Today...

A friend of mine tweeted one word. "Today..." She doesn't know it, but it's perfect.

Today, I have no funny.
Today, a friend lies in a bed.
Today, cancer has taken him to the end of his journey.
Today, the priest read his last rites.
Today, he likely will not make it to walk his daughter down the aisle.
Today, his bed is in the same hospital in which my son was born.
Today, he might cross over.

Today, I will not focus on work. I'll get some things done, but I'm not really "here".
Today, I will hold Wifefish and Little Danger a little longer, a little tighter.
Today, I will be grateful for every day my mother has cheated Death.
Today, I will hold on to thoughts of a good man, as if to preserve what I have of him perpetually.
Today, I know that every time I'm at the lake, I will have a shot of Jaeger in his name.
Today, all the things that normally cloud my mind seem unimportant.

Today, let's all look at someone and tell them how grateful we are that they share our lives.
Today, let's all think about doing something extaordinary.
Today, let's all be kind to one another.
Today, let's smile at the people on the street, and bid them a good day.

Tomorrow is another day, and let's all make it better than
Today.

Les Miser-rants

Did I mention I’m a theatre nerd? No? Well, I’m a theatre nerd. I learned how to sing by exercising my pipes along to “Phantom of the Opera” and “Jesus Christ Superstar.” I proposed to Wifefish during a curtain call of “Into the Woods”. To date, I’ve been involved in just under 80 shows, either on stage or working tech. I loves me some theatre, and I loves me some musicals.

You can imagine my excitement when Wifefish DVR’d the 25^th anniversary Les Miserables. I was stoked…I’ve always loved the show, and I hope one day to portray Javert. His songs are right in my sweet range, a nice baritone.

Watching the show, I was amazed at the quality of the vocalists they’d gathered. The man playing Jean Valjean (Alfie Boe) was simply astonishing, and his voice carries purity both when tender and when pounding out a power note that shakes the rafters.

The ensemble was just amazingly talented, all the way around the board. There were some cuts and omissions, but they were done with an eye to the extras at the end, which were truly phenomenal. This is a fantastic “concert style” production of the show, an absolute treat to hear and see.

And yet, this is a rant. So there must have been something about this masterpiece of musical magic that mauled my mental faculties, yes? Oh, yes.

OK, here’s my problem. Imagine you’re the producer of this event. You have a magical, wonderful cast singing some powerful music derived from a literary masterpiece. You’re celebrating 25 years of the show’s success. You have some of the best talent ever assembled. And for some inexplicable reason, you think it’s a good idea to give the role of Marius to Nick Jonas.

I have one rule of musical theatre. If I see a professional show, I want the players to be at least as good as I am, which believe me doesn’t set the bar very high. Our boy Jonas does not fit the bill. If you’re a Jonas fan, just click the red X now, because the Dangerboy rant train is comin’ on down the track.

Nick sucked. There was not a single person on the stage who could not have done a better job in the role, and I’m including the little girl who sang as young Cosette. Jonas has a thin, nasally pop voice. It stuck out like a sore dick. In duets he was completely overwhelmed, more over his head than if he’d been in the Trieste. He was perfectly suited for a community theatre production of the show, but no more than that.

The show has a history of bringing pop stars to the stage, including Debbie Gibson and Cyndi Lauper. They, however, had talent. Jonas spends his time gazing at the ceiling as if the lyrics were printed there, a look of perpetual constipation on his face.

I completely facepalmed, though, when the cameras caught him mouthing Valjean’s words along with him. I have taught high schoolers who knew better. It was appalling.

Riker and Picard reenacting the reaction of Wifefish and I.

Nick was unable to sustain any notes whatsoever, and strained to hit with any power at all, singing with little to no diaphragm. Empty Chairs was exceptionally poignant, given that his vocals on it emptied the chairs in my living room as we went for drinks.

Ordinarily, I cannot watch Eponine’s death without shedding tears. Unfortunately, with Jonas singing it, I was too distracted to have any kind of emotional attachment. I wanted to see it spiced up, perhaps with an emu death squad.

Eponine takes cover as the Emus rectify a hideous casting decision.

Still, I bash the performance, and not the singer. (To be fair, every time he hit a falsetto note, it was quite lovely.) I sincerely hope that Jonas understands how pitifully overwhelmed he was and honors the opportunity to stand in a cast with true greatness. We can be pulled up by those better than us, but only when we recognize that they are, and attempt to emulate, or at least honor, what it is that they exemplify.

