Heroes

I've been fed up with a lot lately, from gun control to immigration reform, to an argument I saw in the parking lot at my beer distributor over a political bumper sticker. However, I often hesitate to voice my opinion on matters, lest it ruin friendships I have, or relationships with family, many of whom see things from a very different perspective and belief system than I do. However, I'm going to do a bit of that regarding one particular issue before I continue on to my main point.

I'm a hard working social liberal (someone's head just exploded) with no real grasp of economics (so I don't tend to chime in on those matters, lacking in convictions in that realm as I am), who likes guns, plans on owning one, and yet dearly wishes they would be restricted to protect the American people, though I do NOT believe that simple restriction on firearms themselves is a cure-all for this nation's epidemic of gun violence, so chill out, half of the people I know. As a country, I think we have done ourselves a huge disservice by not adequately funding mental health initiatives and research, nor have we done enough to curtail poverty in inner cities and rural areas, both of which I see as being as important in this matter as gun control.

That's neither here nor there.

Actually, it's the only thing that IS there, so I'm just one more voice shouting into the abyss of the angry mob the world seems to have become. So I'm going to move on and write about something that might be different, if not a breath of fresh air in the midst of the torches and pitchforks.
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Why do we always have to kill our heroes?

I understand the saying, "never meet your heroes", and I abide by it. I don't want to be let down by an encounter with James Hetfield from Metallica or Brian Fallon from the Gaslight Anthem, so I would never choose to meet them. Sometimes the mystique is enough for me. James Hetfield wrote the music that fueled my angry adolescence, and has been the archetype of what I believe a heavy metal musician should be since I was 12. Brian Fallon, simply put, writes the songs I wish I could have. Anything I've ever been proud of writing, any funny story or personal reflection, I would trade in to have been the one to write "Handwritten," "Mae," or almost any other song he's written.

But would I willingly meet them? No.

In 2016, it seems there is a fascination with, and indeed a gleeful response, to being able to be the one who discovers something nasty about one of our heroes, and spreading this information to everyone they can. If, tomorrow, it is discovered that Tom Hanks (in my opinion one of the more beloved people in America), did something the majority deems unacceptable, there are many who are themselves guilty of the same indiscretion, who will go out of their way to bring him down with a fervor to their anger and a smile on their face. Simply put, pride in being a part of the movement that pushed a revered person off the cliff into infamy, alongside the broken shells of a dozen Kramers.

In (almost) all of these cases, starting with Kramer (Michael Richards), the people who committed the acts that others have used to destroy them were, undoubtedly, in the wrong. There's nothing right about what they did. But I'm uncomfortable with how much satisfaction people get from tearing them down. The latest subject of the public's scrutiny? Led Zeppelin.

I'm biased. I fucking love Led Zeppelin.

In my opinion, there are four rock bands to whom all others are inferior in terms of legacy: The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, and Led Zeppelin. Sure, you could name the Doors (utter crap), Bob Dylan (see: Doors, The), Black Sabbath, or any number of other bands, as being worthy of Mt Rushmore, but you would be wrong. It's the four I mentioned and that's it, because I'm the only person to ever have a correct and infallible opinion.

As you probably know by now, the remaining members of Led Zeppelin were in court to defend themselves against civil charges claiming plagiarism in the case of their most popular song, "Stairway to Heaven". Today, they were acquitted, which led to the Twitter mob of self-righteous keyboard warriors (a group I'm occasionally a regretful member of) proclaiming them the usual "rich, old white men", among other things, negating a nearly 50-year legacy unparalleled by almost any other group.

I think it's necessary to call people on their errors, but sometimes I feel that a part of the problems we have now is that there is nobody to rally around. If someone gains fame, particularly if they stand for something positive, there is always a group working tirelessly to catch them in a weak moment, ready to bring them down in front of the masses, a pack of hyenas on the corpse of a gazelle.

I do not wonder whether or not there will ever be someone we, as a country, will ever look at again with the admiration and trust that we once felt for the people carved into a mountain in South Dakota.

I wonder, rather, if we will allow it.

