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What If It Was The Last Time?

To preface this entry, I’ll ask that you excuse me if I begin to ramble because I will assure the reader, I will proceed to make a point by the end of this, what promises to be lengthy, message.

I set out this morning, walking my dog Hank.

Hank hasn’t been with me long, he simply showed up one afternoon, roaming around in a nervous, zig-zag gait, towed in by another dog which soon magically disappeared. It quickly became apparent that Hank was old, and lost. He was also very hungry, which was soon remedied, but as I evaluated his situation, luckily prompted by the advice of another more compassionate soul, it became apparent that Hank’s other concerns were not going to be so easily addressed. He was clearly missing someone terribly – someone who had once occupied a very large part of his life. It also became apparent that Hank could not hear well.

I posted a photo of Hank along with a lost dog notice on Facebook, and asked all of my friends to share the notice in hopes that someone might be looking for their hound. I searched for pleas of a distraught owner on Craigs List, but after two weeks, neither platform provided results.

Hank 2018

Soon it became clear that Hank had been accustomed to having a collar and leash, however when he showed up there was no collar. One evening when I opened my truck door to roll up the window, Hank instinctively proceeded to climb in. He was used to being taken along on rides, it seemed.

After much discussion, Alana and I soon concluded that the dog had been purposely abandoned. But why would anyone turn such a faithful companion out into the world? Unless the owner had died – and the person who had ‘inherited’ him soon found that the dog ‘wouldn’t listen’, was too energetic, and required too much of their time. So, not unlike the heartless soul who would abandon a box of kittens on the side of the road, they loaded Hank into the car, drove some distance before letting him out, and then simply pulled off, leaving the dog in the void of unknowns.

And so he started walking, trying to find his way back to something familiar.

A few days into his stay with us, I referred to him as Hank without giving it much thought. I’ve no idea, the name just seemed to fit, it came to me so naturally. Finally, after we’d both surmised that, if we surrendered him to a shelter, no one would adopt an old dog, and he would eventually be put down, I decided to delete the notice on Facebook and keep the old boy. Besides, he had already decided that I was his new purpose in life, and that he was mine.

This was a responsibility which I could not take lightly, yet seemed to take somewhat begrudgingly. Besides, it wasn’t as if I didn’t already have seven cats. How was I going to integrate this big dog into a household of cranky-ass felines?

Another point, is that this big boy thrived on attention – something that cats have determined that they can live without for the most part, with the exception of the occasional head-butt. Also, as lots of other musicians will attest, cats fit our lifestyles better – they’re quiet while you’re recording, and they don’t come over slobbering all over you while you’re half-way into a groove that you can never repeat in this lifetime.

But Hank was an indoor dog, being left outside made him unbearably nervous. So I erected a re-enforced screen door in between the kitchen and the laundry room, made him a bed, then set his food and water dishes.  Through the door which opens to the outside from the laundry room, I led him inside to see how the he and the cats would interact. Hank seemed satisfied with the arrangement and seemed to realise that the laundry room was his space. The cats were a bit leery of the big animal which was now occupying the laundry room, and they sniffed at the screen door. Hank plopped himself down with his back against the screen and went to sleep. Cats continued to sniff and move cautiously around the door. This went on for a few days, but a couple of the females – Sissy and Popper – decided that they liked Hank, and slept beside him just on the other side of the door.

Oh, there was one other thing that, after a while we finally took note of – Hank never barked. Hank seemed to be so relieved that someone had taken him in, he was willing to accept anything that came with the deal, without voicing a complaint.

After a week or so of the division, the cats seemed to be at ease with Hank – with the exception of Spots, the most cranky 12 year-old girl, who paid him absolutely no attention. (The other cats never even bother Spots. She’s the matriarch of the household.) So, I decided to allow Hank inside to inspect the rest of the house. He trotted in, much to the astonishment of a few of the cats, slipping past them without even looking at them, almost as if he were trying to avoid alarming them. He sniffed about, lay down in the kitchen floor for a while, before eventually letting himself back into the laundry room, letting the screen door slam gently behind him. Alana and I looked at one another, stunned. Clearly the dog himself was taking a test run with the cats.

