I Think I'm Bleeding Inside My Chest.

Once again, it's Friday night. This week I've made the conscious decision to shut my computer and unplug from the hustle and bustle of my cyber life. Now, after one crappy movie and stellar bottle of wine, I find myself once again being all computery and stuff.
 
For whatever reason,  I can't shut my brain off these days. It's constantly on 11 (Spinal Tap reference). Work, life, world domination, it's all just swirling around in my head and I can't find any peace. Even sleeping has been difficult lately, despite exercise and the steady nightcap.

Tonight I'm bothered, and more so annoyed. As I lie here with my trusty pup Brodie, even his steady Darth Vader breathing can't calm me. As we both attempt to watch this terrible movie, I'm really trying to balance all the thoughts and feelings bouncing around my melon. Searching for some sort of clarity or center, but it's just not there.

 

 

I've not really be a fan of myself recently. No cheers for me, especially over the past few weeks. I worry that I've become emotionally needy, but I think I'm really just trying to distract myself from getting to the bottom of a few issues. I already spilled my gut (wait for it… ba dump dump) earlier this week, and even though it hasn't put a complete stop to my 'Dead Man Walking' jokes, I do feel somewhat better.

With that said, maybe it's time I approach another hot button topic with the same sort of honesty. Yep, that's right, my age.

I make a lot of comments about my age, especially since I'm fortunate and spend the majority of my time with people that are quite a bit younger than me. I make stupid jokes about hip replacements and peeing frequently, to which everyone responds, 'stop it, you're not old'. '35 isn't old'.

Well, early to mid 20's person, you're right - to some degree. But, I saw The Goonies, Top Gun, Ghostbusters, and the original Star Wars trilogy in the theater. So, already, we're a lifetime apart.




Am I struggling with getting older? Hells yes, I am.

Some folks get older and focus on regrets, things they didn't do, or things they should of done differently. Not me. I'm pretty happy with my journey thus far. To be honest, in a lot of ways, each year has been better then the last. While my appearance is a little different (less goobery, a few wrinkles, the added wisdom and strength of a damn Jedi), most folks will tell you that I haven't changed all that much over the years. Some would say not at all.

So, why? Why do I seem to be going kicking and screaming further into adulthood? Simple really. It's because I'm moving closer to death.

(insert Debbie Downer sound clip)


I think most people that know me, whether casually or more in depth, would probably say that I'm a laid back guy. While I am learning to live more in the moment, I've spent the majority of my life living for what's to come. Maybe it's a specific event, an overall goal, or maybe it's just a summer of awesome movies to get excited about. Regardless, I'm a dreamer. A dreamer that's now trying to co-exist with a realist, also me. Even though I've grown more comfortable living in the moments, I still experience anxiety about those moments ending.

A few posts ago, I talked a little about how the death of a parent at a young age can affect you. The affects aren't obvious at first, but with a little digging, they start to seep up to the surface.

My dad was older when he had me, but still, he had just turned 61 when he passed. I was 12. As my mother continues reaping the rewards of great genetics and drinking glasses of water poured from the fountain of youth, the death of my dad has psychologically put an expiration date on my life.

In my mind, it's not a matter of if I'll get cancer, but when. Dad was treated for a year with back pain, while the true culprit went unnoticed and untreated. I'm really not that afraid of dying, but I am afraid of dying like that.

In a lot of ways, I'm not much different then the folks that believe the Mayan calendar signals the end of the world in 2012. Compounded with this countdown to 61, is the fact that time is indeed moving by quickly. Memories of my teenage years are now 20 years old, and I have 30 year relationships with those I grew up with. Damn. I just can't process how recent my memories feel in relation to the length of time that has passed. I don't want or wish for those times again. However, my heart aches when I look in the rearview mirror and see those times continuing to fade in the distance. Much like leaving a loved one after a visit, even though they may annoy the crap out of you.

A lot of people will never read this post, but for those friends and family that do, please don't be afraid of me. I'm aware this is sorta dark. If anything, writing this forces a bit of accountability for me. Don't get me wrong, I'm totally okay with annoying all of you, just not myself.