I can recall a similar time in my life, when I was drumming with Micky Hart, Giovanni Hidalgo, Leon Mobley, and some other absolutely amazing drummers in the biggest drum circle I’ve ever participated in. I was a Lilliputian amongst a tribe of Gullivers. I may never drum as well as I did that day, letting those giants pull me along on their rhythms.

Sadly, though, I can’t help but feel ripped off watching young Nick learn the lesson. He was cast for his name, I think, so the DVD could have a "big name" on the back. Hence the irk. I wanted to have a product I could enjoy and buy the Blu-ray, and instead I need to pop in the CD’s of the “Complete Symphonic” version of years ago to cleanse my mental palate.

Maybe one day I’ll attain that dream role, and get to play Javert. And on that day, maybe someone will rant about how much I stink up the joint. But I swear by all that is musical, if I don’t outperform Nick I will summon the emu death squad myself. At least the curtain call would be memorable!

5 Things I think, Apr 25

1) I think Easter was a mixed bag this year. Little Danger cut his first tooth, but Wifefish was down on the couch with some sort of stomach nasty, and missed Easter dinner. I saved her some ham, but the cheesy potatoes are MINE!!!

2) I think that having two friends in hospice sucks balls. One has led a long, full, remarkable life. The other was working on doing so, and won't be with us half as long.

3) Because of #2, I think that it is important for us to live while we can, because nobody gets out of this alive. Death is but a heartbeat away, and each moment borrowed from it is a blessing. I think that even though I know this and preach it, I've fallen short of embracing it for too many days. I think you should take a little time today, as I will, to just love.

4) I think it has rained for most of April. Legend speaks of a yellow ball of warmth in the sky, but I have no physical proof of this. At current, if I turn my face to the sky, it gets wet. I have watched small animals line up two by two, look at a calendar, and walk off forlorn as they realize they are several thousand years too late for that specific boat.

5) I think I like the lighting I added to the bar this weekend. I put some blue and green LED's on the back bar shelves, and now the bottles seem to glow. It's very Vegas in the Pyrate Pub.

Hope everyone had a good holiday!

Friday Quickie

Well, Friday has arrived, in a week I thought might collapse from its own weight before it could manage the task. It's been a rough one for Dangerboy, as I caught Little Danger's cold and had a few unsavory surprises try to bite down on my wallet. This is never a smile-making combination.

Speaking of Little Danger, he continues to be a master at what I call Baby Cuddle Therapy, and also Baby Giggle Therapy. These things keep whatever crap the world is throwing at me from being too overwhelming. I am not looking forward to teething, which may in fact negate my Therapy sessions for a bit. Or if I'm existential, will afford him some Daddy Cuddle Therapy, or perhaps some duct tape and ceiling fan adventures.

Yesterday's Giggle Therapy session involved our cat. Little Danger was bouncing in his exersaucer as I was sitting on the couch, watching something unimportant on the television during Daddy day. The cat came up and sat in my lap, and Little Danger loved this. He started bouncing and giggling. I scratched the cat's head, as I am wont to do. More giggles.

I stopped petting the cat. Little Danger put on his best Stay Puft face and expressed his displeasure. "AAAHHHHBBBBAAAHHHH!!!", he said.

Little Danger's "Unhappy" face
(It should be noted that we have not ever, nor will we have ever, shot him with a proton pack.)

I pet the cat again. Instant giggles and dancing, and baby-frenzy hand flailing. Stopped petting; instant displeasure. Started petting again; instant giggles. This went on for 20 minutes, in which I called Wifefish on her cell so she could hear it. I guess he loves the cat.

In other news, I've got new fiction up at http://dangerfiction.blogspot.com/
This is likely the last Lum for a while, as I have some more Dark Heresy to catch up on.

Wifefish helped me put up a Facebook page for the blog, so you can like it if you want to! I'm still struggling with putting a "like button" here, my efforts thus far have resulted in empty gadget boxes. Perhaps if I wasn't a Neanderthal when it came to webcoding. (Seriously, watching me try to figure out layouts and gadgets is like an episode of Captain Caveman.)

And I suppose I would be remiss if I didn't wish all of you who celebrate it a Happy Easter! May your chocolate bunnies be tasty, and your eggs colorful!

Dangerboy out!

Burn It!

There are a few topics I don’t cover here. I don’t get into politics on this blog, mainly because I despise both sides of the aisle in equal measure. I haven’t gotten into religion, because faith is one of those items that are intensely personal, and tend to make people judgmental.

Today, we’re going to touch on item two.