Obviously, Led Zeppelin isn't the person or group of people I wish we had today, to trust as we follow them into that dark night, but they are a microcosm of a greater problem. Before we rush to judge others, we should work on ourselves. We are not infallible. You are not perfect. Maybe you've cheated on someone you professed to love, maybe you've lied on your taxes, maybe you've bullied people in school, or maybe you've neglected a grandparent in the only remaining time you'll have with them.

My point is, don't be happy to point out the flaws in the way others live their lives. If something is egregious, don't take it laying down. But it's time a lot of us worked on ourselves. No one person is ever totally wrong or totally right. Maybe you disagree with someone else's political stance, or perhaps their social life. In the case of the former, consider that outright dismissal and mocking of one's views is unproductive, and leads to the horrible state or hate and anger we are in today. In the case of the latter, it's none of your fucking business. In all cases, unless someone is doing something to harm others, you have two options: engage in constructive discussion or shut the fuck up and move on. It's pretty easy.

And, most importantly, always consider that everyone is facing an uphill battle in some respect. Think before tearing them down.

It's not always our heroes that get torn down. Sometimes it's just a normal person. Someday it might be you.

Perhaps it's too late and the train has left the station on a one way trip into the aforementioned abyss, but I hope that we someday allow ourselves a moment to put aside the distrust, skepticism, and malice, and believe in something or someone again.

As for me, I'll always have Led Zeppelin.

Forced Entry

The title of this is a crime, and perhaps the post, itself, will be one. Basically, as you can see, I'm forcing myself to write something.

I'm doing this to myself (and to you, suckers) because I'm in a great mood. I usually write out of anger or worse, irrepressible rage, as I've said many times before, so why not see what I can do when I'm not picturing myself as Mike Tyson in a boxing ring opposite a troupe of girl scouts.

"I'm on the Zoloft to keep from killin' y'all" is the best quote ever.

For the record, I'd never hurt a girl scout, even though their cookies suck. Samoas have coconut, which is gross, and Tagalongs are what you feed to a peanut butter cup addict if you want to help them kick the habit or break their heart. Thin mints are good, but I'm over them. I eat Greek yogurt with Chia seeds and drink diet coke now, because I'm half a hippie. You can keep your chocolatey, minty, delicious, oh god, I gotta stop. Must think yogurt thoughts.

Dammit, Will, you ate almost 20 chicken wings tonight. Eat a cookie and shut up.

Anyways, for those not in the know, I'm working at two beer distributors now. At one, I rip my muscles to shreds for a meager salary, in hopes that I will eventually have biceps like my brother, and at the other, I do a perfectly good job and get blamed for things other people did, despite having proof that I was not at fault. Joke's on those in question, though, because I'm a handsome beast and they're not.

I make these minor complaints, but really, I like what I do. I'm surrounded by beer all day long, and I don't work for a woman who apparently aspires to be Hitler. What's to hate?

And since I don't work restaurant hours anymore, I get to have fun. It was one of my new year's resolutions to have fun, which some people teased me for. What a strange concept, really, resolving to have fun. It's usually something that just happens, so why say that you just want to have a good time? Everyone wants to lose weight or something, but I just wanted to enjoy myself. Looking at my recycling lately, it seems I've done that. Clink. I spend so much time thinking about work and love, and I forget to just relax with a few beers and some friends, and just talk. Not so much lately. My memory seems to be impeccably sharp. Resolution half-way complete. It's not a bad way to be, if you can make it happen.

Oh, I also lost 20 lbs in a few short months, so I completed everyone else's resolutions. Sorry.

So I guess what I'm trying to say in the most long-winded way possible is that things are going well. I feel incredibly stagnant and kind of bored, but in the end, isn't it to be bored with happiness than to be driven mad by anger and disappointment? Great things happen due to the latter, and no things happen due to the former, but I don't intend on prolonging my situation. I see it as a rest stop in between turbulence and new beginnings.

