. . . I suck. At least at this blogging thing lately. Hopefully today, I will suck a little bit less.Ya see, I haven't been resting on my ever-expanding laurels. I've been busy. For the last 353 days I've been getting up early -- 5:30am early. And pounding the keys. Most days it came out jibberish. Occasionally, the monkeys in my brain were able to string together enough syllables, and I gave birth.Okay, a manifesto it ain't. But earth-shaking revelations aside, it's more than 200 pages of bluster and 'tude from a custy photog with a really cool handle.
I ain't telling you all this to so that you'll rush out and order these slick sheets of bathroom stationary. (Hell, I still gotta find someone who thinks it's worth the trouble of wasting all that ink to mass produce this turd.) It's more an explanation and an apology for leaving you in a lurch without your recommended daily allowance of fecal matter.Wish I had better news. Now it's time to edit this bitch. Probably gonna have to throw it away and start over. Shit!
I've always said it's the little things that make life worth living. The smile on the face of a kid with an ice cream, a sarcastic comment from a friend when you're taking things a bit too seriously, a friend's hand on your shoulder when you're about to lose your shit.
Last night, Mrs. Polisher proved that again. It ain't easy living with a crusty old fart like me. Don't believe me, just ask her. I can be a real pain in the ass when I want to -- even when I don't. But Mrs. P has put up with me for more that 20 years now. Through the early years when I didn't have two pennies to rub together. Through the years when I took this crazy game of TV too seriously. Through the dark months after Hurricane Kartina when I lived every horror story I covered.
Through the missed meals, dates, holidays, and anniversaries that go with this goofy line of work. And late arrivals at the boy's baseball games. The nights alone while I was on a private jet winging my way to and from football games. The endless assignments that canceled trips to see the folks back home.
And after all of that, she still puts up with me. Some days she even likes me. And she shows it through the little things she does. Cooking dinner almost every night. Washing my smelly clothes after a day chasing calamity. Dragging the little loaf-pinchers to-and-fro. And thinking of me even in the most peculiar places.
Yesterday I came home to another one of those little things that remind me how lucky I am.With SwampAss Season under way, here's hoping the STW in your life can find an industrial sized bottle of Anti-MonkeyButt powder of your own. I ain't sharing mine. It's special.
After my experience with the foul-mouthed crowd of people who call themselves musicians these days, I thought it would be a while before taking in another concert. But as a dad with teen-agers who live for guitar licks and drum solos, it was not meant to be. This weekend, the little loaf pinchers drug me to Baton Rouge's answer to Jazz Fest. A weekend of free music in the streets of downtown.The handsome dude pounding the skins is the Littlest Loar-Pincher. He and his band, High Voltage, took the kids stage for a four-song set. At 13, he's the old man of the group. The singer rings in at the tender age of 11.They're part of Baton Rouge Music Studio'sYoung Band Development Program. A chance for young musicians to shine outside their school band program. Besides music, the kids get a taste of what it's like to be in a band. Rehearsals, conflicts, communication, everything but the seedy dives and broken-down vans. And there's no greasy manager trying to rip them off.What's in their song set? Metallica? Disturbed? Kanye? Brittney Spears? Nah, these kids go in for the classics. Stuff written before they were even a thought. hell, I was barely older than an embryo when this stuff was written. But The Beatles are timeless.
Nothing I can say can top the video. Imagine being the photog who had to make this call. Maybe 'slinger can come up with something poetic about this situation, but every time I watch it, it just gives me the willies.
Wonder if he's still got a job or just getting the suits for that furlough plan they concocted to save a little dough?
The last time I went to a rock concert, Ozzy was recovering from rabies. That doesn't mean this old turd can't rattle his brain with the best of them. So I piled Krusty and a couple teens into the Turd-Brown Taurus and headed south to what was billed as a celebration of heavy metal lifestyle.I always thought of head-banging as more of a quick way to get a headache than a lifestyle, but hey, I'm game. So we crowded the lot of the arena with several thousand like-minded live music fans to get down with the sickness. After all, this is the Music As a Weapon tour featuring Disturbed.I'm not sure what happened to music on my way to middle age, but it's changed . . . and not for the better.
Back in the seventies, The Who set the record for the loudest concert in history -- 131 decibels if my aging memory serves me correctly -- and you could still understand the lyrics. And the only four-letter words you ever heard were "rock" and "roll." Today, rock shows are about distorted noise and demonic hollering. And lead "singers," if you can call them that, fling f-bombs around like beads off a Mardi Gras float.Rock and roll used to be about music, lyrics, showmanship, and women. . . Okay, it was about women.Today it's about beating the crap out of total strangers.Women included. At least Krusty had the good sense to stay out of the pit, though he did body surf to the stage and slap hands with some dude with dreadlocks and a microphone.
Rock and Roll used to be about rebellion. Individuality. And the contact high you could get walking past the door to the arena.Yesterday, I saw more thinning mullets and bad ink than on my last trip to Louisiana State Penitentiary. So much for being unique. And I actually heard one old coot complain when the guy next to him lit a cigarette.Yep, the audience at your standard rock show has changed. Pre-pubescent punks from the burbs decked-out in pasty make-up and black because they think it looks hip. They drag aging yuppies from the Beemer to backstage where the old fart hopes to prove to junior that he's still got the chops he had when he was in college. Here's a clue. Kid, that make-up makes you look gay. And Dad, old dudes in pony tails are creepy.
