floydjoy

TURNAROUND JUMP SHOT IT'S EVERYBODY'S JUMP START

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Sat, 12 May 2018 03:49:00 +0000

Lord help me but it's time to write at length about a subject no one but me, Paul Simon and possibly Rick Springfield care about. I'm surprised no one's covered it; there's not a lot of awareness about it quite frankly. But if I and two certified legends care about it, there's no doubt that it deserves to be discussed.

At length.

So here we go: ****redacted****

Thank God it's out there now for everyone to see. No turning back now.

And ...

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Thu, 09 Dec 2010 05:15:00 +0000

... a new posterous.

Shiny

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 01:43:00 +0000

I created a second blog just for fun. Check it out!

Rocket Ship To Mars

Rated "M" For Mushy

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 21:20:00 +0000

If you had a pulse in 1983, then you are already aware of the Journey song “Faithfully.” For those of you less fortunate, or who have lived under a rock or in outer space for various periods of time including 1983, let me fill you in: the Journey song “Faithfully” was quite popular in 1983.

With me? Good. I’ll move on.

Flash forward to Tuesday night. I had just pulled six days of long hours and late nights at work. Now, I love my job. Sometimes you have to do what it takes to get things done. I understand that, and was glad to do it. But the fact remains: I did not see my family for any reasonable or meaningful stretch of time for six days.
I got home at about eleven. My wife was waiting up for me, watching TV. To give you an idea of how tired she was – looking after a nineteen-month-old 24/7 by yourself for six days will do that to you – let me just say that the channels were flipping, but she wasn’t really watching. I could DEFINITELY relate.

But that’s not nearly as important as how she looked to me. I fell in love with her all over again in the space of about three minutes. She had no idea she was having this effect; most likely she was thinking about nothing in particular, the way you do when you’re halfway between Earth and Dreamland.

Flash forward again to the next morning. Whoa, there’s my son. I almost forgot I had one. He blurs into my line of sight. Blurs back out all smiles, giggles and precociousness. I chase him into the living room and throw myself down on the carpet. We play legos. We dance. We roll around. We trade cars and trucks. We wrestle. We make faces through the French door windowpanes.

And then, there it is. The moment. A father’s bliss; a moment we all live for. He pauses between the legos and trucks strewn willy-nilly, and falls to a sitting position, like toddlers do. His eyes lock into mine, followed by a huge smile full of fledgling teeth. He’s slightly out of breath. His mood is contagious. I feel it too.

Joy.

That’s when the Journey song streaks across my mind like a wayward comet. There’s a line in there that I’ve always loved: “I get the joy of rediscovering you.”

Because it’s not about how busy you are. How flustered. How behind, rushing to catch up. It’s not about the mortgage, or the fence out back that needs mending. It’s not about the alternator that’s about to go out on the Nissan. Or the cell phone and TV bills being too high. It’s not about the work I spent six days doing.

It’s about that light in my son’s eye. That beauty I find only in my wife. And rediscovering it after a long time away.

That’s the stuff.

Desolation, USA

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 05:15:00 +0000

Tumbleweeds drifted across barren keys. A soft wind blew past a dimmed screen. The power button yearned to be turned on, disillusioned and graying over time. The touchpad, sadly, lay untouched. A faint web stretched lazily across the long unused USB port, climbing halfway up the side of the lid. Echoes of a time long past emanated from dead curcuits, reminding the few who still cared of the salad days of a life ago. A lilting, tossed-off bon mot here. An overwrought, clearly ridiculous piece of seriousness over there. A random Shatner lamentation. Vistas of dusty fields filled with rich green and dandelion. Amazement at the world not revolving according to true Floydian virtue. A tossed Payday wrapper. Sunflower seed shells in and around the wastebasket. These are the things that are remembered, and in some parts of the Intertubes, rather fondly. Others callously disregard and harrumph the day away. These are they who must be held at bay, the whispering tones of discontent; no more can they be allowed to roam freely. A dusty laptop asleep, but soon to awaken. There's life left in the old girl still. And if the blanket of nattering naysaying can be blustered off the shoulders and left to the wind, the helpless fool who wanders through the hinterlands of words and their tricky combinations and equations may find his footing yet. Treacherous days lie ahead; he must slouch ever forward. It is not for nothing that he does this. It is done for the sake of the laptop. Heed these words: the Age of Desolation is soon past.

That, or put another way, I hate writer's block. Yup.

A Very Special Episode of Floydjoy’s Blog

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 20:48:00 +0000

Okay, I’m not Mr. Spock or anything, but most of the time I do try to be like the Fonz when it comes to hard-hitting, emotional moments. In other words, I try to play it cool. Real cool.

But every so often something hits me just right and it’s all I can do to hold things together. I never see this coming, by the way; it always appears out of nowhere, like a stealth ninja or the train in Stand By Me.

This has happened a lot lately. I’m not sure why. All I can tell you is it has something to do with country music. I don’t really listen to country a lot; loud guitars are usually my thing. I do like the old stuff like Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson, but I’ve never really gotten into the current Nashville scene. Maybe I need to rethink that a bit.

Or maybe I’m just a sucker for a story song.

Because recently – through no fault of my own – I’ve been systematically exposed to a few songs that hit me right where it hurts. Like I said, I don’t know why, but who can understand the human heart? Who can understand God’s mysterious ways? (Note: I paraphrased those last two questions from some classic work. I don’t know which one. Sue me.)

Anyway, I thought I’d share. They may not float your boat, but then your name isn’t at the top of this blog, is it? So yeah — deal with THAT. ☺

First up is a song by Chuck Wicks called “Stealing Cinderella.” This one gets major kudos from me, because even though I haven’t got a daughter, it still wiped me out. Probably because I could relate to it as “the stealer” – after all, I did ask Robin’s father for her hand in marriage. Old-fashioned? Maybe. Not doing it, though? Never an option. Here’s why.

I heard this next one right before Christmas. It’s called “In Your Dreams” by a guy named Zachary Hunter, and says a lot about long-lasting relationships. If you’re like me and you’re lucky enough to have found “the one,” this will strike a pretty resonant chord with you, I think.

I’ve mentioned this next one before and surprise, surprise — it’s NOT a country song. It’s U2 playing live – specifically, Bono singing about his father. He might as well be singing about my father too, because the dude just has the knack for crafting lyrics that, on occasion, can speak universally. Or at least to me. Called “Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own,” I can’t listen to this song without choking up. Oh, I try; I can get through the first few verses, but when Bono finally bursts out with an ultra-cathartic “Can … you … hear … me … when I sing? You’re the reason I sing …,” well, I turn into a blubbering mass on the floor.

A few months ago, I heard my wife crying in the living room. Now, that’s not so unusual; it could have been a touching episode of Xtreme Home Makeover or a lawn mower commercial and the odds would’ve been fifty-fifty. But not this time. Some kind of country music awards show was on, and evidently Brad Paisley had just sung “the most wonderful song.” That song was “Waiting on a Woman,” and even though it contained exactly no lawn mowers, it touched me too. Plus, the video’s got Andy Griffith in it. What more could you want?

Waiting on a Woman - Brad Paisley

As for the next one, all I can say is that the world must be getting tired of Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle,” because we’re getting some great songs about the father/son dynamic these days. And now that I’m a father AND a son – yeah, my head did explode just typing that phrase – I think I can be excused for being extra tuned in to this kind of sentiment. This one’s by Tim McGraw, and it’s called “Live Like You Were Dying.” His father Tug was a great pitcher for the Phillies while I was growing up, which makes it all the more impactful. Such a positive message, too; I love the idea of me happening to life, instead of the other way around.