I've reached the end of my thoughts for the night, and as you can see, being in a good mood does not get my creative juices flowing. Perhaps that means I'm better-driven by an inner hatred or something. But as I lay here, drinking a diet coke and eating a cookie (I gave in), my greatest enemy crushed by I've Decided Not To Continue Writing This Thought Because I Don't Want To Upset Anyone, plotting glorious trips to visit long-lost friends in Erie, ever-illusive love elsewhere, and basking in the afterglow of a night out with close friends, everything seems to be great. Except my stomach, because buffalo sauce...not good.

One of these days, I'll have time to come up with an original thought, and write something worth reading. This is really just a placeholder to make sure Blogger.com doesn't delete my blog for lack of activity. But for right now, I'm working 6 days a week, I have most nights off, and I intend on exploiting that like a cheap labor force in a Nike factory. I don't have time for originality, and I sure as hell don't have time for Saturday night dinner rush. But I do have time to show you this:

You think my new-found optimism is something that happened on its own? Hell no. Godzilla is officially Japanese.

What a time to be alive.

What Do I Have To Offer? A Motivational Diatribe From Yours, Mostly Truthfully.

My late night thoughts this evening consist of a few words I try not to use here, because hey, this is a family blog, after all.

Just kidding, no it isn't. As the new kid at work undoubtedly thought as he left, tonight, "that guy says "fuck" a lot". And he's not wrong. Bless my little heart and occasionally limited vocabulary, I'm trying to get better at it (sometimes, there's only one four-letter word that fits a given situation).

First thing's first, I met with a woman yesterday (probably two days ago, by the time you read this), regarding my interest in becoming a real estate agent. She and I talked for about an hour, and I think she seemed genuinely interested in what I may have to bring to the table, which surprised me. I go through phases quite frequently, where I feel like I have no talents, and nothing to offer. However, during this conversation, a point was made to compile a list of distinguishing talents and abilities I have, which would come in handy in that particular line of work.

As it turns out, I'm a talented writer (in my opinion, only), polite, well-spoken (when I'm not just saying "fuck" a lot), I have real-world experience that I did not have when I graduated from college, I'm punctual (don't ask my brother about that, since he'd have a different opinion), I work extremely well on my own but I'm a great team player, and I'm apparently quite witty. That last one was my observation, though I can't blame her for obviously thinking it, herself. I am, after all, the Lyrical Miracle and about thirty other nicknames I've shamelessly stolen from professional wrestlers, including "the reflection of perfection", and "the quintessential stud muffin". I have others, but some are not family-friendly, and remember, I'm trying. Others are just stupid, so I won't bring the level of thought down.

I'm not simply writing a list of the things that I think are good about myself, so that you, the reader, sit there and think I'm a swell guy. It helps me to see them written out, and to believe that I do have value beyond my ability to cut the shit out of a cucumber at lightning speed. By the way, did I mention that I can cut the shit out of a cucumber at lightning speed?

I find myself jealous, frequently, of those around me, whom I see as gold mines of talents and abilities I wish I had. I feel passed by, like the person that other people knew on their way to being something, far removed from what they once were. It's good that everyone is doing their thing, but I feel left out of it sometimes.

But let me tell a little story.

'Twas the night before Christmas...eve...and all through the townhouse, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse (because we had one, but it ate the poison we put out, and I disposed of its body). But jolly St Will concocted a plan, to throw a party for which underage kids were banned. Come at 8:30, my text message read, but by 9:20, the party seemed utterly dead. Nobody showed up, not one single soul, so I sat there alone, and felt like a fool. I was pissed off, upset, morose, and displeased, so I got up, grabbed a book, and sat down to read. When all of a sudden, there arose such a clatter, so I got up and answered the door, to see what was the matter. There stood my friends, with holiday cheer. They came with foodstuffs, hellos, and some bottles of beer. I couldn't believe that I had such luck, as to have friends whose senses of time so objectively sucked. We enjoyed the night with good food and drink, and I'm lucky that nobody threw up in the sink.

For those who care to know, I proceeded to get very, very drunk, have a great time, and then fall asleep on the couch while watching The Inbetweeners. I spent Christmas Eve extremely hung over, but quite happy with the turnout.

So, between the story I just shared, and the list of talents and qualities from above, I have two things to remind myself of on nights like tonight, when I feel like nobody really gives a shit. First, they do, as evidenced by my vomiting on Christmas Eve, which was facilitated by their apparent desire to see if I could finish off another IPA (I could). Second, even if they don't, I have talents and qualities to make people give a shit.