We saw 10 bands in just over 10 hours. All-in-all each one sucked a little less than the one before it. Only four put on any kind of show. While their "music" ain't my thing, Killswitch Engaged kicked major ass. And Lacuna Coil, has a sound just unique enough to make them stand out in a crowd of screamers.But for my money, the best music of the day had to go to four teenagers from Coweta, Oklahoma. Crooked X. Leif Garrett good looks and pipes to boot, combined with some face-melting guitar licks and just a really cool attitude won them a spot in my iPod.And of course thanks to Disturbed for helping me prove to Krusty that the old man can still bang his head with the best of them.
Edi-turd's note: This is not a new list of band names. As the title suggests, it is a tasteless trip in to the rather flavorful mucus clogging my head. You'll need a strong stomach to proceed.It's been a while. . . sue me. Truth is, I ain't felt much like nothin'. A glob of green slime has taken-up residence in my frontal lobe, and try as I might, I ain't been able to evict it. It feels like someone took an ice pick and jammed it up my left nostril. A searing pain sort of radiates from there and encompasses what's left of my face.
The past week and a half I've washed down three Benedryl with a shot of Nyquill and drifted into a medically induced coma by 8:30, only to wake up around 1am and do it all again.
If we weren't so damn short at work, I would have called in sick days ago. But the holiday season brings on all manner of off-time, and those who are left have to pick up the slack. . .
Sorry, had to spit. Not even Crayola has a name for what just came out of me. Remember the old spin painters when we were kids? Imagine a dollop of blue, yellow, green and just a dab of red sitting on the center when you turned it on -- delicious.
Where was I? Picking up the slack . . .yes. I cough and wheeze my way through each day, wiping the fungus flowing from my nose on the sleeve of my station fleece . . . hell, I'd wipe it on a flaming yule log that would make it go away.
Outside ain't so bad. Something about the cool temps and the humid air seem to mollify the drip. But as soon as I hit the door my nasal passages leak all the way to my belt. I may just start wearing a bib like I put on my kids while they were teething. By the end of the day, my goatee is glazed.
At night, it's another Bene-quill cocktail or two.
It's a good thing I don't whine when I get sick, or the STW would have thrown my ass out a week and a half ago.
No folding chairs, no smack talk, no busty blonde managerettes, just two guys in tights trying to keep it in a 25-foot circle.November marks the beginning of wrestling season on the Polisher Ranch, and after a killer rookie season, the St. Michael Warrior Wrestling team is expecting a lot from Krusty the Kid. Last year, Krusty was happy enough just to wrestle. This year, things are different.He ain't happy unless he's sticking some spandex to the floor.So from now until mid-February, you can find me in a high school gym screaming my lungs out at a room full of sweaty high school boys.
This is fiction. It comes directly from the empty space between my two ears. It never happened. The characters are a figment of my imagination. The situations are not real. The actions, views, opinions, statements, thoughts and other ramblings do not reflect the views or opinions of my employer, or any other real human being or entity.It's fiction, remember.
...slang we tv photogs use for one who turns an utterly worthless story into something that sticks to video tape. Be careful or you'll get some on you. I've been spewing facts across the screen since 1990. This is pure fiction -- never happened -- straight from the fertile mind of a crappy cameraman.
Ya see, I haven't been resting on my ever-expanding laurels. I've been busy. For the last 353 days I've been getting up early -- 5:30am early. And pounding the keys. Most days it came out jibberish. Occasionally, the monkeys in my brain were able to string together enough syllables, and I gave birth.
Okay, a manifesto it ain't. But earth-shaking revelations aside, it's more than 200 pages of bluster and 'tude from a custy photog with a really cool handle.
Wish I had better news. Now it's time to edit this bitch. Probably gonna have to throw it away and start over. Shit!
With SwampAss Season under way, here's hoping the STW in your life can find an industrial sized bottle of Anti-MonkeyButt powder of your own. I ain't sharing mine. It's special.
The handsome dude pounding the skins is the Littlest Loar-Pincher. He and his band, High Voltage, took the kids stage for a four-song set. At 13, he's the old man of the group. The singer rings in at the tender age of 11.
They're part of 
What's in their song set? Metallica? Disturbed? Kanye? Brittney Spears? Nah, these kids go in for the classics. Stuff written before they were even a thought. hell, I was barely older than an embryo when this stuff was written. But The Beatles are timeless.
I always thought of head-banging as more of a quick way to get a headache than a lifestyle, but hey, I'm game. So we crowded the lot of the arena with several thousand like-minded live music fans to get down with the sickness. After all, this is the 
I'm not sure what happened to music on my way to middle age, but it's changed . . . and not for the better.
Rock and roll used to be about music, lyrics, showmanship, and women. . . Okay, it was about women.
Today it's about beating the crap out of total strangers.
Women included.
Yesterday, I saw more thinning mullets and bad ink than on my last trip to 
Yep, the audience at your standard rock show has changed. Pre-pubescent punks from the burbs decked-out in pasty make-up and black because they think it looks hip. They drag aging yuppies from the Beemer to backstage where the old fart hopes to prove to junior that he's still got the chops he had when he was in college. Here's a clue. Kid, that make-up makes you look gay. And Dad, old dudes in pony tails are creepy.
But for my money, the best music of the day had to go to four teenagers from Coweta, Oklahoma. 
And of course thanks to 
It's been a while. . . sue me. Truth is, I ain't felt much like 
November marks the beginning of wrestling season on the Polisher Ranch, and after a killer rookie season, the St. Michael Warrior Wrestling team is expecting a lot from Krusty the Kid. Last year, Krusty was happy enough just to wrestle. This year, things are different.
He ain't happy unless he's sticking some spandex to the floor.
So from now until mid-February, you can find me in a high school gym screaming my lungs out at a room full of sweaty high school boys.
