment and contemplate your own life and loves, your wins and your losses over the past decade, and then raise a glass of a fine Irish Stout in hopes of another fine decade yet to come.

(Sweet tea is a suitable substitute if you’re one of “those” people.)


Much love from your friend (and mine),
Your little pirate-man,
El Pinche Pirata del Fuego him and/or herself,

Joey Rodriguez

Important links:

The Chordoma Foundation
http://www.chordomafoundation.org/?_kk=chordoma%20foundation&_kt=ff3a02a8-b7c5-41b3-a08a-623bd514bd2e&gclid=CJWWmaOq7sgCFdcRgQodNasADQ

The University of Pittsburg Medical Center - Minimally Invasive Neurosurgery Center
http://www.neurosurgery.pitt.edu/

The Winship Cancer Institute
https://winshipcancer.emory.edu/

The Peyote Way Church of God
http://www.peyoteway.org/

Billy Collins - “Forgetfullness”
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/26905

The Scorpions - “Rock You Like a Hurricane”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxdmw4tJJ1Y

The Black Crowes - “Soul Singing”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sqs69CE7Zqw

Fox Bros. BBQ
http://www.foxbrosbbq.com/

The Clermont Lounge
http://clermontlounge.net/

Ivalee Pitts - Musician
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uBQTYBmrySs

The Blue Ridge Roller Girls
http://www.blueridgerollergirls.com/

Casino El Camino - Austin, TX
http://www.casinoelcamino.net/

A Pop’s Wrecker Service - Ft. Stockton
http://www.fortstocktonpioneer.com/marketplace/business_1127081971.html

Architectural Digest - February 2013
http://www.architecturaldigest.com/story/elton-john-david-furnish-los-angeles-home-article

 

It has recently been announced by AMC that "close, personal friend and fellow actor" Norman Reedus  will have a new show premiering in 2016.  An avid motorcyclist, Reedus's new show will have him riding about the country doing stuff and seeing things with various guest riders tagging along for fun and adventure.  I can think of no better riding buddy than the person Reedus referred to as "Snake Plissken" when first we met on the set of The Walking Dead, lo these many months ago.
After all, I have all the credentials:
Actor on TWD?  check
Cool bike?  check
Cross country riding history?  check
Eyepatch?  check
Gifted writer and maker-upper of stories?  check

Seriously, the show sounds pretty darn cool.  Not since Ewan McGregor did his Long Way 'Round series has a serious and successful actor and avid cyclist done a good riding / touring show.  It's about time.

(But seriously, put me in coach.  I'm ready to roll.)

Arts & Events

Norman Reedus gets his own AMC show

”Ride with Norman Reedus” will showcase motorcycle culture

October 29, 2015Myrydd Wells0 Comments

Get ready to swoon, TWD-heads—AMC is about to have a lot more Norman Reedus on the lineup. The network announced in a press release today that it has greenlit six episodes of Ride with Norman Reedus, an hour-long reality series that will feature The Walking Dead’s heartthrob traveling to different cities on bike and exploring motorcycle culture. Reedus, an ardent bike enthusiast, will be “[stopping] at various locales such as custom bike shops, tattoo parlors, collector’s warehouses, or a roadside smokehouse.” He’ll also have a different travel buddy joining him in every episode, so let’s all cross our fingers for an Atlanta installment where he teams up with Andrew Lincoln. (They could get matching zombie tattoos!)

This isn’t Reedus’s first foray into side projects—in 2013 he released a photography book, The Sun’s Coming Up . . . Like a Big Bald Head. Let’s just hope the new show doesn’t affect his TWD gig, or else the show’s producers will need to brace for riots.

- See more at: http://www.atlantamagazine.com/news-culture-articles/norman-reedus-gets-his-own-amc-show/#sthash.l0tc0pKf.dpuf

I happened to find some very old photos of a young "piche-r" recently.
Glorious.

With one of oldest friends - probably around 1987 or so.  

She assures me that somewhere there is a photo of the 2 of us at her 8th birthday party wearing bell bottoms with embroidered butterfly patches on the knees.

High School Sweetheart Fred took this one at the old church in Green Cove Springs for her photog. class.