Senior Chubby Stilts

After weeks of a lingering head cold, I finally decided that today was the day I call the doctor. Not that I don't like going to the doctor, I actually do. I just figured with the right amount of Nyquil, Advil, Thera-flu, and Jack Daniels, that I could just ride this puppy on out. It was not to be.

After an early morning plea for help, I finally get a call from the nurse to let me know that if I show up in next 15 minutes, they can work me in. No time to debate. 'Yes m'am' I said, grabbing my coat and scarf as I slid down the Batpole and made my way to the Batmobile.

Rolling toward Vanderbilt, I start to feel a bit nervous. I didn't think it was cancer, however, I always worry about that. I wasn't even concerned about the shot I was about to get. Hell, I was requesting that. No, the since of dread that was slowly overtaking me came from the fear of knowing that I had to step on the scale. More so, what that scale would say.

I'm not sure what's worse. Those digital scales, or the manual ones. You know, the ones where they just keep moving those damn little weights over until they have enough lead to balance you out. Well, my vote goes for the manual one. As I try for a moment to convince myself that my scarf weighs 25 pounds, I can feel the foundation starting to shake under my home of self confidence. I'm straining to hold it up, like that time that Superman pushed Lex Luthor's island hideout into space. However, I'm weak, and lack of self confidence is my kryptonite.

You hear a lot of talk regarding the negative affects of body image on females. Well, us males have feelings too. Especially someone like me that was raised by his mother.

Leaving the doctor's office, I immediately begin to feel 17 again. Okay, more like anytime between the years of 13 and 21.

As a rule, I try to make a conscious effort to not be self depreciating. It's not always easy and sometimes it's just damn near impossible. However, I know that people don't care to hear it, and it doesn't make them feel attracted to you. I will admit to going fishing a time or two for compliments. But, who doesn't though, right?

To take a step back, my mom is one of the most beautiful women ever. Check out this amazing picture. Homecoming queen 1957. It looks like something out of a movie. Still, as pretty as she was, she still struggled with self-confidence issues. To some degree, I think it does start there, with the parent. It may not be genetic, but I think it is passed down.

Let's be clear though. I wasn't blessed with my mother's beauty. That's just a fact. When my prepubescent years began, I was sporting acne, slumped shoulders, and what folks referred to as a bird chest. As I went into high school, my head got bigger and my body got skinnier. At that point, I just started to just retreat and take up residence in my head. When I did ask a girl out, it became more like an event. Oh the stories I can tell.

I think some of this relates to my previous post. I began to find/create self confidence in my music. But, in the end, those two became closely intertwined, resulting in negative effects on both my self confidence and my music.

 Several years after high school however,  I decided that I was done being skinny and I went on an eating tirade. This was probably about the time my metabolism started to slow, and I gained 80 pounds in one year. Sounds scary, eh? Well, after being skinny all my life, I was feeling great. I wasn't 'bird chest' anymore. It wasn't until I started seeing pictures of myself, that I realized my perception was not quite reality.

Ironically, I was feeling self confident. However, the reality was that I probably looked the worst I'd ever looked. I even had sort of a mullet. The time had come where I needed to find balance. For the next 5 years I consistently worked out, and when I hit 30, I was probably in the best physical, mental, and emotional shape of my life. All this even culminated in my first half marathon, which was no easy feat for me.

After the half marathon, I managed to keep up my running throughout the next year. I was really happy, not to mention confident. While training for the half marathon the following year, I couldn't fight a pain in my hip and ended up in a place I know all to well - physical therapy. They love me there, but that's another story.



Since then, I've failed at getting back in a regular exercise routine. I've been close, don't get me wrong, but I haven't been able to gain traction.

Despite some weight gain, I've generally felt pretty good about myself over the past year. However, the elevator ride down from the Doctor's office to the parking garage paralleled the feeling of my spirit spiraling toward the gutter.



I guess we're all fighting certain external forces that have shaped who we are. Some are traumatic, some are subtle. Some are genetics, and some are baggage handed down from generation to generation. Sometimes, just recognizing and accepting these things for what they are can be the first step in moving past them.

All that said, I don't want to call my shot, but I'm looking at being ready for a certain event this Spring. I'll keep you posted. Lots of work to do.

'That makes me sad, Brad' - Well, your mom makes me sad.