It may surprise nobody to discover that I am somewhat eclectic on my own personal path of faith. I don’t really subscribe to one faith over any other, and I’ve stood in worship with a wide and diverse range of people. I’ve known followers of Buddhism, Catholicism, Baptism, Santeria, Ifa, Wicca, Asatru, Judaism, Kabbalism, Gnosticism, Hindu, Islam, Shamanism, and probably a lot more I just never asked about. Most of them have been pretty OK people. Reading about world religions is a bit of a hobby of mine.

That being said, I’ve never met a Satanist that wasn’t a shithead. I’ve met a small handful. Shitheads all. I think it’s that whole “me first, fuck the rest of you” attitude that I just don’t like. Maybe there’s a nice Satanist or two out there, but I’ve never met them.

A kinder, gentler Satanist

With that preamble, let me tell you a story involving two such individuals with an abundance of excrement replacing grey matter in their cranial cavities.

***

There’s a retreat of sorts that I attend regularly, in which all faiths are welcome. At times it’s a science forum, at times a hippie party; sometimes it is reverent and there is true holiness, sometimes it’s just a bunch of people hanging out in the woods of a nature sanctuary. One of my favorite shrines on this land is called “Thunderdome”, so named because it is a dome structure in which there are drum circles and dancing, hence the thunder.

The Thunder Shrine, back in the '90s

Imagine if you will a fire, surrounded by people dancing their spirits, surrounded again by 40 or so drummers with various rhythm instruments, all communicating through sound and dance. It’s a little slice of awesome.

There’s an etiquette there…a way that the people move and interact and speak, respecting the space, whatever each person holds holy, and each other. Sort of Primal Polite. There’s firetenders, an “O” zone where the dancers move around the fire in a circle, the drummers, then another zone of dancers that tend to dance in place, then finally the observers…those who chill out and watch and chat at the edges. It’s a sort of spontaneous ritual, a primal sort of event that takes the mind back to days before civilization. Fortunately, it’s only a temporary retreat, and I can drive home afterwards in an air conditioned car and take a hot shower.

Some years ago, before I was any good as a drummer, some of the “big dogs” of drum had seen something they liked in me and taken me under their wings. They taught me rhythms, and at times when the jam was laid back, they played just *this* much beyond my skill level, daring me to join them. I did. They smiled through my mistakes, and encouraged me to be more.

They were known by names they’d chosen: Raphael, Freedom, and others. They had skill and passion. And luckily for me, they had patience and a teaching spirit. I repay them now by playing as they did, and by teaching as they did. But one night long ago, I was able to repay them with laughter.

***

I don’t know what bad movie these two kids had watched before hand, but they entered the Dome looking like villain extras from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. They appeared to be 18 or so. One had a goat-headed walking stick that he thumped on the ground in 4/4, keeping time with the jam. (Sculpture, not a real goat head.) They both wore dark robes and black hats, which maybe wouldn’t seem out of place, save that they wore their discomfort with just as much darkness. They looked like they would Smell Like Teen Spirit. I’ve seen a lot of people in that space in a lot of different clothes and costumes, but I’ve never seen two stand out like such sore thumbs.

Heads down, looking through their eyebrows like drunken Irishmen, they moved into the dancer’s circle in the opposite direction of the rest, plowing through happy dancers like a pair of icebreakers through frozen straits. The goatstick thumped. The boys glared. The dancers were disrupted, and the etiquettes thrown out the window.

Raphael and I traded looks. He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion, his hands never missing the beat.

The boys were not finished with their “Look At Me” dance. In a place where even they could have been welcome to participate, they chose to metaphorically piss in the punch bowl. They began to chant.

“In the first generation we were Beelzebub, in the second generation we were Hasatan…”

On they went, people recoiling from them so suddenly that they left a visible wake. I looked again to Raphael and Dana, and saw their jaws clench. The two Satanists had gotten to their 6^th generation, and I pitched my voice as years of theatre had taught me to do.

“In the 7^th generation you were smoking crack.” A few titters of laughter answered me.

“In the 8^th generation you needed a snack.” More smiles, more laughter. The dancers began to press back in, their wake filling in.

“In this generation, you don’t know Jack!” I was rewarded with laughter from the Big Dogs. The boys kind of lost their shit, and moved out of the center. We thought they were done for the evening, laughter defeating their attempt to do something eeeeevil.

Their rebellion, and thus our entertainment, was not over yet.

It bears mentioning that this particular retreat exercises a clothing optional policy for those who desire to more directly commune with nature. The devilboys came back into the Dome, having exercised the option, the one still holding his goatstick. (For the record, I don’t exercise the option.)