I finally began to wonder to myself if Hank hadn’t been some sort of support dog. He was extremely well behaved, intelligent, and wanted to be at my side irrespective of where I went throughout the house. He even insisted on accompanying me to the bathroom, dutifully lying down in the floor and waiting. It was but a few days before Alana voiced the very same observation. ‘Hank sticks to you like you are his responsibility.’ she said. I told her that I had come to the same conclusion. Even as I type this, he is lying on the floor beside my chair. For the first week or so, whenever I had to leave the house to attend to some business, Hank would sit in the kitchen floor and release a deep and mournful, almost eerie bay. It sounded as if he were miles away, and it sounded so lonely and sad. After I would return, he was overjoyed. ‘Every time you come home, it’s like Christmas for Hank.’ Alana mused.

It may be noted that the cats are completely at ease Hank now. Occasionally Misfit will even walk up to him and head-butt his snout. The diminutive Popper will often stand alongside him, as if she is every bit as big and powerful.

Hank has been well trained in another aspect as well. He will not relieve himself in the yard. It has come to a point that I have figured that he likes to take a good long walk very early in the morning, one which encompasses one and a half miles, and at a point half way through, he will relieve himself in the tall grass beside an old vacant grocery store. Then we head back home. If it is raining and we can’t take a walk – Hank doesn’t take a dump, so the walk is imperative.

Our morning walks are everything to Hank. They are the highlight of his day. For his life to have been filled with – who knows how many hopeless days and nights, there isn’t a single negative emotion that this old dog harbours. I watched him this morning as we walked – tail wagging, head held high. It was as if this were the very first time that we were ever going on this walk. He was drinking in every second of it and loving it. This same old walk.

“Hank,” I said, “you inspire me. I’m just walking along here as if we will be doing this forever and you’re taking it in as if we’ll never do it again.”

Then it hit me. What if it was the last time? I used to tell myself every time I’d climb the drive on my bike, “Enjoy it like it’s the last time.” But now, as hard as I try to remember – I can’t remember my last ride up the drive before the CFS knocked the wind out of me, but I never got to do it again.

Hank is old. He may not even have a year left. I should really be getting as much enjoyment out of these walks as he does. Because one day – it will be the last time.

I began thinking of my own mortality, and how things can change beyond one’s influence. I do lots of genealogy, and I’ve photographed scores of headstones of individuals whose time on this Earth easily fit within my own. It gives you pause to reflect. We take tomorrow for granted far more than we should. I imagined my dad lying awake at night, fully knowing that it had all been done, and that any moment he could lose grasp of life.

“Things never seem to go the way that we intend – life seems so different when it’s viewed from end to end.”

I penned these words during a moment of enlightened inspiration and included them in a song that I’d written about my son. I began thinking about him and how frustrated he sometimes felt regarding his mundane job and his life in general, how things weren’t running to suit him.

Then I considered how fortunate my dad would have felt a year ago – simply to be 33 and have the good health to enjoy doing anything again. And meanwhile there is my son, replaying scenes which he should have discarded of minutes after they occurred.

We own our thoughts – but negative thinking owns us. We can have goals and aspirations, but to have unrealistic expectations of ourselves is a different matter. Sometimes it’s good to work toward a goal, but if we aren’t enjoying now because all we can dwell on is later – we’re missing the boat.

I prefer Hank’s approach to life, and I’m going to try to be like him henceforth. I’m going to enjoy now – and I’m not even going to think about tomorrow.

Because this may very well be the last time.

 

 

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No Easy Story to Tell

I do a lot of genealogy.

I began after being inspired by my uncle who, back in the 70s, began researching one branch of our family. Genealogy was tough business back then. He had to do hard copy research, planning trips to various county courthouses, and Washington D.C. in order to pour through microfiche and archived documents.

After passing on himself in the 90s, his work sat dormant until one of his sisters self-published a book on his work. Upon reading her manuscript, and cogitating on it for some time, I decided to take up the task of completing his journey through time. The television show ‘Finding Your Roots’ provided additional impetus. After all, it was 2007, and the Internet could bring all of the documents to me. So I opened an account on Ancestry.com and, using his work as my foundation, set to work.

Sometimes, when I feel like it, I’ll spend the entire day exhuming the remnants of individuals long since forgotten. The task may be a more convenient one, but is no less difficult. Names were rarely unique in any given period. It is amazing how many people were named ‘John Henry’ or ‘Francis Marion’ back in the 1800s. Throw in an uneventful surname such as ‘White’ or ‘Smith’, and the field broadens rather than narrows. Sometimes documents must be browsed rather than accessed alphabetically. Sometimes there’s no index to these documents. Sometimes individual court books hold thousands of records. Also during these periods, court documents were hand-written, and sometimes it may have been late in the day and the stenographer wanted to go home, and with speed, their handwriting became atrocious.

