Why?
Dig the illustration, Cats & Kitties:
'Nuff said.
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
Never To Be Forgotten.......
.......... or forgiven, for that matter.
Why?
Dig the illustration, Cats & Kitties:
'Nuff said.
Why?
Dig the illustration, Cats & Kitties:
'Nuff said.
Monday, May 28, 2018
For Those Who Have Fallen
May God Bless and Keep ALL of our fallen Military - from Valley Forge to the Taliban and / or ISIS.
We will NEVER forget the ultimate sacrifice one and all made; to do so would thoroughly cheapen and demean all the blood that has been spilled. Simple as that.
Oh, yeah - almost forgot: Thank You! Thank You!! Thank You!!! Thank You! Thank You!! Thank You!!!
Friday, January 26, 2018
Da Beeg Five-Oh....
One half of a century.
As my man Ben Stein might say, ”Woooow.”
A fifty year old person has clear recollection of when all but the largest of cities “rolled up their sidewalks” by 10 pm on weekdays and midnight on Saturdays, with Sunday actually being a nationwide day of rest, save for hospitals, police & fire, and a selection of restaurants.
Fifty year olds also can clearly remember only four to six channels on television, “SenSurround Sound” in movie theatres, AM Top Forty and FM Underground on the radio - complete with Wolman Jack hopping back and forth between both frequencies - and that rare luxury known as a “party line” on the good ol’ telephone.
Fifty year olds also can clearly remember only four to six channels on television, “SenSurround Sound” in movie theatres, AM Top Forty and FM Underground on the radio - complete with Wolman Jack hopping back and forth between both frequencies - and that rare luxury known as a “party line” on the good ol’ telephone.
Men landing and walking on the Moon, “portable” telephones, 24-7/365 commerce, video games, basic cable TV, and this Interwide Web-thingy {among many, MANY other things} were all far in the future, when the fifty year old in question was still a youth.
And I ought to know - ‘cos I AM that fifty year old in question!!
That’s right, Fellow Babies - this modest and humble drummer is about to plunge headfirst into my sixth decade with a clear head, reasonably sharp focus, somewhat-healed heart, and all guns still a-blazin’ as usual. The ride so far has been nothing short of utterly typical - the ups and the downs tend to cancel each other out over the long haul, despite whatever perspective I might have on a day-to-day basis in the trenches.
Death of a loved one; a nearly insatiable hunger for travel; a desire to be ones’ own boss; health issues; financial hassles; political guerrila warfare; familial drama and upheaval; the odd spiritual quest or three; a taste of ones’ own mortality - you name it, I’ve “been there, done that,” and then some. But again, I must stress that my situation is way more typical than unique - anyone who can’t concoct a large laundry list of personal experiences after fifty years of life is either brain-dead, or at the very least severely challenged in the mental department.
“Older but wiser.”
Clich`e it ain’t, Cats and Kitties. It’s simply the natural order of things - the kicker comes from whether or not we decide to dump a pallet of monkey-wrenches into the machinery, just to see what might happen. Myself, I’m going to continue to do my damnedest to avoid such a scenario; as such, don’t expect future blogs about an asinine “midlife crisis,” or whatever. I’m perfectly peaceful about what has gone before, and I’m firmly focused on the future. IMHO, to do otherwise would simply be a waste of time, and would play right into Old Nick’s cloven “hands,” dig?
I mean, how the hell can one call some personal fluxtime a “midlife crisis,” when not a single one of us know for sure how long or short our lives will be in the first place? Doesn’t it make more practical sense to continually double down, rather than dwell on this or that heartache to the nth degree?
Y’all know the answer just as well as I do - “Older, but wiser.”
And that will just about do it for now, Boys and Girls. The bottom line is that age fifty is whatever the hell I choose to make of it, and I hope to post updates about it here with a touch more frequency than my posts from 2017, God willing.
So sit tight, fire up a pitcher of Colortinis, and ride the groove with me, if you will. I dig the company, y’know?
More shortly……...
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Beware The Q-Ship
First, a little mood music:
Now then - let the mayhem commence!! Last week I had an encounter on the road that took me back to my earliest days behind the wheel - I ran an impromptu rat-race, for the first time in roughly 22 years.