I write this blog for everyone to get a kick out of, most of the time, considering I think I'm hilarious. Sometimes, like tonight, I write it for myself, as a sort of self-therapy, which is why I started it in the first place, several years ago. Perhaps it's indicative of my state of mind in the last year, or so, that I don't write as much anymore. It means I'm less angry about a lot of things.

I'm still motivated by anger and spite more than some other things, but I've been able to elevate other factors in shaping the path I'm on, rather than doing nothing but writing humorously to channel intense dislike and fervent rage.

Tonight, I wrote for myself. But I also wrote it for you.

I don't care about making you laugh, or at least not tonight. Any jokes or humorous lines I wrote simply happened because, gifted as I am, I just can't help myself. The "Night Before Christmas Eve" was written simply because I could.

I considered not posting this, because perhaps people will think less of me for being so vain as to think anybody cares about it . Everybody likes to make the joke about people who share stupid shit on Facebook. I even made that joke the other day, by posting that I ate meatloaf.

I also considered not posting it, because I know people do care about me, and may be worried by some of the things I've said. Though, as I've tried to mention, despite my bad mood this evening, I am a much more positive person than I was, and things are going pretty well.

In the end, I decided to post it, because I simply wanted to. I think it's good.

I also wrote, tonight, for anybody who reads this, who doesn't feel confident in themselves, whether they let others know it or not. Blessed though I am with a group of friends who almost unanimously exude confidence, I'm sure that at least one of them deals with issues similar to mine.

When I was asked yesterday about what talents and qualities I have that would give me an advantage in real estate, I sat quietly for a moment, having heard the one question I am always unable to answer. That one question I can't Google and pretend that I didn't. "What do I have to offer". My initial answer sucked. Essentially, it amounted to nothing. That "nothing" represented my immediate feelings about myself. But feelings are misleading.

Feelings don't decide court cases, equations, or history. But facts do. And the fact is that I am all of the things I listed above, though perhaps I'm not the Quintessential Stud Muffin (I am).

If you're not feeling great about yourself, I'm not going to tell you not to. That's not how these things work. Nothing pisses me off when I'm upset quite like when someone tells me to just be happy.

I'm going to tell you, instead, that you have value that you can see when you're not quite so miserable. In fact, you've probably got a list of things that are pretty cool. You just need to find out how to bring it all together.

Unless you're an asshole.

But assholes don't read this. They're not allowed, because they don't have the password.

So, until next time, it is I: Will...the....I already said I won't do it....but I....oh, hell.

Will...

...the lyrical miracle, the quintessential stud muffin, and a goodness-gracious, good golly, damn handsome man. The reflection of perfection and the number one selection. The best of the best, better than the rest. Rockin, rollin, chillin out, maxin, and relaxin all cool-n, shooting some b-ball outside of the school-n, and Def Leppard knows that I'm not f-f-f-foolin'. I'm stronger than a bear and faster than a buck, and the best thing to hit Pittsburgh, because the Pirates still suck....

Schuster.

Bastards Of Young

So right now, I'm listening to "Bastards of Young" by The Replacements, which I first heard in the film "Adventureland". If you don't like Kristen Stewart, I still recommend it. It's one of those movies that you feel, more than you watch.

I had my first Christmas party tonight. Several people came, and I am forever grateful for that. Some didn't, but their absence was, in all cases, understandable. We still love you folks. Thanks to Melanie and Cat, since though they don't know it yet (it's quarter after 3, what's WRONG with me!?), they listened to how happy I am about the night I had.

Anyways, I complain on here too much, but there are people who have things far worse than I do. I'm very thankful for everyone. Thanks a lot for being part of the inspiration that fuels this blog. Merry Christmas. Even if you don't celebrate it, I hope that the 25th is a remarkable day for you.

Time to go fight "the spins".

Tomorrow Shall Come

I think I've mellowed in my old age.

I just went back and read some of the stuff I posted way back. Actually, my last post was a long time ago, so really, anything I wrote could fall under that umbrella.

