This Ain't No Picnic

There’s a rage that lurks in the corners of life, a simmering frustration with the small, cruel absurdities of existence. It’s the kind of anger that comes from knowing you’re never gonna get what you deserve, but you’ve got no choice but to keep hustling anyway. “This Ain’t No Picnic,” from Minutemen, gets it, feels it, embodies it. In less than two minutes, it rips through the pretense and gets down to what’s real: life is a grind, and if you’re lucky, you might get a few moments of freedom between the mess. But even that’s just a flicker in the darkness, isn’t it?

This is punk rock in its purest form: raw, urgent, econo: a fist shoved into the face of convention. Minutemen didn’t have time for the bullshit. They didn’t need to explain why it hurt. These young Pedro boys just felt it, and they made it into something we could all hear, all relate to, even if we couldn’t quite name it yet. It was something deep, forged in our bellies with fire. It wasn’t a glorification of struggle—it was a demand to see it, to recognize it, and to live it without pretending that the mess was anything less than what it was.

And in the center of all that chaos, there’s the sound of Mike Watt’s thunderstick bass—thud, slap, boom—like the pulse of the universe itself, thumping its heavy, unforgiving rhythm through your chest. Watt doesn’t just play the bass; he becomes the bass, carving out every moment of tension and release, holding the song together like some kind of seething lifeline. And although Watt is an extraordinary bassist, by any standard, there’s nothing smooth or polished about it. It’s a raw, brutal, physical force—imperfect, maybe, but undeniably vital. The foundation of all that urgency, all that ache—it’s coming from that low-end rumble that rattles your bones and makes your teeth vibrate.

Then, on top of that, you’ve got George Hurley’s drums, a furious, soulful chaos that never settles. Each hit is like an explosion, every crash an exclamation of rage or relief, or maybe both. Hurley’s not trying to make it sound pretty—he’s dragging the rhythm through the dirt, pulling it back up, and hitting you over the head with it again. He’s the heartbeat that never quits, driving everything forward even as it threatens to fall apart. The drums are everything. The urgency, the madness, the push—it’s all in there. Hurley doesn’t keep time, he smashes it into something new.

And then, at the front of it all, is the late, great D. Boon, his guitar a frantic, clangy strum that sounds like it’s barely held together, punctuated by frantic lead runs that twist your soul into some kind of psychic frenzy. His voice, cracked and raw, carries a sense of urgency so deep you can almost taste it, like it’s choking him from the inside out. It’s not about perfection; it’s about the feeling—the immediate, overwhelming sense that this is the only way to survive, to get through.

The genius of Minutemen was that they weren’t about playing it safe, about neat lines and clean sounds. They were about urgency, about need. These three Pedro punks didn’t just play their instruments—they unleashed a raw, barely-contained power. The rhythm wasn’t just something you followed—it was something you became. Watt’s thumping bass, Hurley’s explosive drums, and Boon’s strummy, clanging guitar were more than just music. They were an expression of living on the edge of sanity, trying to break free without ever quite making it. They were the sound of fury, but also the sound of freedom, a freedom that can only exist when you stop pretending everything’s okay and start admitting that it never will be. But somehow, that’s the only thing that makes you feel alive.

“This Ain’t No Picnic” isn’t just a song. It’s a life raft thrown into a sea of sameness, like much of the rest of the groundbreaking album it came from – 1984’s “Double Nickels on the Dime.” It’s the sound of voices cracking under pressure, of knowing that everything’s fucked and trying to make sense of the chaos anyway. There’s no sugarcoating here—just a blunt, unflinching look at what it takes to survive when you’re not looking for easy answers. The frustration isn’t romanticized. It’s just there, churning, pulling at the edges of everything.