As with many others, genealogy often goes from a past-time hobby into a full blown compulsion. Determining where to stop becomes difficult. With every generation back that one goes, the workload quadruples. Many families consisted of at least eight children in those days.

After three years of fruitless attempts in finding my maternal 3nd G grandfather, I finally discovered that my 3rd G grandmother had given birth to my 2nd G grandfather illegitimately, and that the family surname was that of his mother, rather than that of his father.

Consider, if you will, that everyone of you reading this has sixteen 2nd G grandparents. And that every one of those people is responsible for your being here.

Consider that I have successfully researched back to my 9th G grandparents in some branches. It becomes easy to see how having over 8,000 people in one’s family tree is nothing special.

I can recall one Summer day at my paternal grandmother’s house. All ten of my grandparent’s adult offspring were there – along with their spouses – and were either sitting on the front porch, or in ladder-back chairs out under the tall Willow Oaks. Over a dozen grandchildren were easily present. I recall one of my aunts talking to the others regarding my uncle’s time-consuming passion.

Finally one called out across the front yard to him, “What do you expect to find out anyhow, Tip?”

He gave a boyish grin and replied, “Aw, you don’t ever know, we might be kin to somebody rich and famous.”

I recall the hearty laughter which followed.

With that Summer day long gone, not only has my grandmother been swallowed, but her old house, my father, and all but two of his siblings, and even a few of my cousins. Soon enough, all that will remain of that day will be my memory of it.

My uncle would be vindicated, were he still alive, and all of his siblings in awe of his objectivity, for thanks to his humble quest, I have determined that everyone gathered there that day were cousins to both the rich and the famous, for instance: Coca-Cola magnate Asa Candler, along with Lem Motlow, who inherited the Jack Daniel’s Distillery. As my cousin likes to say, ‘Everytime someone has a Jack & Coke, it’s a family reunion.’

I also discovered that they were all the 7th great-grandchildren of a woman named Sally Field and her husband Thomas Jefferson – grandparents of the father of our country – who was named after his grandfather.

However, I happen to feel the closest kinship to my 5th cousin novelist William C Falkner. I wonder if he might agree that, for many people, sometimes the simple truth proves no easy story to tell.

Love Is Only For the Young

I have written only a handful of love songs. Those songs are now close to forty years old. Politics is the only subject on which I have written no song whatsoever. Music and politics should never be mixed, and if anyone wants to know why I think so, leave a comment and I’ll cover the subject in a future post.

Today however, I am writing about love. Nasty emotion, love.

Very few of us, if any, ever have the opportunity to realise it. When we are lucky enough to grasp the emotion in its pure state, it is usually in connection with our children, or lacking that, a pet, or last, and probably most rampant, with our imagination through music. I personally believe that outside of these three things, everlasting love does not exist.

It has taken me sixty-one years to figure this out. Of course, being the objective guy that I am, I could change my mind tomorrow. But I doubt it.

Perhaps when I was younger, I was too optimistic. Then again, perhaps it is just experience and age which has made me too damned cynical.

Whatever the case, I was crushed by what I identified as love at almost every point in my life. I’ll bet that most of you will agree that you too were crushed, rather than validated. I’ll also bet that every old love song brings on a wistful gaze to most, calling to mind a love that used to be.

I contend that broken hearts rule the world, not love.

In the end, most of us die with a broken heart. Either a spouse has torn us in two, having passed on before us, our friends have all disappeared, our beloved pets have long since departed, or the place in which we were born and reared no longer exists.

Life insures two things: That, having been born strapped to a dying beast, we will one day not exist; and that before this day comes, we will have our souls ripped out by someone who we will never have again.

Enjoy the now. It is truly all that we have. Today’s joys will be tomorrow’s tears.

My Thoughts Since the Passing of Walter Becker

It seems we rarely give pause in respect to the passing of time, until we reach a certain point in our lives, and only then do we regard it peripherally. Additionally we give little thought to the passing of time in the lives of others as well. Especially those figures who are of the semi high-profile sort. As much as some of us like to think that we know about what they do, in the end, we find that we know very little, and that in reality they were little more than punctuation in our own lives.