Speaking of umbrellas, is it ever going to stop raining?

Anyways, I read my old stuff, and while I got a good laugh from a lot of it, I also cringed at my writing style, which I'm pleased to say has changed in many ways. Some good, some bad. I feel that it would be foolhardy and arrogant to say what the good changes have been, since this would merely be opinion-based, and I could easily wind up with someone saying "HEY, YOU WERE NEVER FUNNY!". And while I would doubtlessly dismiss their opinion as being worth about the same as the Vietnamese Dong (2014's least valuable currency, via The Telegraph)(ed. note: Haha. Dong.), I think it would be more legitimate to speak upon the firm footing of fact, rather than opinion. Which brings me to...

As far as Lee Van Cleef (the "bad," of course) goes, I find that my motivation to write is becoming increasingly fleeting. I simply don't have ideas anymore, which I think can be attributed to my job. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy it sometimes, and I find it highly rewarding to learn a new skill from time to time. However, there's something about 12 hour shifts on my feet for less money than I feel I am worth, cutting myself with chef's knives by accident, and burning off the hair on the back of my arms (seriously, these babies are smoooooth) that stifles my creativity.

This sounds like complaining, I'm sure, and I apologize for that. And indeed, some of you are saying "then do something about it". And so I am!

Lately, I've devoted the vast majority of my free time to applying for jobs, networking, and keeping my eyes peeled for any job openings that pique my interest. Truly, I fluctuate between seemingly-unshakeable optimism and the depths of despair when I consider my professional future. However, I am approaching the situation with the same attitude I try to employ when I'm at work and 20 orders are erupting from the ticket machine at the same time: tomorrow shall come.

That's the mantra I use to tell myself that as crappy as things seem right now, the reality is that tomorrow will eventually arrive, and all is not lost. There's never been a situation in my life that I haven't been able to eventually look back upon, favorably or otherwise (Disclaimer: this does not include current situations, obviously, since I don't have the benefit of being able to exist in the future without that future becoming the present).

Therefore, I'm going to keep working on this whole job situation to the best of my abilities. There was a time that I didn't really care, contrary to what I may have said, because I always felt like something would just happen for me. Then I looked around and realized "oh crap, I was wrong! This sucks!".

One of my goals is to find a job with normal hours, which allows my creativity to flow again. I credit this desire to one of my friends who continues to paint as a hobby. I envy that, because as I look around and see people who used to have a "thing," but do not anymore due to being swept up by adulthood, this friend sticks out as someone who still has that thing to keep her occupied and, I would assume, leaves her feeling somewhat more fulfilled as a result. A lot of people look at the professional achievements of others as the qualities that make them a successful individual, and I think that's part of it. But I think an often uncredited aspect of success is maintaining the ability to just do what makes you happy.

Thanks for reading. I hope to be a more frequent eyesore on your computer screen.

Living Life....Regally.

I'm going to tell you fine folks a quick story about the worst hotel I ever stayed in.

We were driving to Myrtle Beach at a time when a hurricane was due to hit the coast, thanks to excellent planning by my parents. My family is bad at timing things, as evidenced by this story, as well as my history with women.

Every hotel for about 50 miles was booked tight, and we wanted to get off the road, since that's what you do when there are supposedly 90 mph winds coming to murder you. Then, in the town of Rockingham, NC, the pagan gods presented us with an oasis amidst the black clouds of the fast-approaching storm: the Regal Inn.

The sign outside said that a room cost $25 or some such amount, for the night. If there's a better deal out there, show it to me, and I'll tell you to run like hell, because of what transpired that night.

We got into our room, and I can only describe the smell as "fungus pickles". I later worked with a very unclean man who had the same smell, though I never asked him how he achieved it. I think fungus pickles is a smell you can only achieve by asking how, at which point a genie comes out of the toilet and bestows the smell upon you.

My Mom used to always warn against sleeping under just the sheets, due to....love juices or some such discharge. In this case, my mom skipped the warning phase and said "Do NOT sleep under those sheets!".