I’m going to finish up with more U2. I realize this makes me look like the world’s biggest U2 fan, but believe me when I say that although I like them, I can only take their music in temporary doses. But this – THIS – isn’t just any U2 song. This was their performance at the 2002 Super Bowl, roughly four months after 9/11. Back when the healing had not yet begun (if it ever has). I keep telling people that this was one of the most amazing experiences of live TV that I’ve ever had, and for some reason, a lot of people seemed to have missed it. Well, I’m bringing it back. I know just watching it cold can’t possibly carry the same effect as it did at the time, but if you can think back to how injured we all felt back then, how everything had hit so close to home, and how raw that wound still was … as Edge starts up with the opening riff of “Where the Streets Have No Name” … 9/11 victims names start their endless scroll on a huge backdrop … and Bono says, “"Oh Lord, open my lips … and my mouth shall shout forth your praise" … and then “AMERICA!” … followed by a musical primal scream that – for me, anyway – summed up all the rage, frustration and helplessness we felt at the time … well, watching this again brings all that back to me. As they say, never forget.

ROCK'N'ROLL VAMPIRES FROM OUTER SPACE!

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 05:03:00 +0000

Ever find something you did a long time ago and realize that you don't remember doing it at all?

No? Then I guess I am alone. Again. Naturally.

So I was just looking through some old Word files when I came upon what looks to be a fabulous opening to a short story. Check it out:

***************

ROCK’N’ROLL VAMPIRES FROM OUTER SPACE

Jimmy Blasewell stood behind the counter, eyeing the scraggly dude in the worn Army jacket down the chip aisle.

***************

That's all there was in the Word file. Now I'm pissed that I never finished it because that's a story I'd really like to read.

Shear Lunacy!

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 06:06:00 +0000

I have concluded that two eyebrows are better than one.

Let me back up. I’m not saying that there’s a huge push towards sporting a one-eyebrow look. Nor am I saying that people with unibrows are somehow less than the rest of us. And finally, let me dispel any notions that I am talking about galaxy-traveling aliens or deep sea-dwelling creatures with only one eye – and by extension – only one eyebrow.

Hmmm. This explanation is not going all that well.

I’ll regroup.

Let’s start from the start then, somewhere around five years ago. Desperate for a haircut, I pulled into a parking lot off of Greenville Avenue and walked into, I think, a Supercuts. Or maybe it was a ProCuts. Or Cuts-R-Us. Or The Cutting Edge. Or A Cut Above. Or Cut’n’Run. I don’t really remember, but it wasn’t the Follicle Factory, the Follicle Follies or the Haircut Hut either. I’ll just cut to the chase – ha ha, I said cut – and call it a barbershop.

Well, in this particular barbershop lived a mid-sized African-American man I’ll call Jesse. I can’t recall his name, but Jesse fits. Somehow. Anyway, this dude was slicker than Tupperware on kitchen tile. I mean, here we were in 2003 or so, and this guy was decked out in a black Member’s Only jacket, black parachute pants and topped off with a head full of Jeri curls that would make Jermaine Jackson go cryin’ to his momma.

Now you might not think it from that incredibly accurate description, but Jesse clearly had it going on; the guy was cool beans from the get-go. It must have been the duds that were holding him back, because quite frankly, he was Michelangelo with those scissors of his. I don’t know what he was doing in some Podunk barbershop, I don’t pry that way, but this man was obviously performing several levels above this particular pay grade. But awesome though it was, my haircut wasn’t what impressed me the most.

See, what happened was, as soon as he finished off with the clippers, he put an attachment on it and before I could blink, he swiped it across my eyebrows in two quick swashes.

I was practically beside myself with amazement. I had no idea you could do that. I just figured eyebrows - in general - were untouchable, and sooner or later in life, I’d have Senator’s Eyebrows just like Ted Kennedy, Strom Thurmond and old people in general.

But Jesse had just turned my world upside down with two simple strokes of a beard trimmer.

Later, I learned this phenomenon’s real name: Manscaping.

Life forever changed, I thanked Jesse, overtipped the living daylights out of him, and walked outside with spirals in my eyes.

Flash-forward to yesterday. After shaving, I grabbed my beard trimmer – bought about five minutes after my revelatory one-two from Jesse, as a matter of fact – and carefully placed the spacer guard over the blades. It was time.

Being a five-year pro at this, I figured hey, it’s second nature by now. So I brought the trimmer up to my face, readied myself and quickly, expertly and gracefully swiped left to right and took off my right eyebrow.

Somehow I had botched the setup. A quick check of the razor told me it was true. I had messed it up. I couldn't blame anyone else. It was me. I was my own eyebrow killer.

Now I’m no Peter Gallagher or Sylar from Heroes. I’m not even the lead singer of Alabama. But I do have fairly thickish eyebrows. Two of them, in fact. But this was like a reverse Highlander.

There can be only one.

I stood there and looked at the alien mutant in the mirror. Half human, half Borg. I had to act fast before I lost my nerve, and since resistance was futile anyway, I closed my eyes and did the other one. You know, to even it up.

The upshot is, I don’t look near as bad as you might think. The downshot is it’ll take a couple weeks to get back to what might reasonably pass as normal. But that’s okay, I’ve got a kid now, I can lay low and maybe, just maybe, be passable by Thanksgiving.

Or I can embrace the situation. Maybe I’ll write “Eyebrow! The Musical.” Or try to pass myself off as Whoopi Goldberg’s brother.

One thing’s for sure: Congress is definitely out of the question. For now.

Tears, Fears and My Boy Elliot

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 03:51:00 +0000

Guess what? I just figured out how to embed music on my blog. Now every time you visit, you'll be treated to one of Floydjoy's Fave Raves.

You're welcome.

Of course, if you just can't stand my tasty selections, or you just plain want to watch a video, all ya gotta do is stop the player. What ... I can't do everything for ya.

In other news, Elliot had his first laugh tonight. Two of them, actually. Woo hoo!

If only he knew how he did it. But let me tell you, being a parent doesn't get much better than that. Robin got him to do it by rubbing lotion on his hands. Guess she hit a pressure point. As soon as he did it, my ears perked up like "Whaaa???"

If only I could bottle these moments.

Hey, the rest of you stop listening for a minute, I've got to say something to my son.

Elliot, I don't know what it is, but you do something every day that lights me right up and leaves me with a big, stupid grin on my face. Stay gold, Ponyboy.

Also, the guys who gave us the literal A-Ha video in my last post have struck again. This gives you an idea of how surreal the 80s really were.

A-Ha!

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 16:14:00 +0000

Here's a little piece of greatness that's sweeping the Interwebs.

And here's another.

Munchkin Milestone!

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 14:59:00 +0000

Elliot is almost three months old now. And last night, he hit a big milestone - he slept through the night! Maybe not such a milestone for him as it is for Robin and I, because we might actually get decent sleep now.

Anyway, here's a picture of the little bugger. Ain't he cute?

Road House Rules

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 04:52:00 +0000

Twelve ways Patrick Swayze and his mullet will change your life.

I’m on the couch flipping channels. Not looking for much, just something to watch. The Bachelorette? Uh, no. According to Jim? Double no. Law and Order? No, three channels in a row. Then, a smile breaks out on my face as Patrick Swayze comes into frame on the next channel – probably TNT – and slams some poor dude’s head through a table top.

Awesome. It’s Road House. I throw the remote aside; it’s useless to me now.

A couple of quick facts. FACT #1: There are literally thousands of people who say that Road House is a bad movie and has nothing substantial to offer.

FACT #2: These people are spectacularly wrong.

FACT #3: Road House is one of the greatest films ever made.

FACT #4: Road House may very well be the only self-help guide you’ll ever need.