The weight of this observation didn’t hit me until this past Sunday evening as I lay in bed. I had, as one could guess, been preoccupied with listening to music the majority of the day, and had not listened to the news until switching on my radio that night.

As soon as I heard the announcer mention the name of Walter Becker, I knew what words were to follow. Walter was one whose name would rarely be mentioned in context with anything else within the past forty years. One had to know who Walter was in order for his name to be familiar.

Walter looked like the guy you’d see in the seventies, sitting outside the mall waiting for a ride. One of the most unassuming bottom-to-top-to-bottom-to-top-again success stories in modern American music, Walter lived out his life in obscurity, in plain sight.

It occurred to me that this man had lived and died within a period of 67 years, and all that I knew about him could easily fit into a thimble. Even though throughout the years, I had painstakingly reverse-engineered his guitar leads and his bass licks, and had attempted to capture his ultra clean, rich lead tones to no avail.

Had Mr Becker not partnered with Donald Fagen during college, both men may have easily faded into the backdrop which is composed of the rest of us, and aja, one of my ten favorite albums of all time would never have materialised.

With the death of Glen Campbell last month, and now that of Walter Becker, the passing of time has become all too apparent to me.

We never know when we’ve caught our last trout, or completed our last composition.

What Is True Will?

You’ll often hear ads on television and radio which promote motivational speakers. These speakers often focus on the use of ‘will power’ in order to get monumental tasks accomplished. Thousands of posters, and countless memes have been dedicated to the use of positive thought and will power.

But what is will power, and is anyone actually in possession of true will?

How many times can you recall yourself saying something to the effect of, “I’ll never do that again”, or “From now on, I’m going to______________”? But how many times did you find yourself doing ‘that’ again, or forgetting the vow you solemnly made to yourself ‘from now on’?

These sorts of shattered illusions are what expose the true measure of our will.

When I was twenty years old, I made a short list of objectives that I fully intended to accomplish by the time I was thirty. I didn’t reach any of the goals. Not a single one.

But my intentions were good, of course. It seems that we always start out with the best of intentions in whatever we endeavour to do. Right before things go straight to hell.

So for the next thirty years, I was determined to see if there was one thing in my life that I could see through from beginning to end. One thing – surely couldn’t be too terribly difficult to accomplish. What, then, was the one thing that I was certain that I could devote the rest of my life to? Well, the one thing that I valued among everything else was music. I had begun my quest as a songwriter around the same age that I’d made my list, and it is true that I had not abandoned the journey. The fact was, that I had yet to be come successful at it. My dream was to be able to play several instruments tolerably, engineer sound, and produce my own material. Bands such as Todd Rundgren and Steely Dan were huge influences in this respect.

Success is a term that is generally associated with money and being well-known, respected among one’s peers, and the like.

Nonetheless, I persevered, and although I had learned a great many things in relation to the field – I was working in a retail establishment which sold musical instruments and sound equipment – I had still to make the strides that I had intended by the time that I was forty. Often it was necessary to remind myself why I had begun in the first place.

Throughout the course of rearing two children, and working all kinds of day jobs, I redoubled my efforts to set money aside for musical gear, and recording equipment. I also set aside one hour a day to practice at my craft, this was apart and completely different from the actual playing of music, which would consume even more of the time that I had precious little of.

By the time I was fifty years old, I had become connected to my Muse, and was writing profusely. The musical path that I had begun was a bit of a surprise, but I followed my Muse wherever it led without question. I completed my studio, which I christened Good Intentions, and chose ‘Hell Paving Company’ for the name of my publishing domain. It cannot be said that I was not acquainted with the irony of it all by this time.

In 2014, I tore my studio down with the intent of erecting it in another, more suitable room of the home. All of my gear sat in a corner collecting dust for the next three years. Chronic Fatigue is a cruel mistress, and my life had been slowing to a crawl since I had contracted it in November of 2007.

Then one night last month, while lying in bed, I was listening to the 20 odd sketches of tunes that I had recorded into my Android. I stared over into the dark corner that hid all of my recording equipment.