Pictured: sperm

I slept on the floor, which I remember as being very damp and moldy, but in my 13 year-old naïveté, I imagined that it was clean. People didn't POSSIBLY copulate on the floor, right?

In the room was a mini-fridge. Have you ever seen Se7en? We didn't want to know what was in THAT box, that night in North Carolina.

I just love this gif.

I don't remember much. Part of me wants to say there was a hooker outside our room, but I can't confirm. I feel like after "fungus pickles," any more terrible hotel stereotypes would just be overkill.

After we all finally laid down to sleep, the room was silent. Very silent. Nobody said anything, though there was an air of tension, as everyone knew but did not say that we were all going to come down with some horrible disease.

As if on cue, a train passed us, obviously on the other side of the wall, and we all burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation. The silence had been all we really wanted, but it had been taken from us and replaced by a coal-fired engine and the knowledge that we were laying atop billions of discarded little swimmers.

In the morning, the manager ended up charging us 3 times the advertised rate. The story has been rehashed countless times, so really, it was worth it.

I must also mention, because I'm me, that this was the same vacation in which I refused to enter the ocean due to sharks, and was repeatedly told there were no sharks. On our last day, there were sharks, and my fears were vindicated. Deal with it, Mumsy.

Will Schuster: Copyright Infringer.

Hot diggity dig dag diggy dang dog, I finally did it.

I've lied, cheated, stolen, broken the speed limit, drank underage, maybe rolled a few stop signs, accidentally caused the death of a woman (aided of course by her "do-not-resuscitate" clause), and stayed up past my bed time on many occasions. But it's all falling down around me.

Oh mama, I'm in fear for my life, from the long arm of the law.

.....And then some other words.....

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The jig is up, the noose is out, they finally found me! The renegade who had it made was-

CUT THE MUSIC, CUT THE MUSIC!

It appears that SOME people have problems with the things I post. Some people....church groups, hate groups, Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Mexicans, Canadians, brown people, black people, green people, thing one, thing two, mother goose, Sam (I am not), the other fellow who actually likes green eggs and ham, Hulk Hogan, Randy Savage, people who don't pay their bills, people who pay their bills early and then make you feel like a bum, people with one leg, people with no legs, country singers, jazz singers, Stephen Hawking's left wheels, Stephen Hawking's right wheels, Bert, Ernie, that fat kid from The Goonies, that fat kid from Stand By Me, and finally, Bono...

None of these people have a problem with me. Except the hate groups, probably. But we'll let that slide.

No no no, the one group that's got a problem with me is, of course, the NFL.

They got 99 problems, and people calling girls bitches is probably one of them. So is illegal use of marijuana, PEDs, drunk driving, vehicular homicide, aggravated assault, domestic abuse, alleged rape, animal abuse, and murder.

But their biggest problem, obviously, is people STEALING THEIR STUFF. Now, I'm all for people getting money for the things they earned. The NFL, however, is a bit of a pain in the ass when it comes to their stuff.

Earlier, I wrote a post in which I decided to take a sharp u-turn and rip on the NFL for a few moments. I posted a picture of their logo at the end of this little section. The villagers laughed, and afterward, we had a pig roast and danced to the rhythmic sounds of their gazelle-skin drums.

Later on, I looked back to see if there were any comments that needed deleting because Nick Dillon enjoys saying bad words in my comments section. I found no such issues. Instead, I found this:

....oh no you di'int

Apparently, my image of the NFL logo was so threatening to their revenue stream, that they saw fit to take it down. Maybe it wasn't even the NFL, though. Maybe Blogger took it down. Regardless, it's gone, and you might think that the powers that be have won. But my friends....

I'm going to post an NFL logo in everything I do from now on. It'll be in blog posts, facebook posts, and instant messages. When I decorate a dessert at work, I'm going to draw it with chocolate syrup. When I urinatepiss in the snow, I will be sure to emblazon the NFL logo deep within that frosty mistress we call winter. Incidentally, I've become quite good at writing my name that way.

Actually, I'm not going to do any of this. But still, what the hell, NFL? You ruined a good joke with your humorless take on copyright laws. I guess the only jokes the NFL likes are the ones they come up with themselves.

KNOCKOUT