Like it or not, these are the facts. And yes, I’ve heard all the arguments. “You can’t be serious,” the elitist cineaste might say over a hot cup of Earl Grey. “For example, the English Patient and Atonement are great films. So too, are The Last Emperor, Sense and Sensibility and A Room With A View. Road House is simply not in the same league.” To which I say, “Thank God for that.”

Those aren’t great movies. Not even close. They might be important, I’ll give you that. But to me, great movies aren’t important, they’re visceral, fun and endlessly exciting. They stop you dead in your tracks. You could watch them on an endless loop and never get tired of them. You suffer through insanely long commercial breaks when they’re on cable because you have to watch it to the end, even though you’ve seen it twenty-eight times, and in spite of the fact that you own the DVD. I’m talking Die Hard. Caddyshack. Predator. The Bourne Identity. The Blues Brothers. Independence Day. These are great movies.

But Road House may just be the best of them all.

First, some background: the criminally underrated Swayze plays Dalton, the best bar bouncer in the whole wide world. In fact, he’s so good he transcended the traditional bouncer role somewhere along the way and moved up to “cooler” status. I’m not sure of the distinction, but rest assured — this means he’s completely badass. What’s more, he’s got a degree in philosophy from NYU, which one might assume is a feeble stab by the writers to intellectualize the guy, but that’s not it, exactly; there’s something deeper at work here. Plus, Sam Elliott’s along for the ride, and that’s always an excellent thing.

Using a plotline no more complicated than the average Western – loner comes to town, faces adversity, defeats bad guy in the end, in this case a nasty little piece of work named Brad Wesley – this morality tale goes the extra yard and packs more depth and insight than True Grit, Stagecoach and the entire run of Bonanza put together. More remarkable than that, though, is the stunning way in which it deconstructs the modern male psyche. This is a film literally riddled with timeless commentary about what it means to be a man. That would be enough for most movies, but not Road House. This is a film that raises the stakes and defines HOW to be a man.

What makes Road House unique is its multilayered approach to storytelling. If you want to watch it on a surface level for babes and pure ass-kicking entertainment, you absolutely can, no problem. But if you want to dig deeper, maybe learn a few things about the human condition? This is definitely the movie for you.

So herewith, distilled for easy consumption, the wisdom and philosophy of Road House, broken down for the betterment of man by yours truly.

1. What’s at stake? Your very soul. The playing field is established early on when the owner of a rowdy, out-of-control bar named the Double Deuce hires Dalton to clean it up. Described as “the kind of place they sweep up the eyeballs after closing,” the Double Deuce clearly represents the damaged human soul – the devil’s playground, if you will – and the character of Dalton serves as the catalyst for a necessary change towards good. Or maybe that’s just me. Anyway, the star of the 1970s hit TV show Emergency! plays the owner, which makes it all the more poignant, I think.

2. When faced with the unknown, do some recon. Dalton arrives unannounced at the Double Deuce, slipping in under the radar so he can scope out the scene and see what he’s up against. This is the classic teaching of preparedness. Naturally, it pays off – he spies the skanky waitress dealing drugs and John Doe from the seminal L.A. punk band X stealing money from the till. Smart play, Dalton. Even Confucius wasn’t this sly.

3. Recognize that opinions vary. This is the first existential salvo lobbed in the movie, and it’s a grenade-caliber doozy. When some oversized lug sizes him up with the words, “You don’t look like much to me,” our hero coolly replies, “Opinions vary.” Dalton doesn’t let such idiotic insolence get under his skin. And neither should you.

4. My way or the highway. Clichés become weapons in Dalton’s hands, and this particular one is used to great effect when he lays down the rules to his new staff, which is, of course, all of the same guys from the old Double Deuce staff. Compare this tactic to the NFL: when a coach changes jobs, he usually brings in his own people so that he is instantly more comfortable. Dalton needs no such pampering; he is an unstoppable force of nature. To choose the highway is unthinkable, and you know it. You know it deep in your soul.

5. Never underestimate your opponent. Expect the unexpected. If you think this is advice that applies only to bar fights, then you are a moron, because this is advice for LIFE. Someone bucking for the big promotion you’re after? Or maybe it’s the guy in the left lane who’s about to cut you off. Either way, be on your toes. But if you’re a husband, beware – marriage adds a whole new dimension to this timeless teaching. Hey, Dalton’s the best, but he can’t work miracles.

6. Some people are too stupid to have a good time. We’ve all been there. Some douche bag shows up at a party or a restaurant looking for trouble and tries to ruin things for everyone. Don’t be that guy. Because if you are – and Dalton’s anywhere around – your leg will be broken toot sweet and you will no longer be able to drive your monster truck over the local car dealership.

7. It’ll get worse before it gets better. If you make a break from the herd, there are going to be plenty of bulls trying to knock you down before you get to the fence. It’s human nature. They want you to stay so they can feel better about their dumb asses. But it’s not about them, it’s about you. Dalton knows this. So do what he does – man up. Don’t be afraid to stand alone against the Brad Wesleys of the world. Nothing worth having is free.

8. Pain don’t hurt. Strap yourself in, because we’re going deep on this one. Sure, we all know pain hurts, but that’s not what Dalton is talking about. He’s saying that real pain is when someone close to you dies or your best friend betrays you. Surface pain just doesn’t compare – plus, it can give you focus if you use it right. A gaping knife wound exposing most of your left rib cage? P’shaw! That ain’t nothin’. Bring on the staples. No anesthetic, please.

9. Nobody ever wins a fight. After a particularly rip-roaring dustup, Dalton drops another pearl: “Take the biggest guy in the world, shatter his knee and he’ll drop like a stone.” The message is clear – size doesn’t matter. Neither does your bar fight record. Consider Einstein. What if his bar fight record was 0-37? It wouldn’t change the fact that he was freakin’ Einstein. Fights don’t prove anything. Still, everything being equal, Dalton could have kicked Einstein’s ass. Just sayin’.

10. There’s no amount of money. Whatever your station in life, just make sure that this is what you say when the town bad guy asks you what it will take to get you to come work for him. This kind of act is called “principled” and will make you look like you have “integrity.” Chicks dig that. Mysteriously, you are not, however, required to do anything at all about the humongous shiner that the bad guy gave his “girlfriend.” Just look indignant, say “there’s no amount of money,” and walk out, because that is exactly what Dalton would do. Classy.

11. Be nice – until it’s time to not be nice. This may be Dalton’s finest moment. Like England Dan and John Ford Coley before him, he believes that love is the answer. And it is. We should all work for a better world of love and peace. Noted beanpole John Lennon would have been a hell of a bouncer in this world. I mean, can’t we all just get along? Sure we can. But there’s a problem – the world is full of Brad Wesleys, ready to take us past the breaking point. And when they do, nice gets thrown out the window, larynxes get ripped out of throats and polar bears fall on big fat people. In other words, it’s Charles Darwin all over, baby, only with better hair.

12. Accentuate the positive. Okay, put yourself in Dalton’s shoes. You killed a guy with your bare hands, which is exactly what happened in Memphis a couple years ago. Haunting. Next, your best friend is killed, so you kill four or five of Brad Wesley’s bodyguards in return. You almost killed Wesley himself, but held yourself back. Redemption. That’s a lot for anybody to handle. But you’re a philosophical man, so how exactly do you deal with so much violence, carnage and sorrow in the space of just one day? Easy – you go skinny-dipping with the hot town doctor. And you do it in the same place you ripped the bad guy’s throat out. That is cold blooded stuff right there. Dalton doesn’t dwell; that’s not his way. Move on, baby. Attack life. And get lucky.