“Starting tomorrow, I’m going to start putting my studio back together, even if it kills me.” I told myself. The task was daunting.  But I knew that if I died before getting the tunes – which the Muse was still being so charitable in supplying me with – properly recorded, I would go to hell. Hell is a completely different place for writers. I imagine it to be a place where only poorly maintained manual typewriters exist, paper is at a premium, and the thoughts come too quickly to transcribe.

Mainly, however, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving these tunes orphaned. Nobody except I had heard them, and my task was to get them recorded and give everyone else a chance to hear the wonderful imagination that the Muse is so blessed with, for you see, I do not feel that these pieces of music are mine. I have been assigned a task, and it is up to me alone to complete these pieces.

Eight days later, although my back and shoulders were killing me, the studio was together, and I found myself becoming painfully reacquainted with the plethora of cables and the routing of which I had all but forgotten.

Today I fired up all of the components, and with the exception of the ancient synthesizer, everything seems to be working. Maybe if I just jiggle the handle….

So I have discovered that perhaps there is indeed a bit of true will left inside of me at the age of 61. And that I may have, in fact, discovered the meaning of true success.

 

Overuse Of the Word ‘I’ Reaching Epidemic Proportions Worldwide

Having received more than a few inquiries from my Facebook friends and ReverbNation associates about my intermittent activity on the Internet, the following explanation is offered. As most everyone knows, these sites are capable of consuming huge hunks of time and it is with this knowledge that I have made a conscious decision to avoid the computer in order to devote all of my energy to songwriting, recording, and turning wrenches. Therefore, for the past month or so, I’ve been immersed in recording, guitar repair, and cylinder head work.

Inasmuch as the songwriting portion goes, there is, what I like to refer to as ‘passive’ songwriting. That is to say that I don’t ‘try to write’. It has become my modus operandi to simply let the music and songs come to me as they will, and the process works out rather well. Once in the ‘recording mode’, the songs just begin to filter down, and all that is left for me to do is to get onto tape what I hear in my head. That may sound somewhat esoteric and arcane, but this is simply the best way to describe it.

If I try to write, everything tends to turn out sounding redundant and contrived. This I hate. Once the process begins, however, it is something that is quite constant, and I find it more conservative in regard to total time spent to give myself over to it completely until such time that it ceases of its own accord, thus my absence from the Internet sites is duly noted and addressed.

I do like to post a blog on occasion when a subject comes to mind. It helps me keep up appearances.

A bit more on writing to those who may be interested.

A couple of weeks ago, my son was reading a piece I’d written earlier.

“You’ve used the word ‘I’ too many times,” he observed. It was humble pie directly to the face. My own advice had come back to haunt me.

“True,” I conceded, “but I was writing about me.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he continued, “you can always reword a sentence to avoid overuse. You used it six times in one sentence.”

He was right. I was identified with my subject matter and there had been a strong emotional attachment, which explained everything.

For many years now, it has been a practice of mine never to write a song in first person. To my way of thinking, this leads to no good. It also is the best way to develop writer’s block, create boring subject matter and come across as being self absorbed. When one writes in this fashion, the possibilities are immediately limited to ones’ own experiences. I don’t intend to speak for anyone else, but life has been pretty boring insofar as writing songs about me goes.

At best, all first person writing is good for is a couple of sappy love songs, and few more blues songs after the relationship has gone kaput.

Now, we all can name songs which have been written about courtship, and then there’s a couple of wedding tunes, but can anyone name a ‘We’ve Been Married Twenty Years’ song? Not too many ‘Honey, I’m Picking Up a Gallon of Milk and a Newspaper, See You at Six’, or ‘Meatloaf Serenade’ songs out there, are there?

Sure, there are songs full of promise, and tunes such as ‘I Love You More Today Than Yesterday’, but I can’t say with any amount of certainty that Dude was married when he wrote that.

This isn’t to reflect badly on marriage, it’s just that there’s such a limited amount of material there.

Unless you want to count that stupid ‘Pina Colada’ song by that guy whose name I don’t even remember.

Oh yeah. Rupert Holmes. What a dillweed.

Damn it.

Now that nonsense will be playing in my head all day long and I won’t get any work done. Sheesh. I hate that freaking song.

See why I stay off of the computer when I’m trying to write and compose?

The Mercurochrome Link to White Knuckle Gaming

That does it. I’m suing everybody for everything. Nothing is my fault and I just realised it.

I thought I was over it. The Nintendo 64 had been sitting on the shelf for years, untouched.