And sure, it’s a short burst of energy, like a match struck in the dark. But in those seconds, it burns bright, and in that burning, it lights up everything. It’s the reminder that the world isn’t here to hand you anything—there’s no easy ride, no comfort at the end of the tunnel. But in the midst of it all, in the suffocating chaos and the bitter noise, there’s a truth that punk rock gets: survival, real survival, isn’t about winning. It’s about showing up. It’s about saying, “This is who I am. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

This ain’t no picnic. But maybe that’s the point. It’s not supposed to be easy. But it’s ours. All of it. It belongs to us. Punk rock changed our lives.

Be Thankful For What You Gott

There are songs that find their way into your soul before you even understand what they’re saying. "Be Thankful For What You Got" by William DeVaughn is one of those songs, the kind that anchors you in a moment, a time, and a place—before you’ve fully figured out who you are. I first heard it as a child, growing up in a city that was split between what felt like palatial estates and dilapidated apartment buildings. My elementary school was a strange and confusing world—full of children who wore things I couldn’t pronounce and lived in the kind of houses I couldn’t fathom. But DeVaughn’s voice? His voice felt like it belonged to me. That calm, gentle wisdom mixed with an unshakable truth: the real wealth lies not in things, but in how you choose to live with what you have.

It’s funny, because this song—this simple, elegant anthem—spoke to me like an older cousin, one who’d seen the world and knew better than to make a fuss about what was out of reach. There’s a softness in DeVaughn’s delivery, a quiet reverence that doesn't scream for attention but demands it in the way a trusted friend does. His voice doesn’t just fill the room; it fills the heart, slow and steady, like the dawn creeping over a landscape you hadn’t quite noticed was beautiful before.

And then the music itself. It’s a velvet rope that pulls you gently but insistently into the groove, a rhythm section that feels like breathing in sync with the universe. There’s a warmth in the organ, a smoothness in the guitar fills, and a shuffling beat that makes you feel like you’re floating just above the ground. The sound of "Be Thankful For What You Got" is as comforting as it is empowering—like the sound of joy when it hasn’t been corrupted by the weight of want. It’s funky, yes, but it’s more than that—it’s grounded, rich in soul, and rich in the kind of love that doesn’t make a show of itself. It is the show.

Maria Popova once wrote that “gratitude is the antidote to the tyranny of what we don’t have,” and that could be the thesis of this song, too. DeVaughn’s lyrics speak to that deep, almost spiritual understanding that we spend too much of our lives looking beyond what’s in front of us, chasing after things we’ll never truly own. He doesn’t admonish us for wanting more, but instead invites us to recognize the wealth we already possess, the things we can so easily overlook—the small victories, the steady love, the song of the birds in the trees, the steady beat of your own heart. If you pause long enough, you realize that the things that truly matter are not only the things you can touch, but the things that touch you.

And yet, it’s not about resignation or passivity. DeVaughn’s song doesn’t tell you to settle. It doesn’t tell you to stop striving. Instead, it reminds you to dance while you’re doing it. It invites you to put on your dancin’ shoes, funk it up, and rejoice in the fact that you’re alive enough to feel the groove. What’s on the outside is fleeting; what’s inside, and what you choose to do with it, that stuff is eternal.

So, as the year winds down, and the holiday season sweeps through with its mix of joy and reflection, take a moment with this song. Whether you're walking through wealth or through struggle, put on your dancing shoes. Turn up the volume. Let the lyrics hit you where you live, let the bass thump in your chest, and let the message sink in: If you have love and music, you are the richest person in the world.

Kick Out The Jams, Motherf*cker!!!

There is a moment captured here, in this riotous live performance of "Kick Out the Jams," in Detroit in 1970, where you can feel the universe shift. It’s that split second when Wayne Kramer’s guitar rips through the thick, sweaty air, an opening salvo that begs—no, demands—that the world sit up and listen. The MC5 weren’t just a band; they were a live wire, an electric storm just waiting for someone to touch it. Kramer, that manic shaman of the six-string, grabs the lightning bolt, unleashing it on a crowd too wild and frenzied to even comprehend the sheer force of what was happening. It’s primal. It’s overwhelming. And it’s still dangerous, decades later.