Well, there you have it. As anyone with a brain can plainly see, Road House is more than the sum of its parts; it’s practically bursting at the seams with important, life-altering allegory. I’m sure there are people out there who still won’t be able to admit that they’re wrong, and they’ll continue to try and convince you that Road House sucks and is a bad movie. Obviously, in the words of Sam Elliott’s Wade Garrett, that dog won’t hunt. Don’t listen to these people. You know better. You’ve got truth and philosophy on your side. Remember – the naysaying will get worse before it gets better, and some people are just too stupid to have a good time.

So go. Spread the word – but be nice. The power of Swayze compels you.

Music Of My Life, Volume 1

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 22:13:00 +0000

I don’t know what album I need to break out right now, but I sorely need one. I’ve got a lethargy to end all lethargies. Usually, I can find music of some kind to help lift me out of it, but today? No dice.

Isn’t it interesting how the right music can elevate you out of a mood, or put you further into one? I’m not talking just one song, either — although that in itself is a cool enough notion — I’m talking about full-on albums. Anybody can listen to Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” and get pumped about working out, running, playing a game or just simply getting off the couch, but the extended feeling of a well-crafted flow of songs into a single experience can transport your state of mind into something else entirely.

It’s about the feeling you get. You can wallow, celebrate, whatever you want, if you’ve got the right tuneage. So herewith, my favorite mood-changers, enhancers and comfort foods.

It’s raining outside, I’m somewhat melancholy and want to stay that way. My first instinct? Break out Sting’s “Mercury Falling.” The opening crescendo of the drum roll relaxes into an easy, smooth groove perfect for the don’t-want-tos. People call Sting easy listening, and he is that, but for a different reason. Especially on this album. Sometimes all you want is easy. Not easy in the inoffensive sense of Doris Day, but the kind of easy this album has in spades: the ability to carry you on its shoulders when you don’t have the drive to do it for yourself. Some people – and most critics – dismiss this album as one of Sting’s lesser efforts, but if you do that, I hate to tell you, but you’re missing out. The sequencing is genius, with the lush soundscape of “The Hounds of Winter” followed by the even more resigned, sorrowful “I Hung My Head.” Any chance of redemption? Sure, track three, “Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot.” See what Mr. Sumner did there? Just enough gloom to get you ready for the light at the end of the tunnel. But not for long. From the funereal opening of the next song (“I Was Brought To My Senses”) to the sad country stylings of “I’m So Happy That I Can’t Stop Crying” to the logical conclusion of the aptly titled last song on the album, “Lithium Sunset,” this collection of songs — even the ones that are upbeat — is imbued with a cloudy, slightly depressed sense of ennui that fits me to a capital T when I’m not feeling up to snuff. For that alone, Sting gains entrance into my own personal album hall of fame.

I’m feeling pitiful. Life sucks. It’s times like these that instead of worrying about being depressed, I embrace the poor me syndrome with gusto and slide Pink Floyd’s “The Final Cut” into the CD player. If there’s anything bleaker out there, I’ve never heard it. Roger Waters’ opus is full of everything that matters when it comes to depression (even if it’s a temporary feeling). Let’s run down the list. Insane mood swings? Check. Gunshots out of nowhere? Check. Primal screams? Double and triple check. We all ought to fall down on our knees and thank Pink Floyd for this one — they took all the dour and dismal you could ever ask for and recorded it for posterity. By the time you reach the end — and believe me, it’s a compelling little monster that won’t let you stop listening once you start — you will truly be grateful that your little problems don’t amount to a hill of beans in the scheme of things.

I need a reminder of life being full of promise. Everyone goes through this emotion at one time or another. “I feel old, used up; what does life have for me anymore?” Yeah. That kind of thing. Well, there’s only one thing to do if you’re me: You pop in the first Van Halen album. Sure, I know every nook and cranny of these songs; I could win everyone’s freedom if our kidnapper said he’d release us all if I could air-guitar any song off Van Halen’s debut. And then I’d do another just to piss him off. There are classic albums, and then there is this. The first time I ever heard their version of The Kinks’ “You Really Got Me” was in the background of a movie called “Over The Edge,” starring a really young Matt Dillon. It was about disenfranchised kids in Southern California, but I didn’t care about that half as much as finding out in the credits who did that song full of awesome. Then, one membership to the Columbia House Record Club later, that puppy was mine, and I just. Plain. Wore. It. Out. “Jamie’s Cryin’” is so cool it makes Tone Loc’s “Wild Thing” cool by association. David Lee Roth might have set the standard for vocalists being consummate showmen, but here, Eddie Van Halen produced the most glorious rock guitar sound ever heard, before or since. Think about it. If you’re in a crowded bar with everyone talking and one of these songs comes on, the man’s distinctive sound still has the sonic power to make you perk up, sit up a little straighter and tune in a little more … even though you’ve heard these songs a million times. And that’s the point: even though these songs are seared into my memory like a comfortable old shoe, every time I hear them I am instantly transported back to being a teenager. At a time in my past when the most important thing you could do in life was rock, being fluent in Van Halen was a passport to the world.

I need comfort food. Sounds easy, right? Well yeah. Just whip out your Journey “Escape” eight track tape and crank it up! Whoa, hold on there, old-timer; nowadays it’s either a CD or iPod. Nice substitutes, but it really doesn’t do the album justice. Until I can get a digital version of “Dead or Alive” that fades out in the middle and then resumes after an audible click of the player changing tracks, though, they’ll have to do. And what an experience. From “just a small town girl” to “hoping you’ll see what your love means to me,” this is one of those American institutions that is so essential to our national fabric that, quite frankly, I’m scared to death of a world that hasn’t been exposed to it. “Who’s Cryin’ Now.” “Stone In Love.” “Lay It Down.” “Still They Ride.” A who’s who of classic tunes, all in one cool, early-eighties package. In total sum: if you haven’t, at one point in your life, ever lip-synched Steve Perry or air-guitared Neil Schon, I’m not sure I want to know you.

Aaaaannnnddd that’s it for volume one. Somewhere in time, I’ll get back to this list; there are way more than this. I mean, I haven’t even gotten to Sinatra’s “Wee Small Hours Of The Morning” yet, and that might very well be the ultimate mood setter ever.

Guess Who's Adopting A Kid?

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 03:28:00 +0000

Me!

Well, me and my wife Robin.

While the grammar police decide whether to issue me a warning or just plain give me a ticket for that last sentence ... I don't really care. Sorry. Too busy celebrating/freaking out about looming responsibility.

It's pretty cool, actually. This will be a grand new adventure.

My friend Jeff voiced his concern however, and rightfully so, that I - me, floydjoy, the goofball he's known since forever - would be responsible for another human. While I understand he was largely joking, let me just say ... concern noted. In fact, I've got that same feeling myself.

Anyhoo, come late July, a little bundle of floydjoy will be here. A little boy. Nope, no names yet. Okay, some fun, obviously NOT suggestions that have been offered up:

"Copen" Eggen
Worf Tiberius Eggen
Jack Bauer Eggen
Landry Staubach Eggen
Indiana Eggen
Brett Favreneggen

Yup. That's me, baby, all class.

I Blame Charlton Heston

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 03:56:00 +0000

I'm in a wistful mood, so I might as well take it out on you.

It's probably Charlton Heston's fault. Here I was, just sitting around, mourning his passing a little - even though I never knew him personally - and that got me to thinking about how cool it was back in the day when local TV stations had "Apes Week," where they'd air all five PLANET OF THE APES movies right after school at 3:30 or so. I loved those movies. By extension, I loved Charlton Heston.

And that reminded me of how much I missed those days.

Now, I know the past is the past. I also know that the past was never really as cool as the nostalgia conjured since then. There was always some drama, whether it was girls, school, friends or all in my own head. But screw all that. "Wistful" doesn't mean "reality check." After all, I can be maudlin all I want.