What's a "rat-race," pray tell? Wellsir, it's simply a form of "hound-chases-fox," albeit carried out in cars or trucks at potentially dangerous speeds. It's not to be confused with outlaw-type street racing made famous by the "Fast & Furious" movie franchise. It can become quite the white-knuckle experience indeed if the fox runs flat out from the get-go, and the hound keeps pace, with both drivers being indifferent to ever-higher speeds, road hazards, opposing traffic, etc.
Emblematic of the very real danger involved, during my senior year in high school two classmates of mine got themselves good and dead through rat-racing. The first lost control in a sharp hairpin curve, hit a tree at 65mph, and wound up at the bottom of a small lake. The second poor slob did a sadly spot-on "Detroit Rock City" imitation; it took the first-responders a good three hours to cut his severely crumpled ride away from the 18-wheeler it had unsuccessfully tried to slide under.
Although both wrecks shook me up briefly, I nevertheless continued to view the "sport" as being akin to a joust or a WW1 aerial dogfight, rather than dwelling on the reckless danger. In time though, I eventually gave up the practice, feeling that I could only cheat Fate for so long. Thus, "slipstreaming" police or fire vehicles answering calls became my preferred adrenaline generator, along with the odd bracket-race at the old St. Louis {now Gateway} International Raceway just across the Mississloppi in Du Quoin, Illinois.
Flashing back to the present, the old reflexes came back online instantly when some driplip dude kid pulled up to a stop light beside me, and started chirping his tires in an overtly challenging manner. I nonchalantly spared him a quick once-over, and was not impressed in the slightest. Typical of today's "snowflake" generation, my erstwhile opponent was all style-over-substance. His ride was a 1974 Olds Cutlass, painted an absolutely vomit-inducing shade of monochromatic neon-chartreuse. Rolling on ridiculous-looking 26-inch chromed "rims." Bass-laden sound system that made my windows bow in and out slightly. A silly chromed peace-sign on the rear decklid - all this and a lot more quietly screamed for this bozo to be well and truly bitch-slapped.
I sighed, dropped TR into 4WD-Auto mode, and brake-torqued him up to 3500 on the tachometer. Junior did likewise, the goofy grin on his face proclaiming "Get ready to be seriously fooked with, Old Fart!" Come the green light, we both took off like the proverbial winged creatures Meatloaf used to sing about. Although the kid hole-shotted me by 3/4's of a carlength off the line, that was as much of a lead he ever had. Once my trusty buggy hit second gear - hooking hard, thanks to still being in 4-Auto - it was all over for the kid. See, although TR is essentially a Jeep-clone, his Sport Trac 4WD system is more a poor man's traction control, than a serious boulder-climber.
As such, 4-Auto allows my rig to simply hunker down and fly, just like today's super roller-coasters do. And fly we did, with Junior quite unaware of what he'd gotten himself into. Slowing just enough to maintain rigid control, I enticed the lad off the main highway, and onto the county road leading to me digs. And that's when the fun ramped up several notches. Here in Cornhusker country, our rural county roads are simple affairs of gravel laced with sand. What's more, they tend to hug the land profile, as opposed to our paved roads enjoying the benefits of cut-and-fill to enable lower grades, easier curves, higher speeds, and so on.
However, that's not to say that one can't make like a cruise missile whilst on the rocks. All it takes is a bit of careful study, fair weather, and minimal opposing traffic to be able to run fast-n-hard successfully. Having traveled the route at least twice daily for the last three years, I was quite comfortable letting my grunt-buggy nose up to near triple-digit speeds, once we negotiated the lazy s-curve just off the highway. Ahead of the s-curve, the road is arrow-straight for the next 5 miles, and I let TR totally off the leash. It was all Junior could do to simply see, let alone mount a serious challenge to my lead.
Our recent lack of rain ensured that TR generated a ferocious wake of dust, as we boomed along. Had Junior been smart, this fact alone should have discouraged him enough to break off the chase then and there. Being a good little snowflake though, Junior nonetheless continued his pursuit, hanging just back enough to avoid the thickest dust, but still sailing along at a good clip. Never once did this moron ever give thought to what the sand and pea-gravel might be doing to his ride's bling and fancy paint - like good old Wile E. Coyote, Junior's sole focus was still on trying to catch me!