There’s a reason "Kick Out the Jams" is considered one of the most iconic rock songs ever recorded. Not because it’s slick or polished, but because it’s an anthem of pure fury and fire. The MC5’s sonic assault is so raw, so audacious, that it nearly dares you to even try to keep your body still. Their music is a war cry, a battle with the forces of mediocrity, the sonic equivalent of a Molotov cocktail thrown right in the face of convention. The MC5 aren’t merely performing—they are unleashing.

Wayne Kramer’s guitar, like a Promethean spark, is the very catalyst that ignites punk rock long before its time. What he does with a few blistering chords is nothing short of revolutionary. He’s the architect of chaos, laying the foundation for a cultural shift that would define rebellion in rock. His strings scream, bend, and twist like a soul caught between worlds, a soul that would never be content to stay in the same place, and neither would we.

And then there’s the audience—the pure embodiment of sweat-soaked wonder and frantic energy. Two-thirds of the crowd is with them, practically breathing the electricity in the room, a single organism that pulses along with the band. They are no longer spectators; they are part of the music. But then there’s the other third, lost and confused, almost as if the sonic force unleashed is beyond their comprehension. They’re caught in a maelstrom they don’t fully understand, unsure of what they’re witnessing, but still unwilling to look away. In those minutes, the MC5 transform the audience into more than just witnesses; they’re co-conspirators, even if some of them haven’t quite figured out what the revolution sounds like yet.

The MC5 have been imitated countless times, but never duplicated. That magic, that madness, can’t be replicated. They were a moment in time, a force of nature, and the echoes of their power still rumble through the veins of rock ‘n’ roll, reverberating through the speakers with the same frenetic energy. It’s not nostalgia, it’s far more. And even years after Wayne kicked the mortal coil to rock the worlds beyond—“Kick Out The Jams” is a force that still cuts deep here on the Earthly plane.

So here’s the invitation: sink into it. Let it wash over you. Let that primal energy of "Kick Out the Jams" take you somewhere frantic and transcendent. Feel the rush. Don’t just hear the music—live it. There’s no distance between you and that sound.

And if you happen to make art—whether it’s with a guitar, a paintbrush, a camera, a pen or your own beautiful hands—let this song be a catalyst. If you’ve ever thought, “I can’t do this,” “I can’t create that,” or “I can’t go that far,” let this be the fire that burns away those doubts. This is the sound of Prometheus kicking the door down, lighting the fuse, and saying, “Go, make something explode.” He’s talking to you and he’s passing the torch. You know what you should do about it? Kick out the jams, motherfucker!

I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry

He sipped the whiskey slowly, watching the amber liquid swirl in his glass like it was the last thing he could hold onto with his damned shaky hands. The jukebox had been full of the good stuff - that old-timey twangy heartache medicine, all night long. After finishing an old Waylon tearjerker, it churned out Hank Williams’ “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” a song that seemed to crawl into the marrow of his bones. It was a ditty that had been playing in the back of his mind for years, since she died. Diane’s birthday. He could feel her presence in the thick smoke clinging to the bar lights, her ghostly visage swirling behind the glass and seeming to encircle the neon cactus-graffiti light. She used to love that song, back when they were young and invincible, back before the world had worn them down like an old pair of work boots.

It was there, loaded and ready to bear in his truck, just waiting for him to make up his stubborn old mind. The doctors had given him a bad diagnosis—something about a heart too tired to keep beating the way it should. He thought about the days when he could still dance with her, when her laughter filled all their favorite barrooms. She could light up the darkest places. It was effortless. Now, the only thing left was the hollow ache in his chest and the constant thrum of mortality tapping at his temples. 

He glanced at the young woman across the bar, her laughter reminding him of Diane in her youth, wild and untamed, almost uproarious, before the years pressed them down like stones in an ancient riverbed.

The young man beside her was shy, his hands hovering awkwardly around her waist as she swayed to the music. It caught his attention. His voice, rough as sandpaper, leaned over the bar and said, “Hey, kid. Don’t you hold back with her. Love her all the way. You don’t get this chance twice.” He didn’t know why he said it, but goddamn it if it didn't feel like the only thing worth saying. Tomorrow is never promised, not for anyone. 