So, forty some-odd years in, some of the long-ago things I miss.

My red, white and blue Jim Plunkett/Patriots-edition leather football. Don't even know where I got it; probably at Christmas or something. Odd that a young boy - a self-professed die-hard Cowboy fan, no less - in Tyler, Texas would even have one. But that sucker was pure awesomeness, and I had it for many, many years of neighborhood football games. Which brings me to ...

Neighborhood football games. Do kids even do this anymore? Oh sure, we never really had offensive lines or anything like that. Just a five-Mississippi count before the defense guy rushes the quarterback sort of thing going on. I can still remember some of the sweet spirals I threw for touchdowns. Of course, touchdowns were very rarely hash marks on a field; more often, they were a little yellow Vega parked on the side or the telephone pole down the street.

The bookmobile. Holy crap, you mean the library comes to me? Dang skippy, only about a hundred yards away from my front door. Conan the Barbarian, Starman Jones or Ball Four here I come.

Stretch Armstrong. Pull arms until inside stuff - read: goo - is revealed. Who said we didn't have entertainment in the seventies?

KISS. Unless you lived through their heyday in the mid- to late-seventies - roughly ROCK AND ROLL OVER through LOVE GUN, or DOUBLE PLATINUM if you can't be bothered to list the albums themselves - you really don't have a definitive clue how cool these guys really were. Now, of course, they're mere shadows of their former glory, but back then, they were a vital part of our lives, easily as unavoidable as junior high history in third period. What sticks in my mind: Bobby Lawson spitting up blood on the school playground. Jesse Fite doing a less-than-Simmons fire-breathing trick with a soda straw. I'm sure there were world-shattering events happening around this time, such as the Energy Crisis and Skylab falling to Earth, but these - THESE are the things I remember. I even dressed up as Peter Criss on Halloween. The Catman! And if you know someone who was a teenager around then, say twelve to fifteen years old, and you ask them if they saw the TV movie KISS MEETS THE PHANTOM OF THE PARK and they say no ... then I hate to break it to you, but they are lying. KISS did indeed rule the world, if only for a couple years. If you want to get a taste of what it was like, all you have to do is listen to KISS ALIVE II.

Steve Martin's stand-up act. I can't tell you how many kids back then would spontaneously break out in a crazy dance and yell out, "I'm getting happy feet!" Oh yeah. I had a t-shirt that had an iron-on of the phrase "Excuuuuuuuuuse Meeeeee!" that sprawled all the way across my chest. We all wanted to be a cat juggler and put our money in Fred's Bank. Everybody cracked up when you sang, "Grandpa bought a rubber." And we all - all of us, no exceptions - actually thought KING TUT was a great song. Why, do you ask? Why did we do and think all these things? Because we were wild and crazy guys, that's why.

Lynda Carter. You didn't have to be a thirteen-year-old boy going through some, uh, changes to appreciate Lynda Carter but ... wow, it was one hell of a perspective.

Baseball cards. Still got 'em all. '76 Big Red Machine? Yup. Oakland A's dynasty, including Reggie Jackson? Oh yeah. Mark "The Bird" Fidrych? Certainly. And you'll never pry the '75 Brooks Robinson from my hands, probably even after I'm dead.

There's tons more, but I'm losing the wistful. It was melancholy while it lasted.

I feel an "Apes Week" coming on.

Perfect. Just perfect.

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 16:32:00 +0000

Pretty sure this is what "putting the cart in front of the horse" means.

Video Comedy Fun Time

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Sat, 12 Jan 2008 02:20:00 +0000

I know what you're saying. You're saying, hey man! Another post with videos? Yeah, you got me. I'm lazy. So what?

The important thing is we made it to the weekend! HIGH FIVE!

True confession: I've never seen an episode of the Sopranos. But that didn't stop me from enjoying this Kenny Mayne ESPN spoof starring Cowboys coach Tony Sparano, Tony Romo, Mark Cuban and Jason Witten. And I could listen to Journey all day (and frequently do). Cool sidenote: this video was filmed at the Local Diner, which is right across the street from my office. I eat there all the time.

I don't know how to introduce this one, so I'll just ask the question. What if there's bears?

Ever heard of Jack McBrayer? Dude's comedy genius.

This next clip just kills me. Tim Meadows tries to keep Dewey from ... well, just watch.

And sadly, looks like there'll be no more naked bongo for Matthew McConaughey. :(

Even Bruce Willis - the one from the 80s with hair - sez: "It's fun time! Let yourself be happy!"

That was fun. And now I'm done.

A Series Of Rather Unfortunate Events

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Sat, 05 Jan 2008 04:48:00 +0000

Okay, I'll make this short and sweet, mainly because I can barely believe I'm wasting valuable time that could be better spent pounding my forehead against a doorjamb or watching the second hand on a clock move.

But I digress, as I always do.

For your perusal, a rough, woefully incomplete timeline of a bizarre nature:

1. When it all began, it was pretty much common knowledge that Kevin Federline - henceforth referred to with the genius moniker K-Fed - was a no-talent layabout that lucked out; in its pure essence, his story was the equivalent of your cousin Chauncey hitting the lottery.

2. We held off making uninformed, snap judgements until ...

... his complete lack of talent was confirmed.

3. Flash-forward: Britney and K-Fed split up. And amazingly enough, if you can believe it, at this point we still had a positivish impression of Britney.

4. Britney self-destructed on a scale heretofore unimagined. (Google "Britney Spears" and you'll find all you need to know; the mountain of evidence is staggering.)

5. I know I'm jumping ahead here, but really, who cares. Long story short, Britney lost total custody of her kids today.

6. Since she is such a daily trainwreck - again, with literally scads of media evidence to confirm it - we find ourselves generally on bended knee and grateful as a nation that K-Fed has custody of the kids.

7. End result? We discover K-Fed DOES have talent, just not the rapping or musical kind. His talent is being - hands down - a better parent than crazy, idiotic, baby-almost-dropping, moppet-in-lap-illegally-while-driving, panties-less Britney.

Yay K-Fed.

*sigh*

I really need a shower now.

Go green! Save a woodchuck.

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 05:08:00 +0000

It just struck me today how we never really hear about the duck-billed platypus. Sure, we've all seen the pictures, and boy are they ugly, but you'd think with this enlightened, plugged-in culture we live in that we'd see a platypus blog. Or maybe a platypus myspace page. I cry speciesism on that.

Same with weasels. They don't get their just due either. Yeah, they skulk around, doing whatever it is that weasels do in between helpings of rodent pie, but they really need to come on out into the limelight. They're sneaky, but they're practically exploding with talent. I've heard that some have beautiful voices, the kind that would make an angel cry. I want to hear one. I mean, who wouldn't want to go see a musical called West Side Weasel? I know I would. In a heartbeat.

I'd also like to meet a woodchuck before I die. Is that too much to ask? Sure, you hear about them all the time; evidently they are more than capable of chucking much wood. But isn't it high time we had a woodchuck spokesman? Kind of like a press secretary, only without the flawless diction and political bias.

There you go. Three long-ignored Friends of Earth. I'm sure there's more; hey, there's got to be, but I'm only one man. With one blog. I do what I can.

But I've got a feeling it may not be enough.

Jingle Bell Fun!

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Sat, 22 Dec 2007 21:06:00 +0000

Ho Ho Ho. Merry Christmas, everyone!

Today, I aim to spread the merry.

First up is a cool little thing I found on the Interwebs called "The Jingler." What this little cyber-elf does is take any MP3 you care to upload and transforms it into a Christmas song!

