Why Do We Do Things?


Did Scar have to be torn to pieces by the hyenas?
Did Hamlet really have to kill his uncle? “To be or

not to be?” Is life really that dramatic? Is Death? Is
love? Or should it be fun? Carefree? Should it remind you of home

or an empty house, filled with mementos and old totems
of times gone by … yearbook quotes scrawled in sloppy cursive script?

Uh … home. Hey, every one? Who still uses cursive? No one?
So why teach it? Why fill the young minds with fear and bullshit?

And why don’t teachers … good ones … get paid like the ball players?
Shout outs to Professors Clarence Lindsay and Marilyn

Russell and Will Vittetoe, who teaches at you-dub-ef,
feet like Jimmy Page, semi-lethal with knowledge from what?

Look. Nazis burned books. The hippies burned their bras and draft cards.
This is 2015, everyone. Ano Domini.

The Year of Our Lord. Today I’ll go visit my friends, The Wrights,
buried in their plots out on old Chumuckla road near Jay.

I stumbled upon it one day. James and Pansy. She was
born in 1938, the year Robert Johnson died.

Now I go out there each and every Sunday. Funny
enough, it’s by a church I will never enter. Why?

If I told those people the things in my head I might be
crucified, or worse, burned at the stake for being a witch.

“A witch! Burn her!” … “And what do we burn, apart from witches?”
“More witches!” L.O.L.! Eric Idle had to bite his

blade to not laugh during that scene. Ever see him on the
S.N.L.? Holy Hell! “Here comes the sun! Do! Do! Do! Do!”

That takes me back to ’79, the year of my birth.
Remember those lines from that Wu Tang poem? “I bomb a…

Tom? Ick. Leigh. That’s Meghan’s middle name,
Bob. Come get this woman. She’s like Miss Carolyn Dennis.

It’s fucking bullshit that you two had to hide your love for
the music and each other. Gotta Serve Somebody,

eh brother? Kneel. Bow. Kiss the ring if you want some bling. Uh.
Oh. The birds are in the trees cawing. Warnings of mistakes.

I speak their language, you see? Falcons? Bald Eagles? That’s me.
They called me Baldy back when I was young. For most of my

life I’ve run from that shame. That humiliation. Knowing
everyone can see the spots growing on your crown. It sucks.

It’s painful. I had to crawl into Plato’s Cave, the met-
-aphor, damn it. Not that trendy place to buy hipster clothes.

When I dared stand up and stop staring at shadows on walls
I was told, “That’s crazy. Sit down and shut up you moron.”

It’s ok, though. I don’t know too much. That’s very true.
I do know one thing. I’m younger than you, Bob Dylan. So?

I bet you could still take me down to the pavement in a
chokehold, the way you did to that man-bear-pig Webermen.

Remember when that dude asked you about Triumph motor-
cyles? Do you remember how it felt to be that kid?

I bet you do. In fact, I bet you’ve bragged to friends and folk
that “If you were 50 years younger you would kick my ass.”

What was that line Hayden Christenson delivered poorly
in Star Wars, Episode III? “You will try?” There is no try.

Do or do not. Go ask H. Jon Benjamin. He’ll tell you
Seth MacFarland has a great sense of humor and really

cares about people, even if he can be a gaping asshole.
Me too, Seth. Just ask anyone I work with. Ask my mom.

Ask my wicked step-father. Maybe he will talk to you.
He sure as hell doesn’t have much to say to me. Why? I

didn’t live his dream. I didn’t be what he wanted me
to be. That brings me back around to Sons of Anarchy.

Jax killed … who? Everyone? Who knows? I stopped watching that
when I realized I could create my own worlds. So can you.

Pick up a pen and write something. Put down your swords, pork and
turkey legs. This is not a Renaissance Fair. No jousting.

Instead let’s relax, have a smoke and stare at the blue sky,
then go into concert tents with our weapon: the guitar.

We clearly we need something to do with our hands when on stage.
What was Marshall’s famous line from How I Met Your Mother?

“I don’t know what to do with my hands!” I prefer Dustin
Hoffman screaming “Hey! I’m walkin’ here! I’m walkin’!” More cow

bell, please. I’ve got a fee-va. There’s only one prescription.
I was discussing that with Aunt Charlotte this Sunday morn’.

She lives down in Port Saint Lucie. Look her up sometime. She
will tell you about God and love … not from The Bible. Nope.

She speaks it from her very heart and soul. She’s a good — Whoah!
Man, hard-headed harbinger of haggis. Right Mike Myers?

“It’s all good. It’s all right.” DMX? He can barely write.
Still, you have to admit – he sure knows how to rap a song.


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