I swear, I have never seen two more pathetic visions of manhood. It wasn’t cold out, but these two looked like they should be yelling “I was in the pool!!” a la George Castanza.

Seriously, I’m not a “size matters” kind of guy, but I immediately formed a likely false opinion of what kind of inadequacy drives someone to embrace Satanism. In later life, these two would certainly want to drive red sports cars and wear comb-overs. But for now, they were just being silly little shits.

Wee Willy Winky and Mini Goatstick continued to parade around the fire, two jackasses flailing their disproportionate manberries about willy-nilly. Raphael began his own silly little chant, saying “burn it” every time the goatstick boy passed in front of us. A testament to the power of stupid, the young disciple of the dark one began to slow in his gyrations, staring deep into the fire.

“Burn it” Raphael said. A long, glass eyed look at the stick.

“Burn it.” A longer, glass eyed look at the fire.

“Burn it.” He raised the stick, looking at the goat head.

“Burn it.” Back to the fire. Glassy eyes. Maybe they’d smoked a bit of the ganja?

“Burn it.” He began to proffer the stick to the fire, brandishing it in front of him like a talisman of old.

And then some jackhole played a drum riff that sounded way too close to the signal to stop, and half the drummers dropped out suddenly, creating an auditory train wreck. The rhythm fell apart. Goatstick boy snatched his hand back from in front of him, and made a beeline for the exit, his partner in crime hot on his heels.

They didn’t come back.

***

I heard yesterday that Raphael is in declining health, the end of his journey nearing. He’s still hanging around, and I still honor the lessons he taught me. Like so many of those that touch our lives, I intend to hold his memory close to me after he exits this world. For me, it will be every time I drum.

But every now and then, I’ll catch somebody being an asshole, holding their own proverbial goatstick. And I’ll remember that night standing next to Raph, laughing at two who wanted so badly to embody selfishness. I’ll remember how we defeated that with laughter, and I’ll have two words for any purveyor of prickitude.

Burn it.

So very nice...

It's so very nice to be loved.

The quite fantastic The Onion over at A Lot of Layers gifted me with this super sweet award. Go check her out, she's pretty damn cool.

According to the rules, as all of these awards have rules, I am supposed to share 3 things I like about myself.

1) My bout with depression notwithstanding, I have a positive outlook. When confronted with the unknown, I can typically land on my feet and, for the most part, stay optimistic. Home improvement also does not count here.

2) I am constantly learning. I refuse to stop and think "I already know all of that." There is more to know. More to do.

3) I have no idea who won whatever reality TV show you'd like to name. No clue. I like this. I do, however, know what happened at Wolf 359, what an Aqualish is, what frak, dren, and frell mean, and how good you can look in a very cunning hat. Just sayin'.

Now I'm supposed to give this award to X number of blogs, but as usual, I'm going to cheat. Go look at who I follow on my profile, they're all entertaining, and a big mix of subjects. Read their awesome blogs, then come hurry back...I miss you when you're gone.

Five Things I Think, Apr 18.

1) I think I'm elated that tax day is here. Granted, it means a walk to the post office to drop off my local return, but the crazy time is now over. Let us peasants rejoice.

2) I think I may be a bit rusty at poker...played a tourney this weekend and was knocked out way early. To be fair, I think the winner of said tourney was using the Force, or perhaps some sort of teleportation device that replaced whatever the River was going to be with the exact card she needed. Note to self: must browse Acme catalog for my own.

3) I think I'm 2 followers shy of my first goal...I have also joined Studio 30+, a blog gathering place for bloggers who are thirtysomethings like me. I'm hoping to learn a few tricks and tips.

4) I think I'm sore enough that there is a shadow me in an alternate universe that is composed entirely of the electrical signals my nerve endings are sending to my brain. Said "otherme" is called Ouch Man. After a full day of hardcore foam fighting (I will explain this soon, I promise), I then went home and broke ground on half the new garden plot by hand, because the lawn not-so-politely told the tiller we rented to fuck off. It didn't have nice things to say to the shovel, either, which is why only half is done. I can't stand a lippy lawn.

5) I think you can find something horribly disgusting and endearingly cute at the same time. Little Danger has either a head cold or allergies, but whatever it is he recently sneezed the entire contents out of his nasal passages to rest on his face, and then looked at me as if to say "What the fuck just happened, Daddy?", with a mucus goatee as if he were the evil version of himself, reimagined by Nickelodeon circa 1985. I may have broken a land speed record for tissue retrieval. I may have been laughing the whole time. I may also have felt sorry for him in equal measure.