I hear this a lot. It's the response I get when folks ask me if I'm still playing music and I say 'no'.


Those of you who have met me in the last few years may not know this, but I'm a recovering musician. I did the obligatory piano as a kid, then moved on a brief stint with the trumpet. (FYI - that trumpet was mercifully destroyed by a car that hit me in the 7th grade. Supposedly the trumpet kept my legs from breaking, nonetheless, there was a certain band teacher that was happy to be done with me.)

After that, I played bass and guitar before settling on the Dobro for about the next 20 years. I was never as good as I wanted to be, but I did play professionally for about 10 of those years. I'm also the first Dobro student to graduate from Belmont University. Most likely the whole world. Pretty self indulgent, yes?

I got to do lots of traveling, and I had the opportunity to play with lots of amazing musicians. I also spent 3 years working on a transcription novella for Dobro master Jerry Douglas, which was an amazing challenge and honor. It also made me never want to hear Dobro again. Like, ever.

Are you feeling sad yet? Well don't. I don't play anymore, and I'm the happiest and the most comfortable with myself that I've ever been. Now, coming to terms with the fact that the dreams I chased didn't make me happy was one of the hardest things I've ever had to except.  But, when I finally did, it brought a lot of peace.

I think there are several reasons that fed my passion to play. Some that were genuine, and some that maybe were not. It does take a healthy dose of valid desire to dedicate the hours that I've put in.  To give perspective, I rarely practiced less than 4 hours a day in the two decades that I played, and there were a lot of periods where I played 6-8 hours a day.

To be completely honest, part of my passion for playing stems from a basic need of feeling acceptance; a desire to be noticed. Ask any girl I went to middle and high school with - I looked like Rock-A-Doodle, but with acne and not those weird Rooster muscles. I needed to create a story for myself, and it worked. I started to find a niche.

I also connected the death of my dad to my career path. In the months before he passed, he repeatedly told me and my mom that he wasn't going to be around much longer, but that I was supposed to have a career in music. It's nice to romanticize that, but the reality is, he may not have known what the hell he was talking about. I do have a career in music though, as an artist manager. (insert Twilight Zone music).

There was much more than superficiality to my music, however. The Dobro possesses a soulfulness and vocal quality that truly connected with me.  I needed a voice - a way to express my emotions. While I didn't always have the technique, my expressiveness on the instrument was my greatest strength. When I played my best, it was often filled with memories and emotions that are mine alone, and ones that I hold to dearly.

Over the years that I played, I began to connect myself to the instrument so much that how I played, or thought that I played, affected my self-esteem. It infected me like a virus. If people didn't think I played well, then I figured they just wouldn't like me as much. Ego and insecurity became a factor, and I began to feel uncomfortable and inferior around other musicians.

If that wasn't enough, the reality was that I loved being a student of the instrument, and I loved to express my feelings through music. However, the life of a professional musician didn't quite fit my soul. There are major sacrifices. Sacrifices that worked against the grain of my heart, and no matter how hard I tried to resist, I couldn't.

As I have grown older, my perspectives have, and continue to change.  Now, at age 35 (holy shit), I've found other ways to express myself. In addition, I've grown comfortable in this skin that for years felt awkward.  I love music, but I also love many other things. Things that perhaps I've neglected or attached guilt to since I was a kid.

I"m enjoying this stage of my life, and I'm also loving music again. The way that I did before I started playing. If you know me well, then you know that everything reminds me of an episode of the show 'Wings'. This is no exception.

In the show, Helen Chapel, (who ran the lunch counter at the airport), dedicated her life to playing the cello.  She constantly auditioned, only to have her hopes crushed every time. At one point, she finally decided to give up the cello. The first morning after this decision, she comes into work so happy. She describes to the Hackett brothers how she got up that morning and took a walk on the beach, and for once she didn't feel guilty about not practicing. It's been about 18 years since that aired and I've never forgotten that moment. I've never forgotten it because I knew exactly what she was talking about.

Don't cry for me, Argentina. I'm doing just fine. Hell, I got 5 stars on the DJ Jazzy Jeff 'Rock The Bells' mix on DJ Hero. Expert level, bitches.

I know you are, but what am I?