The young man blinked, unsure, and nodded, his fingers twitching; but the woman smiled at him like she knew. She knew.

The whiskey burned a little more on the way down, but still felt just enough like an old familiar friend. He paid Rick, the bartender, left him a decent tip, and shuffled his way out to the truck.

The sky hung heavy, like it had something to tell him. He opened the door to the back, looked at the shotgun he'd been staring at for weeks, then slid it back into its case. As he closed the latch, he looked up into the clear night sky and whispered to the space around him, “Not tonight, Diane. But goddamn, I miss you. It doesn't get any easier, darlin'.” 

The world seemed quieter somehow, as if even the wind was listening. Or maybe it was just the whiskey. 

The silence of a falling star

Lights up a purple sky

And as I wonder where you are

I'm so lonesome I could cry..

An Invitation To You, Dear One..

I’m here to tell you something you may or may not be ready to hear, Dear One. You see, there is a truth buried deep in your heart that you may not always see. This truth is as old as time itself, yet it is often obscured by the weight of the kind of expectations this world can place upon you, and by the shadows of the wounds you’ve carried for so long. This truth I’m speaking of is painfully simple, yet it radiates profundity: You are enough just as you are. Your pain, your fear, your brokenness—none of it defines you. And the greatest journey of your life will be the return to the truth of your being, to the gorgeous, shimmering wholeness that is your birthright.

Believe it or not, I understand the weight you carry, Dear One; the heaviness in your chest when you long to be more, to show up more fully in the world. I know what it feels like to feel lost within the map and memory of your own skin, to search for something—anything—that will bring you back to the truth of who you are. And let me tell you, I know how easy it is to fall into the illusion that you must fix yourself before you can begin to live authentically. But Dear One, the very act of being you is sacred. You, with all your messiness, is a thing as sacred as anything in all of creation. And, trust me when I tell you, your imperfections are not shortcomings. Your wounds are not curses—they are, in fact, the fertile ground from which your burgeoning wisdom can grow.

I, too, know what it is like to feel unseen, to feel like a ghost in your own life. To grow up in a broken home, surrounded by pain and alcoholism, is to be born into a world that can feel cruel, confusing and unforgiving. My own childhood, despite moments of immeasurable beauty and laughter, was also marked by isolation, by abandonment, and most of all, by the darkness of the most heinous kind of sexual abuse imaginable. And for many years, I hid those parts of myself. I guess I thought I could outrun the pain, that somehow, if I raced hard enough and for long enough, I could outrun my own story. But no matter how far I ran, no matter how steady my stride, the wounds followed me. The more I suppressed them, the more they whispered in my ear, telling me that I was not worthy of love, of connection, or of peace.

In those moments, I turned to the wisdom of spiritual teachings to help guide me back to myself. I found solace in the ancient wisdom of Buddhism, where I learned that all suffering is born from attachment—to ideas of who we are, to the ways we want to be seen, to the false selves we build to protect us from the world. In the teachings of the Buddha, I came to understand that true freedom is found not in fixing the self, but in letting go of the need to be fixed. We are already whole, and our healing comes not from becoming something we are not, but by remembering the truth of who we have always been.

It is in this acceptance of ourselves—our light, our shadow, our pain—that we begin to heal. The Buddha teaches us that suffering is part of the human condition, but it is also the doorway to compassion. Compassion, for ourselves and for others, is the balm that soothes the wounds of the heart. When we face our suffering with love instead of fear, we begin to see the beauty in our brokenness. And it is through this beauty that we can reach out to others, not from a place of superiority, but from a place of shared humanity.

In the same way, the teachings of Hinduism speak of the divine essence within each of us. We are not separate from the divine—we are the divine in human form. We may forget this truth, but it is always there, waiting for us to remember. The path of yoga, of self-inquiry, and of devotion is the path of returning to this truth. It is a path of surrender—surrender to the divine love that is always flowing, even when we cannot feel it. And it is this surrender that allows us to return to ourselves, not as someone we wish to be, but as the person we are at the deepest, most sacred level.