LSS, I ended the game in classic fashion, negotiating the y-junction 2 miles north of my homestead in proper bootlegger {or "square turn"} style, and honked cheerfully at Junior as I flashed past him in the opposite direction seconds later. He never stood a chance, in his "poser-mobile." In postscript, I saw him outside a local tire and wheel emporium two days ago, no doubt tearing his hair out over how bent and pitted his rims likely were, and how much out-of-pocket he might soon be to fix things. Adding to the irony, next door to the tire shop was a Maaco paint and light repair facility!! Well, at least the poor lad won't have to go far to fix all his rather costly mistakes, you know?
Perhaps next time he'll think twice about challenging someone who can easily jump his truck across the Generation Gap, among many other amazing feats.
He just might live longer, dig?
More anon..........
Now then - let the mayhem commence!! Last week I had an encounter on the road that took me back to my earliest days behind the wheel - I ran an impromptu rat-race, for the first time in roughly 22 years.
What's a "rat-race," pray tell? Wellsir, it's simply a form of "hound-chases-fox," albeit carried out in cars or trucks at potentially dangerous speeds. It's not to be confused with outlaw-type street racing made famous by the "Fast & Furious" movie franchise. It can become quite the white-knuckle experience indeed if the fox runs flat out from the get-go, and the hound keeps pace, with both drivers being indifferent to ever-higher speeds, road hazards, opposing traffic, etc.
Emblematic of the very real danger involved, during my senior year in high school two classmates of mine got themselves good and dead through rat-racing. The first lost control in a sharp hairpin curve, hit a tree at 65mph, and wound up at the bottom of a small lake. The second poor slob did a sadly spot-on "Detroit Rock City" imitation; it took the first-responders a good three hours to cut his severely crumpled ride away from the 18-wheeler it had unsuccessfully tried to slide under.
Although both wrecks shook me up briefly, I nevertheless continued to view the "sport" as being akin to a joust or a WW1 aerial dogfight, rather than dwelling on the reckless danger. In time though, I eventually gave up the practice, feeling that I could only cheat Fate for so long. Thus, "slipstreaming" police or fire vehicles answering calls became my preferred adrenaline generator, along with the odd bracket-race at the old St. Louis {now Gateway} International Raceway just across the Mississloppi in Du Quoin, Illinois.
Flashing back to the present, the old reflexes came back online instantly when some driplip dude kid pulled up to a stop light beside me, and started chirping his tires in an overtly challenging manner. I nonchalantly spared him a quick once-over, and was not impressed in the slightest. Typical of today's "snowflake" generation, my erstwhile opponent was all style-over-substance. His ride was a 1974 Olds Cutlass, painted an absolutely vomit-inducing shade of monochromatic neon-chartreuse. Rolling on ridiculous-looking 26-inch chromed "rims." Bass-laden sound system that made my windows bow in and out slightly. A silly chromed peace-sign on the rear decklid - all this and a lot more quietly screamed for this bozo to be well and truly bitch-slapped.
I sighed, dropped TR into 4WD-Auto mode, and brake-torqued him up to 3500 on the tachometer. Junior did likewise, the goofy grin on his face proclaiming "Get ready to be seriously fooked with, Old Fart!" Come the green light, we both took off like the proverbial winged creatures Meatloaf used to sing about. Although the kid hole-shotted me by 3/4's of a carlength off the line, that was as much of a lead he ever had. Once my trusty buggy hit second gear - hooking hard, thanks to still being in 4-Auto - it was all over for the kid. See, although TR is essentially a Jeep-clone, his Sport Trac 4WD system is more a poor man's traction control, than a serious boulder-climber.
As such, 4-Auto allows my rig to simply hunker down and fly, just like today's super roller-coasters do. And fly we did, with Junior quite unaware of what he'd gotten himself into. Slowing just enough to maintain rigid control, I enticed the lad off the main highway, and onto the county road leading to me digs. And that's when the fun ramped up several notches. Here in Cornhusker country, our rural county roads are simple affairs of gravel laced with sand. What's more, they tend to hug the land profile, as opposed to our paved roads enjoying the benefits of cut-and-fill to enable lower grades, easier curves, higher speeds, and so on.
However, that's not to say that one can't make like a cruise missile whilst on the rocks. All it takes is a bit of careful study, fair weather, and minimal opposing traffic to be able to run fast-n-hard successfully. Having traveled the route at least twice daily for the last three years, I was quite comfortable letting my grunt-buggy nose up to near triple-digit speeds, once we negotiated the lazy s-curve just off the highway. Ahead of the s-curve, the road is arrow-straight for the next 5 miles, and I let TR totally off the leash. It was all Junior could do to simply see, let alone mount a serious challenge to my lead.