Don't believe me? Prepare to have your ears blown wide open by the power of The Jingler unleashed on the Deep Purple classic "Smoke On The Water."

Check The Jingler out for yourself! It's a little slow, but you can literally waste tons of time there. It's located on the World Wide Web at the confusing and much too complex addy of www.thejingler.com.

Woo!

Next up? Let's channel Die Hard. It's already established blog canon that I consider the first Die Hard the perfect action movie. I know what you're saying; "But floydjoy, I can't remember which Die Hard is which. Does the first one have Samuel L. Jackson in it?" To which I answer, "No, you idiot. It's Hans Gruber, the best movie villain ever, played with - again - perfection by Alan Rickman." But don't worry. This handy little song by what sounds like a bunch of frat boys will help you keep everything Die Hard in proper perspective. (Another thing you may be saying is, "What the hey does this have to do with Christmas, floydjoy?" To which I give the most obvious of obvious answers: "Because the first two Die Hards happen AT Christmastime." Sheesh.)

Whatever. Just watch it and relive the majesty, glory and ass-kickery of John McClane. (Caution: Liberal shouting of his famous catch-phrase may not be suitable for tykes or grandmas.)

This next bit has NOTHING to do with Christmas, but it concerns Batman, which I'm pretty sure we can all agree trumps blog themes every single time. And no, I'm not linking to the trailer, which is all kinds of awesome (well, okay, I'm gonna do it anyway - here ya go) ...

... but I am gonna link to this low-key tune, which is all kinds of awesome too. Go to marbletea.com and click on "I'm Batman" in their little player. It's not Adam West, but then, who could be? Speaking of Adam West, he's on the Interwebs too. And if you're a fan of the old sixties show like I am, you ... simply ... MUST ... check out ... THE BAT PAGES! They have video clips and everything, including highly impactful footage of Cesar Romero as the Joker with makeup painted OVER his mustache. That Cesar Romero was a tough dude; "Okay, I'll play the Joker, but I'm NOT shaving my ultra-suave mustache. This life is all about the ladies."

And now, for my final entry, something I've already sent around to friends as a kind of online Christmas card. All I will say is that it concerns Steve Perry. (Oh, and as an aside, stay tuned: I feel a Steve Perry retrospective blog entry coming on. It could be tomorrow, next week, a month from now, but it's coming. You've been warned.) Anyway, watch this. And have a Merry Christmas!

T.O., Romo, Simpson: A Microcosm Of The Wussification Of Sports Journalism

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Fri, 21 Dec 2007 06:31:00 +0000

Male sports "journalists," listen up.

If you actually took pen in hand - figuratively, of course, who the hell writes longhand anymore - to write ANYTHING concerning Jessica Simpson, Tony Romo and Terrell Owens this week, I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to turn in your Man Card.

I'm deadly serious.

This is a problem. We've reached a critical turning point in the realm of sports, in particular the NFL. Gone are the days when sports stories were approached as an art. Nowadays, it's all about shock value and ratcheting up the drama, and this week has been a state-of-the-art snapshot of how far sports journalism has fallen.

I'll admit, I chuckled when Joe Buck asked Troy Aikman, "Can you imagine what it feels like to be the quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys?" while the camera showed Jessica Simpson in a stadium suite.

I didn't chuckle so much when newscasts and papers jumped on Romo's poor performance and pointed at Simpson as "the reason," but I really didn't think it was all that serious. That was just a spin they could put on the story, and that was it. I give it a couple days, tops, and then we all get back on with our lives. Or at least give a healthy wonder to how Roy Williams can keep committing the same foul over and over. Doesn't he get a slight clue when the reason for the fine reads, "because Roy Williams committed the outlawed Roy Williams Horse-Collar Tackle, otherwise known simply as The Roy Williams Rule, yet again." But I digress, because - shocker - the national media does not want to talk about such things germane to the actual world of the NFL. They want to talk about Tony Romo's love life.

This is NOT why I watch football. I feel compelled to actually type that out loud.

But then Terrell Owens goes and jokes in front of the press about how Jessica's not exactly a fan favorite in Texas Stadium because she's pulling Tony's focus away.

When I heard that, I immediately thought, "Oh T.O., ya big card. Something's got the spotlight besides you in the post-game interviews, so once again, Pavlovian creature that you are, you wander over and jump on the star, as it were."

But there was no way I ever thought he was being serious.

Oh, silly me. Holy crap, did I ever underestimate the national press. What a bunch of stiffnecked asses. Why, it makes perfect sense that they would take a T.O. joke - lame as it was, after all - and try to turn it into a serious issue.

The headlines, combined into one catch-all: "Oh Noes! T.O. Owens To Simpson: Back Off Romo!"

Don't believe me? Click here, here or here. And a couple hundred other places that ran that stupid AP story.

As if I needed validation that it was all a big-ass media overreaction, I heard a clip of the T.O. audio on SportsRadio 1310 The Ticket today, and judging by the big laughter in the locker room the whole way through his Jessica/Romo spiel, I think it's safe to say that it was OBVIOUS that he wasn't serious.

How in the name of Thomas Wade Landry can you lack that much of a sense of humor, locker room reporters?

The culmination of this jack-assed ridiculousness? T.O. had to issue a public statement of apology.

You have GOT to be kidding me. Apologize for what? Joking around? Trusting that a bunch of media guys who laughed uproariously at his obvious joke would not be moron enough to then turn around and act as if he said it while spitting out ten-penny nails of furious indignation?

Boy, did he ever underestimate the slack-jawed droolery of the national media.

All of a sudden, Owens-Romo-Simpson-Gate is the - get ready for this, no, I mean it, put on your damn seat belt if you consider yourself manly in any way, shape or form - "gossip" of the NFL week.

Holy mother of pearl. It's gonna take literally weeks of badass, macho coverage of steroid abuse, salary disputes and maybe even a good old-fashioned "Should Pete Rose be in the Hall of Fame" debate to get over this sports de-balling.

I mean, has it really come to this? Really?!?

T.O. has to apologize because the press manufactured a huge amount of drama. I cannot emphasize the following enough: A LOT OF PEOPLE GOT PAID GOOD MONEY TO FLOAT THIS TURD.

What's next? A pantsless Albert Haynesworth crotch shot as he's getting out of a Prius? Tom Brady driving a Ferrari with a kid in his lap behind the wheel? A guard's cell phone viral video of Michael Vick prison sex? (Actually, if karma exists, this last one is pretty much an inevitability.)

Hope you're up for it, this new wave of sports journalism. Pretty soon, we'll be tailgating sipping wine coolers and frou-frou umbrella drinks if they have their way.

Look, I'm even willing to forgive and forget. That's what men are good at, anyway. We'll all just hitch up our pants, grunt a little bit, slam another beer. To paraphrase a great movie line, those weren't pillows, but we CAN act like it never happened.

So ... how 'bout them Cowboys?

Things I Think Of When I'm Bored

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Fri, 07 Dec 2007 02:56:00 +0000

One of the biggest ironies of being lazy is that I also get bored easily. I'm not talking every so often, once in a blue moon or even infrequently; I'm talking pure multiple times a day. It's okay, though, don't worry about me - it usually passes, and then I'm back to being my lazy self.

It's the circle of life.

Anyhoo, the top ten Things I'm Thinking About Right Now Because I'm Bored. And no, they aren't numbered for any other reason than I need to stop when I get to ten. Okay, here goes.

1. Kenny Rogers used to look like The Gambler. Now he looks like the Wizard of Oz. What the hell?!? I tell you one thing - the icons from my youth are falling one by one, and they're falling HARD.