And in the Christian tradition, we are reminded that Jesus came to show us the way of radical love. He, too, understood what it was like to be misunderstood, to be rejected, to be abandoned by those he loved. Yet in the midst of this suffering, He chose love. He chose compassion. He chose to see the divine in every person, even those who betrayed him. His life was not about perfection, but about meeting the world in its brokenness with unconditional love. And through His suffering, He offers us the profound truth that we are never alone in our pain. We are always seen, always loved, always embraced. In Christ’s love, we find the courage to look at our own wounds and say, “I am worthy of love just as I am.”

And here, in this very truth, you may feel the tension of the world you live in—the struggle to show up for others when you are depleted, when your own well is dry. It is hard, I know. When your heart is heavy with your own burdens, it can feel impossible to offer anything to others, to be present with those you love. Sometimes the wounds we carry feel like too much to bear, and it can seem like there’s nothing left to give. But this is the paradox of our human experience: the more we open to our own vulnerability, the more we can offer the gift of presence to those around us. Showing up, even when we feel broken, is a form of sacred courage.

Know this, Dear One—any effort to show up, no matter how small, is worth celebrating. Each moment you choose to be present with another, to offer your love, your listening ear, or even your silent companionship, you are showing that person the depth of your own humanity. And that is sacred. Even in your exhaustion, even in your pain, the love you offer is real. And you are doing more than you can imagine. The act of being there, even when it feels imperfect or incomplete, is an act of profound love and connection.

You may feel empty right now, lost in the currents of your past, uncertain of who you are or where you are headed. But I promise you, the very fact that you are asking these questions, seeking to know yourself more deeply, is proof that you are ready for transformation. It is a sign that your soul is waking up, that you are beginning to move toward the life you were always meant to live.

To begin this journey, you do not need to find a “better” version of yourself. You do not need to erase the past or pretend to be someone you are not. No, the first step is the most difficult and the most beautiful one: to allow yourself to be exactly as you are. This is the greatest act of love you can give yourself. To be vulnerable. To face the parts of yourself you’ve hidden away, to meet your wounds with tenderness and compassion.

And as you do this, you will begin to notice something extraordinary: a quiet, steady peace that begins to grow within you. It will be subtle at first, perhaps just a flicker of light in the darkness, but it will grow. This peace is the peace of coming home to yourself. It is the peace that comes when we stop running from the truth of who we are, and instead, sit in the silence with it, as it is.

Mary Oliver, in her poem "Wild Geese," speaks so beautifully to this truth:

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.”

This is the invitation: to stop striving, to stop pretending. To let go of the idea that you need to fix yourself. To simply allow yourself to love what you love, to feel what you feel, and to honor the journey that has brought you here. You are already whole, even when you feel broken. You are already enough, even when you feel empty.

Remember, Dear One, that the most important thing is not what you do, but who you are. And who you are is sacred and worthy of love—always. Your pain, your struggles, your imperfections, they are not obstacles to your truth—they are the very stepping stones that will carry you back to the fullness of who you are.

This journey is not easy. I cannot in good conscience pretend that it is. It will require patience, courage, and a deep willingness to face the parts of yourself that you may have ignored for so long. But you are not alone in this. Every soul who walks this earth carries the same longing to be seen, to be loved, to be whole. We are all walking this path together. We are, as Ram Dass reminds us, "all walking each other home."

As you begin to find the courage to walk this path, let the words of Wendell Berry help to guide you:

"The world is a beautiful place, and it’s worth fighting for." 

You are a beautiful place in this beautiful world; and you are also worth fighting for. 

And, Dear One, despite the difficulties in the harrowing journey we call life, it is and remains, worth fighting for, not just with your hands, but with your whole heart. You are worthy of every drop of love, every bit of peace, and every moment of connection that you seek. You are already enough.

See you on the road, Dear One.