Our recent lack of rain ensured that TR generated a ferocious wake of dust, as we boomed along. Had Junior been smart, this fact alone should have discouraged him enough to break off the chase then and there. Being a good little snowflake though, Junior nonetheless continued his pursuit, hanging just back enough to avoid the thickest dust, but still sailing along at a good clip. Never once did this moron ever give thought to what the sand and pea-gravel might be doing to his ride's bling and fancy paint - like good old Wile E. Coyote, Junior's sole focus was still on trying to catch me!
LSS, I ended the game in classic fashion, negotiating the y-junction 2 miles north of my homestead in proper bootlegger {or "square turn"} style, and honked cheerfully at Junior as I flashed past him in the opposite direction seconds later. He never stood a chance, in his "poser-mobile." In postscript, I saw him outside a local tire and wheel emporium two days ago, no doubt tearing his hair out over how bent and pitted his rims likely were, and how much out-of-pocket he might soon be to fix things. Adding to the irony, next door to the tire shop was a Maaco paint and light repair facility!! Well, at least the poor lad won't have to go far to fix all his rather costly mistakes, you know?
Perhaps next time he'll think twice about challenging someone who can easily jump his truck across the Generation Gap, among many other amazing feats.
He just might live longer, dig?
More anon..........
Monday, May 29, 2017
In Memoriam 2: Basket Case
In wartime, what is the highest price one can pay?
Death? Nope.
Can you imagine what that must have been like to experience first-hand? Boggles the mind, no? Yeah, I know you're probably saying "Oh come on, Chris. It's only a fictional story - nobody actually went through something like that!!"
Au contraire, my good friends. I did a fair amount of research on Trumbo's epic many moons ago, and learned that there were indeed two soldiers maimed in this exact fashion near the end of the Great War. Both from Canada, as I recall. And both were kept alive for several years as research studies. They were officially listed as K/MIA, then were quietly taken to a brand new hospital in London. Although it's still not clear whether either or both of them were conscious as Joe was, even the mere notion that they were is horrifying enough for me, thank you very much.
BTW - severe injuries like Joe's coined the phrase "basket case," for what I trust are rather obvious reasons. And I'm sure there have been many more Joes in the full century of wars that followed his wounding. Such is the lot of a soldier - gambling your life during a war, and the possibility of life IN death after said war. Not the most hopeful of dichotomies, true; but in the endgame of Existence I've a sneaking suspicion that such sacrifices like Joes will merit extra-special recompense and reward..........My Lord...........
Hope y'all had a pleasant Holiday - hug a Vet when you can for me, OK?
Stay tuned!
Death? Nope.
Savage disfigurement, where death would be a mercy, in lieu of continuing to exist as a literal piece of conscious meat??
Ding-ding-ding! We have a winner!!
Such was the plight of one Joe Bonham in Dalton Trumbo's epic anti-war novel "Johnny Got His Gun." On the last day of the Great War - aka WW1 - Joe was "volunteered" to be a member of a small "graves detail;" ie, a small unit whose mission is the recovery of bodies from the battlefield to enable proper burial. As luck would have it, Joe's squad had to deal with heavy rain, as well as a heavy artillery barrage.
They were forced to scatter before the job was done, due to small-arms fire, but were unexpectedly devastated seconds later by a long-range 155mm artillery shell that killed everybody in Joe's detail, except Joe himself. The blast turned 75% of Joe's body into bloody pulp - both arms, both legs, and the whole of Joe's face and ears were shredded instantly. Yet he remained alive, and - unbeknownst to anyone save himself - regained his ability for conscious thought, once the aftermath of the trauma wore off.
What happened next was literally a permanent visit to Hell-on-Earth:
Au contraire, my good friends. I did a fair amount of research on Trumbo's epic many moons ago, and learned that there were indeed two soldiers maimed in this exact fashion near the end of the Great War. Both from Canada, as I recall. And both were kept alive for several years as research studies. They were officially listed as K/MIA, then were quietly taken to a brand new hospital in London. Although it's still not clear whether either or both of them were conscious as Joe was, even the mere notion that they were is horrifying enough for me, thank you very much.
BTW - severe injuries like Joe's coined the phrase "basket case," for what I trust are rather obvious reasons. And I'm sure there have been many more Joes in the full century of wars that followed his wounding. Such is the lot of a soldier - gambling your life during a war, and the possibility of life IN death after said war. Not the most hopeful of dichotomies, true; but in the endgame of Existence I've a sneaking suspicion that such sacrifices like Joes will merit extra-special recompense and reward..........My Lord...........