Sure, I’d played the 64 with my son when he was a kid. You know, why not? I had the toys, the candy bars, the paregoric, the mind-numbing Loony Tunes. I had the comic books, the Matchbox cars, and the model locomotives. Shouldn’t he have had a chance to enjoy it all, too?

So his mom bought him a Nintendo 64. The games were largely innocuous and cute: Zelda, Mario 64, Rainbow Six, Mohammad Ali Championship Boxing, Madden 98 (nothing to make him want to go out and mutilate anyone like the Black Sabbath, the Judas Priest, and Blue Oyster Cult did that I used to listen to), Aerial Assault, Star Wars… Oh…..and Mario Kart.

I looked at the dust covered gaming console too long. I remembered too much. Suddenly, I was a recovering heroin addict who was having his old drug of choice proffered to him again.

God damn Mario Kart. Images of Peach and Yoshi drifted through my mind. My blood boiled anew. I slowly reached for the device, and my palms were already moist with perspiration.

——————————————————————–

When I was a kid, we’d all be outside playing, and sometimes one of us would fall and tear part of our tender little bodies open. It was an occurrence that we all dreaded and that we would try to wish away. One day, I ripped my knee open pretty badly. All of the other kids stopped playing to assess the damage as well, and looked at me solemnly.
“Are you gonna have to go home?” they’d ask.
Another would inquire, “Do ya’ll have Merthiolate or Iodine?”
“No,” I’d answer, “all we have is Mercurochrome.” My response would send a shudder throughout the group that you could feel and see.

Mercurochrome is how I developed my four octave scream. Even today, uttering the word even makes me tingle in a way that is vaguely uncomfortable. It conjures up something dark, evil, and foreboding. Mercurochrome.

Now, any compound which has, as its root words Mercury and Chrome, can’t be too good to smear into an open wound of any organic being. But as a kid, we were all routinely dipped up to the neck in this shit.

The kid who lived across the street from me rocked incessantly and would cry when jets flew overhead.

Another who lived farther up in the neighborhood would suddenly snap and beat other children up. He’s the only twelve year old I ever knew who had the “hundred yard stare.”

Me? I had a little fling with OCD. I hid it most of the time, but I’d give it free run when I was out playing by myself. I say the same word over and over and over and over and over and over and over. I’d hold my breath and then stagger it until I got it all back in time with something that I didn’t understand. I was a slave to ADD all throughout my time in school, although I wasn’t diagnosed until I was in my forties. All of my afflictions came out in the form of art or music or mailbox bashing. I got over the bat wielding, but the effects of the Mercurochrome still make themselves apparent in my music from time to time:

http://www.reverbnation.com/johnnynowhere/song/10524830-equinox

————————————————————–

Or…..when I play Mario Kart.

And before I know it, there I go. I’m hooking up the console…desperately seeking RCA patch cables. I can’t find them after a two hour sweep of the house, and I find myself hunkered over my project bench, soldering cables up in the sweltering heat of the halogen lamp… and I know that it already has a hold on me. By God, I’m giving it to Mario Kart. Next I’m blowing in the cartridge, washing my hands, using alcohol and then talc.. getting ready.. to win. Charlie Sheen is right. It is all about winning, and my son’s ancient Nintendo 64 has shown me the way.

I go white knuckle so fast, and want to kill Toad and that stupid little lizard. As a matter of fact, I get to where I can’t stand my own driver. I’ll crash him into walls and see if he can virtually die if he pounds the wall hard enough. I hate the controller. I want to jerk the game out of my mind by the roots because I know that I’ve blown the lid off of my self-imposed moratorium and am completely re-addicted. I won’t stop until I win every course, curse every driver to hell, or hurl the controller through the television screen in total disgust.

Or until drained, I slowly rise from the couch and turn off the set and awaken from this video induced hypnotism. My God, it’s two thirty in the morning. It seems like it was just eleven a.m.

Telling myself to just unplug the game and put it away, hide it in a closet, or take the evilness to the Goodwill outlet to bait some other poor fool, I go to bed and cry myself to sleep at night.

But the console sits in the floor still. Until the next time that I look at it, and feel that shiver of excitement… and then the uncontrollable rage.

So you see.. none of this. is.. my fault.

I’m suing everybody.

Johnny Nowhere is a songwriter who is currently undergoing therapy.