2. Incomplete list of random guys I sort of hero-worship: William Shatner, Neil Peart, both Disney and post-Disney Kurt Russell, Steve McQueen, the Six Million Dollar Man, Cary Grant in North by Northwest, Roger Staubach and Bruce Willis. If you don't know who they are: that's what Google's for. I can't do all the work for you.

3. My Top Five Books, Subject To Change Like The Wind (Maybe As Early As Tomorrow): "The Bible" by Bunch of Ancient God-Inspired Guys; "To Kill A Mockingbird" by Harper Lee; "The Stand" by Stephen King; "The Hobbit" by J.R.R. Tolkien and "Fight Club" by Chuck Palahniuk.

4. Stephen King could have had two on that list if he'd ended "IT" with the same quality he started it. The first 800 or so pages of that book contained the best, most dead-on portrayal of adolescent coming-of-age I've ever read; after that kind of investment (I repeat, 800 plus pages), imagine my surprise to find out spiders, turtles and time travel was behind "IT" all.

5. I might just have to go see Van Halen reunited with David Lee Roth. We'll have fun, fun, fun till the disgruntlement takes our lead singer away. Again.

6. Coolest Song Ever: Crystal Blue Persuasion by Tommy James and the Shondells. There's no denying it. Just give in; it's only a matter of time until you do anyway.

7. I don't know how it worked out this way, me being a natural-born idiot and all, but somehow I wound up with a wonderful, beautiful wife who complements the best parts of me and puts up with, well, all the other parts. Hey, I don't question; I just sit back and smile.

8. Funny movie moment time out: "I'm gonna come at you like a spider monkey!" Enjoy.

9. Terence Newman is one thing*, but I don't think I'd get on Bradie James' bad side even if you gave me good money, butterflies and lollipops the rest of my days. Poor Jon Kitna. We barely knew ye - at least as a healthy Lions QB.

*Not that I could take Terence Newman, either.

10. Power walking. What the hell is that, anyway? It's not the elbows-up motion, I could get behind that. I mean, you could pretend you were punching somebody if you wanted to. Eye of the tiger, and all that. But you've got to be kidding me with that butt motion. It's like the opposite of the air punching, only, instead of fists, you've got butt cheeks punching BEHIND you, presumably providing some kind of propulsion. Anyway, anything that looks that odd can't be natural body movement. Hmmm. Butt air-punches that propel you forward. I guarantee you, someone has made money off that idea.

Well, that's it for another edition of ... ah hell, you know as well as I do that this is the first edition ever. If you've read this far - and you have Sean Connery's pity** if you have - just know that you'll never get the last couple minutes of your life back.

You're welcome.

**

I May Be Responsible For Ending Brett Favre's Career

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 05:42:00 +0000

Yes, it's finally official: the NFL jersey that I wear directly affects EVERYTHING.

Yeah, I couldn't believe it either.

Here's the scene. This morning. Post shower. Pre shirt. Vague thoughts whoosh through, around and past my brain. What should I wear today? What is today? Do I work today? Hey, the Cowboys play a special, super-duper Thursday night game this week. Is this Thursday? By God, I think it is. I must wear my Emmitt Smith jersey today. But lo! They are playing the Packers. I also have a Brett Favre jersey, because I like Brett Favre, NOT because of any kind of affection for the Packers. The Packers suck, but Favre's cool. Don't ask me why; I don't ask you about your irrationalities.

My pro jersey lineup, if anyone's interested (and if you are, I fear your social ineptitude):

Emmitt Smith
Brett Favre
Dirk Nowitzki (this one doesn't seem to work in either a good or evil direction)
Roger Staubach (my favorite; if I ever lose this twenty pounds, I aim to wear it again someday)
Mike Modano (I don't hardly ever wear this one. Mainly because it's made of some kind of sandpaperlike fabric, and I've only got so much skin to spare.)

Anyhoo, you can see my dilemma. Cowboys vs. Packers today. Smith vs. Favre in my closet.

Emmitt gets the nod. On any other day, Favre, you're the man, but this day - THIS DAY - belongs to the BOYS.

So, flash-forward to post game. Here's my supernatural equation, worked out using all sorts of fancy computers and good old fashioned common sense.

I wear Emmitt Smith #22 jersey = Cowboys win.
I DO NOT wear Brett Favre #4 jersey = Favre goes down with an elbow injury on his THROWING ARM.

I am, naturally, being pulled in competing directions over this. I am equal parts SORRY BRETT and GO COWBOYS.

This is even worse than the voodoo stuff that native was pulling on GILLIGAN'S ISLAND.

Looks like I need a Tony Romo jersey to balance all this out.

The Self-Discovery Shuffle

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Thu, 02 Aug 2007 07:15:00 +0000

Outside, the sun is going down and the wind is cool and crisp; perfect for an evening jog. I load up my trusty iPod shuffle, kiss my wife on the top of her head and hit the neighborhood streets.

This run will be short, I’ve already decided. I have too much to do. Most importantly, I need to crank on the next part of my book. At least three pages worth. And since I compose, on the average, about one page an hour, I need to get a move on if I’m going to hit that goal before shuteye.

After all, the book isn’t going to write itself.

I push play. The iPod’s first song starts in the middle, because it’s the same one I ended my run with the night before and shut off mid-jam: Motley Crue’s “Kickstart My Heart.” I’m not the world’s biggest Motley Crue fan, but that song clearly kicks ass, and gives me a great tempo to start with.

Eventually, the Crue gives way to Deep Purple’s “Hush.” Cool enough. It’s kind of fast, has a good “na-na-na” rock and roll sensibility. It works. My legs get a little heavier, but that’s no big deal. I just need to fight through the temporary fatigue, that’s all.

After about three quarters of a mile, having realized that I’m not going to stop, my legs start to rebel furiously. I have a theory, which has been proven time and again (so it might as well be fact), that the distance between three-fourths of a mile and a mile and a quarter is my biggest challenge. It is in that time period that my body fairly shouts at me to stop, don’t go any further, you’re about to die. The true wonder of this situation is that if I can make it to a mile and a quarter, I’ll slide into a preternatural groove that can last well over two miles, possibly three. What I’m saying is, that half mile is one hell of a hassle.

So I fight. And struggle. And fight some more. But it doesn’t help that the song playing at this point is Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold,” so I hit the forward button and “Run to the Hills” by Iron Maiden blasts me into a good second wind, and a while later, with a little help from a couple songs by AC/DC and Van Halen, I settle into the awesome rhythm provided by the mile-and-a-quarter threshold.

What’s a real shame, though, is when I’m in a hurry like this, I try to shut it all down at around two miles. I figure it’s a good medium that gives me upwards of a good half-hour of heart acceleration, plus it provides me the satisfaction of having a fighting chance of completing everything I have on tap for the evening.

And so it happens that around a mile and a half, Creed’s “My Own Prison” shoots forth from my earbuds, and I start paying attention. Not much, but a little. Enough to recognize the universal truth that we all create our own prisons of the mind.

I cry out to God
Seeking only his decision
Gabriel stands and confirms
I've created my own prison

It’s a hell of a lot easier to tell someone else that they made their own bed and now they have to lie in it than to turn that judgment back on ourselves. As I run along, I admit to myself that yeah, I have created my own prison. Thanks a lot, Creed. That little bit of pop-art self-analysis has convicted me. I spend the rest of the song thinking about things I feel guilty about, but not in a depressed way. In fact, the more I run, I actually feel good about my chances at end-of-it-all redemption.

And the crunching power chords don’t hurt, either.

A softer song floats in next, allowing me to coast a little bit. Slower songs on the back side of a run serve two equally impactful purposes. One, it allows for introspection and maybe a little emotion to creep in, both of which are good for losing yourself in the perpetual motion involved with jogging. Two, and way more importantly, you can slow down slightly without guilt.