Hope y'all had a pleasant Holiday - hug a Vet when you can for me, OK?
Stay tuned!
Saturday, May 27, 2017
In Memoriam 1
For this Memorial Day, I'm going to shake things up a little bit. Please carefully consider the following:
Hands down, my all-time favorite Charlie Daniels tune. Not only that, I've also had the distinct pleasure of playing it live in front of numerous Vets over the course of the last quarter-century. The responses from selected Vets to date have been 99.9% positive, and I cherish one and all.
If I had to single out one specific gig where we did SIS, the obvious highlight would be Memorial Day 1998. I was just back in The 'Lou from my stint out West six months previous, when we landed a Memorial Day Festival booking in Peoria Illinois. As I recall, the headliners were Marshall Tucker, and Molly Hatchet.
That was all well and good, but I was much more focused on polishing SIS to diamond-shine intensity, than getting off on the fact that we were again rubbing elbows with Legends from back in the day. Besides, at that time, neither band sported their "classic" lineup, so it was easy for me to keep the odd star or three out of me eyes, whilst still being properly respectful of accomplished Colleagues.
Come time for our set, we were more than ready to hit the boards at a dead sprint, which is exactly what we did. The crowd, bless their collective hearts, actually got into our mess early on. And as far as the eye could see, there were Vets a-plenty - ranging from not one but THREE WW1 Vets, to newly-minted Persian Gulf "Peacekeepers," this being a few years after Desert Storm, and the resulting quagmire that continues to this day.
In keeping with the spirit of the holiday, I was decked out in my trusty old Viet Nam Tiger-stripe camouflage top, newly shorn of its' worn out and ripped-up sleeves, along with my equally-trusty Tiger-striped boonie hat. Little did I know that there was a particular chap sporting the exact same set of togs in the audience, boonie hat and all. True to form, he quietly made his presence known just as we began SIS to close our first set. Even from my vantage point at the back of the stage, I could easily see how he literally towered over virtually everybody near him. "Six-and-a-half feet tall, and six-and-a-half feet wide," he was.
And he seemed to be looking straight at me.......
"Scared sh*tless" is a gross understatement of how I felt at that moment, but I was somehow able to quickly channel my apprehension back into my playing. The kicker was the fact that SIS is the type of song you can't do acrobatics to - you've just got to play it. Play it like your life depended on it. Thus robbed of my usual bag of tricks, I simply doubled down, and tried my damnedest to bring home the bacon any way I could. All the while, the big dude remained still, his gaze now locked unwaveringly on Yours Truly. Don't ask me how it happened, but the crowd went totally bananas once we flourished SIS to a close - all except for Man-Mountain, who remained motionless and seemingly aloof to it all.
Or so I thought. After hitting first the loo, then the nearest beer tent, who should we bump into but Man-Mountain himself!! For perhaps fifteen seconds that seemed like hours we just silently stared at each other. Finally, Man-Mountain cleared his throat, and I braced myself for at the very least a broken beer bottle upside the cheek and neck, or perhaps a weighted pool cue bounced off me noggin. However, Man-Mountain clobbered me with a far more devastating weapon - he Smiled at me!
"Nice outfit, Man. Looks good on ya." Yep - voice like a foghorn. I mumbled "Likewise," and firmly shook his proffered hand. He continued smiling as he shook the other cats' hands in turn, finally saying "I can't tell you how much I enjoyed that Charlie Daniels tune just now. You guys nailed it, and then some!" None of us knew what to say, other than a bewildered "Thank you," which he promptly turned around with a "No, thank you for that fantastic tribute. Does my heart good to see honor and dignity isn't lost on you kids today."
LSS, we had a good chat for the next 20 minutes or so, before we reluctantly went back on the boards again. Man-Mountain resumed his choice spot just below front stage, but now he was all smiles as we closed out our work for the evening. We shared a few more beers and several hot dogs with him post-show, promised to keep in touch, then finally parted company to cap off a rather amazing turn of events.
Over the course of the years since that day in May almost two decades ago we did indeed keep in touch, right up until the day Man-Mountain got his ultimate Reward, and departed the mortal realm in late 2009.