That kid definitely had no attitude.  Nope.  None whatsoever.

Yours truly, post-church and lunch with "The Source of the Trouble" yesterday.  

There's only 30 years between the old and new pictures.

I had planned to write a long piece today.  One that I've been thinking about for some time.
One in which I cohesively dissemble and then carefully reassemble national and world politics as seen thru the perspective of the anti-smoking campaign that really went full tilt in the mid-'80's.
It was to be my political "cold-fusion" polemic masterpiece.
Yeah.
That damn good.
I've been collecting opinions and editorials like an old woman on Hoarders for the past few months.
Bits of economics stacked over here, dried up pieces of crime and punishment over there, a corner gone moldy with religious diatribes and historical analyses, an entire closest of various graphs and charts concerning immigration, equality, race, and reams of failed legislation.
Not to mention the all important quotes from luminaries as far ranging as John the Baptist to Jack Kerouac, from Churchill to Mother Theresa, and back thru Keats and Kesey.

But then I went for a walk with "dog" and somewhere around the 3rd song on The Gin Blossoms debut album a man wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt pulled up beside me on his scooter:

"I met you last year.  You were really nice to me and my son on a couple of occasions.  I just wanted to let you know that he had a lot of health problems for a long time, and we buried him the day before yesterday. "
"I'm not even sure why I'm telling you.  I guess you were just nice to me and I wanted you to know."
"Anyhow...."

And then he rode off.

I wish I had been able to think of something more "something" than - I'm really sorry for your loss.
If ever I've felt a moment of complete uselessness, it was then.

There were moments when I was sick that I found it easier to express my feelings to people I had little to no ties to.
I'm not sure what that is or what it says about me.
It's a weird thing - to be sick or suffer some immense loss like that.
Early on, when I had just received my diagnosis, I was working across town for a small printing company when the owner, Marie, asked me what had happened, why was I wearing the eyepatch(?)
And for some reason I just sat down and unburdened myself.
She was gracious and I was tremendously embarrassed by it but still relieved in some small way when I was done.

Maybe that was what this man needed tonight - to be momentarily unburdened from his loss.

Wish I had had something more profound to offer him than, "I'm really sorry."

Me and Earl and the Dying Girl

In an effort to get out of the house and away from politics on a rainy day I took myself to the movies this afternoon.  My favorite movie house (or movie-haus?) Midtown Arts Cinema was playing a new, independent film, Me and Earl and the Dying Girl - the story of an awkward teen who befriends a girl with leukemia in his senior year of high school.  As much as I dislike stories of precocious kids, it's a touching story and one that hit fairly close to home.  The lead actors are great, particularly Olivia Cooke, who is utterly charming and vulnerable and believable as the dying girl.  Many of the conversations on her illness felt very familiar.  She even seeks treatment at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center like me.
Being sick and going thru treatment and dealing with your own emotions and also dealing with the emotions and reactions of those close to you is no cake walk.  There's no "Idiot's Guide to Having Potentially Terminal Cancer and Not Being a Selfish Jerk While Taking Care of Your Friends and Family" - you just have to wing it in nearly every possible way.  She did a great job of communicating that in the film.
It's worth seeing.

http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/me_and_earl_and_the_dying_girl/?search=me%20and%20earl

In continuation of my street art campaign, I give you:

Crazy Lady Can't Park, Has 0% F@#ks

(Notice new dent in bumper.)

This one is a favorite as it illustrates the elegance of the parking and the fact that I had to drive to Dekalb Medical Center to rescue the "park-er" after she locked the keys inside the car.

We call that a Win/Win situation in the art community.

And who could forget "Pool Noodle Prius"!?!

I have a bold new vision for my neighborhood, one that does not involve 5,000 square foot executive mansions and never, ever, everneverever any modern homes.
Particularly, modern homes like this:

Or this:

And, because I care about the beauty of my surroundings, I've taken it upon myself to begin a new street art campaign.  The idea just came to me last night as I was walking dog - like a bolt of lightning, it hit me.

Thus, I give you my first installation.

I call it - "Stop Trowing Your Freakin' Trash Down at the Bus Stop, You Moron."

It'll be interesting to see how long it lasts and whether the city or the owner of the modern home on the hill behind my installation will be the first to remove it.