It’s a Steven Curtis Chapman song. I like this guy; he’s one of the few Christian songwriters that actually gets it right and seems sincere, like this is what he’d do even if he didn’t make money at it. And that kind of sincerity goes a long way, especially in a slow ballad. Fifteen to twenty seconds in, I cringe as a shadow passes over my soul: this is a song about adoption.

I knew Chapman had adopted kids. But the reason this song hits me like a thud in the pit of my stomach, though, is because my wife Robin and I are currently stuck in the process of adoption, having been extremely lax in pursuing it for months. We started out strong, but eventually, we tailed off. Yes, there were extenuating circumstances, but we could have kept the ball rolling a lot harder that we did.

Let me rephrase: I could have kept the ball rolling a lot harder. Me.

Chapman’s earnest voice calls out to me.

When love takes you home and says you belong here
The loneliness ends and a new life begins
When love takes you in it takes you in for good
When love takes you in

I’ll be honest. I feel sorry for myself right now. Poor me, it’s a big life adjustment, if I play it safe and don’t make any moves I can keep being lazy till … when? When am I gonna grow up? When I think of what Robin and I could be to someone who has nobody, or a baby who needs a home, it’s insane to do nothing. What the hell’s stopping me?

I stop feeling sorry for myself when the next song comes on. I smile; it’s a trusted band I’ve followed for over twenty years, Bon Jovi. The song is called “Welcome to Wherever You Are,” off their Have a Nice Day CD, and I think it’s really good. In fact, I think I’ll run another cliché into the dirt: in a world of Britney, Justin and Christina, they just don’t make ’em like this anymore.

I know sometimes it's hard for you to see
You come between just who you are and who you wanna be

After the last two songs, this damn thing’s a life saver. Yeah, you’ve been bad, you’ve created your own problems, but hell, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. You have to take responsibility for not being more successful than you are. Add to that a guilty conscience from knowing you could’ve pushed harder for an adoption both you and your wife really want, and you’ve got a right to beat yourself up. But out of all that semi-darkness, it’s a real stunner to see Jon Bon Jovi — Jon Bon Jovi, of all people —step out of the light at the end of your pity-party tunnel, extend a hand your direction and say, “Floyd, you gotta believe that right here right now, you're exactly where you're supposed to be.” Welcome to wherever I am, indeed.

At this point I’ve finished running and slowed down to a brisk walk. After runs, I like to cruise around a couple blocks in the neighborhood because one, I hate sweating all over the place when I get inside, and two, it stretches my calves more so I don’t pull the crap out of them. So I’m sweating, breathing hard, but feeling good.

And then Bono gut-punches me. Hard.

The song playing now is U2's “Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own,” another of Bono’s long-ass titles that meander all over the liner notes, and I know a little about it. The song is a tribute to his father, Bob Hewson, and their relationship, but I’ve never really listened to it closely. I really only know it because of the comical first line, “You think you've got the stuff.” Such B-movie language. Awesome.

But this time, I still have the volume cranked up from the Bon Jovi tune, and the earbuds give off this intimate vibe that makes me feel as though Bono has stepped alongside me and is whispering in my ear. And since I’m pretty much wallowing in self-pity at this point, I allow myself the vanity to pretend that he is singing about my father, who I lost almost three years ago.

The words languidly pass by, evoking pictures in my mind’s eye of my dad, lying in that damn hospital bed, almost a stranger, wasting away from the double shot of cancer and diabetes. He can’t speak anymore, but he’s looking at me, with eyes that seem to comprehend. But does he? Does he know I’m here? Does he know? In my selfish mind, I want to think he does. But if I’m being truthful, the answer is clear: probably not.

You don’t have to put up a fight
You don’t have to always be right
Let me take some of the punches
For you tonight

Listen to me now
I need to let you know
You don’t have to go it alone

And it’s you when I look in the mirror
And it’s you when I don’t pick up the phone
Sometimes you can’t make it on your own

But I know the truth. He DOES have to go it alone. No matter how much I want, I can’t enter that world and pull him out. I can’t … do anything.

We fight all the time
You and I … that’s alright
We’re the same soul
I don’t need … I don’t need to hear you say
That if we weren’t so alike
You’d like me a whole lot more

Images flash across my consciousness; hurts long ago buried come bubbling to the surface. Me in a rage, bicycling across the whole town to get away from him as fast as I could. Him, trying to protect me, forbidding me to play football, failing to control his temper. Me resisting his way, straining against the bonds of boundaries both real and imagined; shouting, railing against him, knowing that he really doesn’t know what it’s like to be me, he grew up in a different time and place and the world’s changed, damn it, and HE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND ME. Him, being obstinate, so sure he’s right, secure in the knowledge in fact, and damn it, MY SON DOESN’T UNDERSTAND ME. No fists ever, no violence, there was no need; conflict doesn’t reside solely in the realm of physical force anyway. There was plenty of other kinds of animosity available, and we took it. But conflict never really defined our relationship. In fact, the majority of the time, it was the exact opposite.

Can - you - hear - me – when – I -
Sing, you’re the reason I sing

I’m crying uncontrollably. I’m standing on the sidewalk next to a six-lane throughway with my hands on my knees and tears painting the sidewalk. My shoulders shake. I wonder vaguely if anyone notices, and almost in the same thought realize that I don’t care. The truth has crashed in on me, completely.

I still grieve for my father.
I had no idea.

Where are we now?
I’ve got to let you know
A house still doesn’t make a home

Visions fly fast, some fleeting, others fully formed. Frosty A&W root beer after working in the yard every Saturday. Finding common ground later in life through precious rounds of golf. My dad, on the sideline at every soccer game I ever played. Every piano recital. The joy in his voice when I’d make one of my infrequent calls home. Every moral decision I make. Everything I do is a reflection off the prism of his memory. His proud face at my graduation. His proud face at my wedding. His proud face at any one of my many failures.

Don’t leave me here alone ...

I will not lie. In many ways, I feel helpless without him. There is a void. A vacuum of time, space and soul that he used to occupy. I can no longer see him. Talk to him. Ask his advice. He will never again ask me how things are going, tell me how wonderful he thinks my wife is. I will never again see him at my mother’s side. He will never bail me out again. Not in this life, anyway.

I am my father’s son. And I hope the boy inside me never leaves.

Now.

One foot in front of the other.

Every step I take towards home gains a little more bounce. I feel more … purposeful. After all, there are things that need to be done.

The book can wait.

Immaturity! That's my forte.

noreply@blogger.com (floydjoy) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 04:01:00 +0000

There's a chance that I'm twisting in the wind here, but I honestly think the world would have much, MUCH clearer communication if we all stopped maturing around the age of five.

Think about it.

Let's say someone said something you disagree with. What would you say? Probably some kind of PC crap that you don't even believe yourself. Oh, you might give them a little slack out of some misbegotten notion of compromise, even though they're clearly wrong, but all in all, most of us would be polite. But if you were five years old, you'd probably say, "I hate you. I don't want to talk to you anymore." See? It's beautiful. But oh, no. We have to have our ears bent ad infinitum by some yahoo with a caffeine buzz, a coworker splitting hairs, or some equally hollow blowhard.

Or how about checkout clerks? Bank tellers? Retail guerillas who sneak up on you with the ubiquitous "Can I help you sir?"

That's right. Repeat after me. "I hate you. I don't want to talk to you anymore."

It works on so many levels.

So there it is. From now on, no quarter shall be given. I am liberated from the yoke of political correctness.

Am I being childish? Sure. But it's a lot more fun than suffering all the slackjawed fools out there.

God, sometimes it's a burden being so right all the time. :(