I still think of him frequently, and miss him terribly. BUT, I can still do right by him, as if he never left us - simply by always honoring Memorial Day in proper fashion.
Which neatly brings us right back to the start of this post, dig?
More shortly - pleasant Holiday, Boys & Girls!!
Hands down, my all-time favorite Charlie Daniels tune. Not only that, I've also had the distinct pleasure of playing it live in front of numerous Vets over the course of the last quarter-century. The responses from selected Vets to date have been 99.9% positive, and I cherish one and all.
If I had to single out one specific gig where we did SIS, the obvious highlight would be Memorial Day 1998. I was just back in The 'Lou from my stint out West six months previous, when we landed a Memorial Day Festival booking in Peoria Illinois. As I recall, the headliners were Marshall Tucker, and Molly Hatchet.
That was all well and good, but I was much more focused on polishing SIS to diamond-shine intensity, than getting off on the fact that we were again rubbing elbows with Legends from back in the day. Besides, at that time, neither band sported their "classic" lineup, so it was easy for me to keep the odd star or three out of me eyes, whilst still being properly respectful of accomplished Colleagues.
Come time for our set, we were more than ready to hit the boards at a dead sprint, which is exactly what we did. The crowd, bless their collective hearts, actually got into our mess early on. And as far as the eye could see, there were Vets a-plenty - ranging from not one but THREE WW1 Vets, to newly-minted Persian Gulf "Peacekeepers," this being a few years after Desert Storm, and the resulting quagmire that continues to this day.
In keeping with the spirit of the holiday, I was decked out in my trusty old Viet Nam Tiger-stripe camouflage top, newly shorn of its' worn out and ripped-up sleeves, along with my equally-trusty Tiger-striped boonie hat. Little did I know that there was a particular chap sporting the exact same set of togs in the audience, boonie hat and all. True to form, he quietly made his presence known just as we began SIS to close our first set. Even from my vantage point at the back of the stage, I could easily see how he literally towered over virtually everybody near him. "Six-and-a-half feet tall, and six-and-a-half feet wide," he was.
And he seemed to be looking straight at me.......
"Scared sh*tless" is a gross understatement of how I felt at that moment, but I was somehow able to quickly channel my apprehension back into my playing. The kicker was the fact that SIS is the type of song you can't do acrobatics to - you've just got to play it. Play it like your life depended on it. Thus robbed of my usual bag of tricks, I simply doubled down, and tried my damnedest to bring home the bacon any way I could. All the while, the big dude remained still, his gaze now locked unwaveringly on Yours Truly. Don't ask me how it happened, but the crowd went totally bananas once we flourished SIS to a close - all except for Man-Mountain, who remained motionless and seemingly aloof to it all.
Or so I thought. After hitting first the loo, then the nearest beer tent, who should we bump into but Man-Mountain himself!! For perhaps fifteen seconds that seemed like hours we just silently stared at each other. Finally, Man-Mountain cleared his throat, and I braced myself for at the very least a broken beer bottle upside the cheek and neck, or perhaps a weighted pool cue bounced off me noggin. However, Man-Mountain clobbered me with a far more devastating weapon - he Smiled at me!
"Nice outfit, Man. Looks good on ya." Yep - voice like a foghorn. I mumbled "Likewise," and firmly shook his proffered hand. He continued smiling as he shook the other cats' hands in turn, finally saying "I can't tell you how much I enjoyed that Charlie Daniels tune just now. You guys nailed it, and then some!" None of us knew what to say, other than a bewildered "Thank you," which he promptly turned around with a "No, thank you for that fantastic tribute. Does my heart good to see honor and dignity isn't lost on you kids today."
LSS, we had a good chat for the next 20 minutes or so, before we reluctantly went back on the boards again. Man-Mountain resumed his choice spot just below front stage, but now he was all smiles as we closed out our work for the evening. We shared a few more beers and several hot dogs with him post-show, promised to keep in touch, then finally parted company to cap off a rather amazing turn of events.
Over the course of the years since that day in May almost two decades ago we did indeed keep in touch, right up until the day Man-Mountain got his ultimate Reward, and departed the mortal realm in late 2009.
I still think of him frequently, and miss him terribly. BUT, I can still do right by him, as if he never left us - simply by always honoring Memorial Day in proper fashion.
Which neatly brings us right back to the start of this post, dig?
More shortly - pleasant Holiday, Boys & Girls!!
Sunday, April 16, 2017
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