The countdown clock started at 9:15 this morning.

Let's Watch!!!

(This is the giant spanking new modern home directly behind my installation.  I think it really pulls the eye away and detracts from my vision of the neighborhood.)

In an effort to be a bit more healthy and lose weight, I've been trying to eat more carefully of late.
Take for instance this fancy-pants concoction above.
I believe the locals call this a "smootchie".
Or perhaps, a "smooshie".

Either way, it's truly horrible.

Take your average Pirata and remove Guinness, late nights, and even The Clermont Lounge.
Egads Man!!!
What the heck is left!?!
Nothing fun, that's what.

And that's exactly what this cup-full-o-pulp is:  No fr#@in' fun.
Pomegranate Juice (no idea what that is, what it means, or where it comes from), bananas, berries of various colors and sizes, and some pineapple juice - just to make it less miserable.

I've force-fed myself 3 of these just today and I can tell you right now - I don't feel a thing other than angry.
Somewhere a'way in the spirit world John Wayne is laughing his butt off cuz this is no way for a man to live.
No sir.
And as far as the "losing weight" part - nope.
I walked the dog nearly 6 miles on Saturday with little more to eat than a glass full of "snoochies" and a salad.
A SALAD!
Plus I did the following workout:

10 - 30 lb. squat to military press
10 - burpees
10 - 30 lb. squat to military press
10 - burpees
  5 - mile morning walk
12 - dips
15 - dips
25 - lying 35 lb. plate tricep lift
10 - incline sit ups with 35 lb. plate
20 - incline sit ups
2 - 205 lb. bench
3 - 205 lb. bench
2 - 205 lb. bench

Do you think John Wayne ever did a damn Burpee in his entire life!?!

I've been at this for the last few months and I've now gained 10 lbs.

(BTW, scales are evil contraptions and should be shot on sight.)

You can find me at The Clermont drinking with ghost of Wayne.

This healthy livin' is for the birds.

What song was most popular on the day you were born?

It's more than a bit apropos that the most popular song on radio the day I was born was
Three Dog Night's hit, Mama Told Me Not to Come.

Making the top 10 were:

and:

The Field Sobriety Test of Modern Relationships: The Valentine's Day Date

Because I'm all about serving my fellow man and because, from the bottom and/or top of my tiny, blackened, "Grinch-ien" heart - I care - and also because for some reason my Valentine's Day post from last year is popular in my Googley Stats - today I bring you:

The Field Sobriety Test of Modern Relationships:  The Valentine's Day Date

In the modern western world, the Valentine's Day date is typically used as a Pass/Fail - Field Sobriety Test for men in committed relationships in which the best a man can do is not f@#k up.

If you're a guy in a relationship and you put together a nice, romantic Valentine's date complete with dinner, gifts, cards, flowers, maybe a little dancin', maybe a couple drinks, then maybe you might have bought yourself 3-5 days of a more or less pleasant woman, who will possibly sleep with you 1.37 times during that 5 day run.

A bad Valentine's date ?
Let's not talk about it.

As an "adult" male that was married for nearly a decade and who has been dating for another, I can't possibly account for all of the dollars I've spent treating my particular betrothed like an heavenly angel for that one, special eve of the year in the hopes of:
A.) Not freaking hearing about it for the rest of the f@#ing year if I got it wrong!!!
2.) see "A" above.

In nearly 20 years of married and/or dating life I don't recall a single Valentine's Day in which I was showered with gifts, lavished with love, bathed, shaved, oiled, and put to bed with a steak and a "beej".
Nor, do I recall ever hearing of such from any of my male friends.  

Oh, sure - you'll hear the occasional tall tale of a friend's cousin who "knew a guy" whose wife met him at the door with a plate of cutlets and the TV remote - and then left him alone to watch sportsball while she patiently (and nakedly) waited to perform her wifely duties - but I've always treated these stories with the same sort of skepticism that one would normally reserve for alien and Bigfoot sightings - they may be out there - but you'll never see them.
Statistically, it just doesn't happen.
This her night. 

And yours - to get right or to screw up.