It's Friday night, and I'm volleying between playing DJ Hero** and watching Bill Cosby 'Himself', the 1983 stand-up routine from one of comedy's masters. It's amazing that I thought this was funny when I was a kid, b/c I really didn't understand a lot of the humor. But, Bill did 'Picture Pages', 'Fat Albert', and the 'Cosby Show', so naturally - just seeing Bill Cosby was funny to me.

(**fyi - I'm a DJ Hero bad-ass)

I've neglected my blog for awhile now, often posting some videos instead of actually challenging myself to write. As you can tell from the title of the blog, it's not a place where seriousness takes a front seat. If I'm not writing about Fred Dryer, or pretending to write for The Onion - then I'm not sure what to write about sometimes. (By the way, according to Google Analytics, the blog about Charlie Daniels is the most popular of all time.)

I live inside my head, and although it's strange place up there, it's where I'm most comfortable. Sometimes I think I need to just bust out, like that blow up ramp on an airplane that they deploy in an emergency landing. I imagine myself sliding down to join the real world, and freeing myself from the little tin tube with wings that is my brain. 

I try too hard, and if I'm going to write more often, then maybe I should be more open from time to time about what I'm thinking. Quirky or not.

That said, here we go…

Dropped my iphone yesterday. It was sorta like a word problem for advanced high school students. The formula for complete destruction of an iphone is, the velocity (x) divided by the distance (y) is then multiplied by the constant (blah, blah, blah). I suck at math, by the way. Nevertheless, it was ugly.  Really ugly. 

It's weird what things trigger certain memories. Tonight, I'm thinking about my dad. More specifically, the time he bought a new Volkswagon, only to back it into the riding lawnmower the next morning. Pretty funny actually.

For those that don't know, my dad passed away when I was 12 years old. Just months after the above incident. Also, if you don't know. That's been 22 years ago.

Over the past few years, I've had several friends lose their fathers. Such a terrible loss that I can't even imagine. Even though I lost my dad to cancer, I don't feel that I relate at all. Losing a parent at a young age is devastating, but I think it effects you in a different way then losing one later in life. 

I don't think about my dad very often, although it's fascinating how the loss constantly lives under the surface. Even more fascinating, is when it chooses to reveal itself. In truth, I can write several blogs about this, maybe even a book. Okay, okay - definitely a lengthy essay. But, I'll keep this short.

Just so happened, that dropping my phone and having it shatter to pieces reminded me of the time the old man crashed our new car within 12 hours of buying it. That got me thinking… too bad I didn't know him. It just maybe, that what some people call 'Brad stories', are really just a result of genetics - passed down from father to son. I can't help but wonder what else we have in common?

I compare it to how the Stormtrooper in Star Wars bumped his head on a doorway, so in Episode II you saw their 'dad, Jango Fett, bump his head on the Slave I. Okay, geek tangent. 

If my dad were here, I imagine he'd tell you about the time he bought a little boat for our pond so that he could fish, not realizing that it had a hole in it. Not until he was in the middle of the pond and sank that is. As for me, well - I'd probably counter that by talking about the time I crashed a mini-bike into an above ground swimming pool, thus flooding my neighbors yard. 

Yes, that happened...

(Knock knock) Who's there? Shake Weight...

Ever since I bought my FLIP cam at the beginning June, posts with words have been replaced with a series of self indulgent videos. Well, I guess the Apache promos have some work relevance. Eh, a little.

As Fall approaches, I'm challenging myself to write more. What does that mean for you, the reader? Well, it's back to the same sort of random poo spew that is Ghost Cockroach. Oh, and there will still be videos.

It's been a pretty amazing summer. And, given the fact that it's October and still 90 degrees outside, I'd say Summer is still kicking ass pretty hard. I'm very thankful for the friends, family, demolition derby's, ghost hunts, stunt driving, Jon Bon Jovi concerts, and great trips to NOLA, Chicago, and NYC that have have filled my calendar.

Maybe I'll go back and write about my adventures, or maybe I'll blog about Streethawk, and compare it to Knight Rider and Blue Thunder. Oh, that sounds like a good idea.

Until then, I leave you with another video. No description required.

NAPS: The Complete Series

NAPS 3.0 and 3.5