(See also - Mother's Day, her Birthday, New Year's Eve, Memorial Day, Arbor Day, Labor Day, etc.)
(Guys get the 4th of July - the one day we can get drunk and blow shit up like we want to do.)

Apparently, someone has been reading my little blogo's and decided to turn the true story of my experiences in the little town of Marfa, TX last year into a movie.
Outside of the hot chicks, sex, skater punks, and run-ins with angry border patrol agents this movie exactly captures what my time out in Texas was truly like.

Fun with Parking

A couple of days ago, I arrived home after walking "dog" about the neighborhood to find that my landlord had parked like this:

Over the line, Smokey.  Mark it zero.
This is not 'Nam: there are rules.

________________________________________________________________________________

At some point over the past few months my neighbor appointed herself Neighborhood Parking Warden.  I know this because she started placing orange traffic cones at the edge of her driveway if she deemed that a vehicle had crossed into the very unsafe territory of said driveway.  She has a very large, very expensive SUV that she needs for her only child and her 8 lb. dog and a very narrow driveway that she uses on rare occasions to unload groceries and the like.  I don't need to expend much energy in this post explaining all the various dangers implicit in the complicated parking process - you know them all too well.  So when the Neighborhood Parking Warden's orange traffic cone first showed, I was thankful that someone was finally putting safety first.
And, given that my landlord is getting on in years and prone to parking like a wild hyena in a Prius, it just made good sense.
I too care about safety.
So when I arrived home to find that the Neighborhood Parking Warden had already clocked out for the evening and this renegade Prius, this ne'er-do-well of the auto world, this 4-wheeled screaming, electric banshee of a car had been parked well into the "designated danger zone" of parking, i.e. The Traffic Warden's driveway, I decided to take this egregious affront to all things safe and good into my own hands.

First, I isolated the maverick from "the danger zone."

Next, I corralled the offending Prius using tactics I learned from studying The Neighborhood Traffic Warden's methodology.

Next, after considering that the offending Prius might slide out sideways and make a run for it, I installed safety tape on all 4 sides.  I didn't have access to The Neighborhood Parking Warden's bright yellow Caution tape so I had to use a substitute. 

And finally, considering the fact that we have been getting an usually high level rainfall this spring, I added a couple of Pool Noodles to help keep the little fella's head above water in his temporary holding pen should we get another thunder shower.

I think we all have learned some very valuable lessons from The Neighborhood Parking Warden over the past many weeks and I would like to be the first to say, "Thank You! for your diligence, your sense of duty to God, family, community, and parking - and for making all of us here in the neighborhood a little safer - one orange cone at a time."

You're doing the Lord's work, madam Neighborhood Parking Warden.

xoxo,

EPPdF

 

A real live bricks and mortar El Pinche Pirata del Fuego Memorial Institute, Religiously Contrarian Preparatory Academy, and Home for Wayward Women ?

It could be a thing.

For just $25,000, my vision of an EPPdFMIRCPAaHfWW could be a reality!
Over 50,000 sq.ft. of all things El Pinche Pirata

http://www.presnc.org/properties/arlington-school/


Erected in 1922 and expanded in 1944 and 1949, the Arlington School is a substantial, two story red brick Neo-Classical building housing a gymnasium, cafeteria, kitchen, auditorium and classrooms. It was originally built to serve several mill villages of the Arlington, Gray, Parkdale, and Mutual cotton mills in west Gastonia. There were thirteen schools in the Gastonia system in 1930 and now only Central School, Gastonia High School (both restored and used) and Arlington School survive.

Of these survivors only the Arlington School was associated with the cotton mills and villages that were instrumental to the development of Gastonia. The building will need a new roof immediately and a full rehabilitation. Uses could easily include apartments, mixed use commercial, an agricultural center, institutional, college satellite space, arts and crafts related studios and businesses.

The school is currently on the Study List for the National Register of Historic Places which would make it eligible for federal tax credits. The school is priced far below the $890,000 tax value .
The school is only 1.5 miles from downtown Gastonia; less than a mile from the Loray Mill project; 18 miles from the Charlotte Douglas International Airport; and 27 miles to downtown Charlotte.
Gastonia has been named an All American City and is experiencing a positive influx of growth and attention associated with Charlotte’s burgeoning economy.