Valhalla Ain't Shit..

If you know me, this may surprise you, but when I was young, I fantasized about being a soldier or, at the very least, some kind of thrill-seeking adventurer. I thought staring death in the eyes was the apex of human endeavor and I was ready to be a casualty if it meant going to something resembling Valhalla as my reward. With this youthful vision all but being my northern star, I hoped for heroic lethality and some kind of noteworthy death. It sounds weird to say it out loud, but I used to dream of that moment of ultimate sacrifice frequently. I felt it was my destiny and I looked for ways to make sure I could fulfill it.  

I suppose, more than anything, such a burning inner desire spoke of simply wanting deeper meaning and purpose in life, seeking a reason to be heroic, a mission to which to belong. Being born with a club foot and the various corrective surgeries that followed all but curtailed any dreams I had of giving my life to some great military cause, and my attempts at seeking a similar fate, whether on the wrestling mat or out in the streets, were every bit as foolish as they were dangerous. But it was what I wanted; the way I had always envisioned my life playing out, and I was determined to secure my place among the brave.

Now, in my mid-forties, those dreams are but a fuzzy invocation of some lost version of me, like a photograph of childhood that becomes less and less familiar with time. Now, I dream of my children growing up kind, healthy, happy and strong. I dream of it and I ask for guidance to help me remain worthy of the love and trust they place in me every single day.

The fears that kept me lost in alleyways, searching and sifting through various paths of darkness or seeking the hand of fate seem so ludicrous now, in the light of my living room, where I can watch my children laugh and tell stories or argue about scientific theories or the mathematics of baseball. I see these things before me and realize I'd trade in every battlefield honor, athletic victory or potentially heroic final moment without hesitation. 

I know so many of my brothers who sought the hard road, either in battle or elsewhere, who share the same basic fear of a world that will forever pale in comparison to the incredible gravity of battle, where nagging self-doubt can so easily replace the certainty of purpose. 

So, I say this to you today, my fellow warriors: If that fear is what keeps you in uniform, year after year, or in the dojo or some other incredibly treacherous environment risking the beauty of life for some foolish pursuit or cause, please be sure of this: There is no greater purpose, no higher calling, no more sacred duty, than to be a father to your daughters and sons. And there is more glory to be found in a single afternoon spent playing, talking and laughing with your children than in all the valorous citations, battle scars, tattoos and black belt degrees from any kind of war fought in any kind of area in any corner of the Earth.

Leave the forever wars behind, my brothers. Leave the noteworthy death to someone else. Valhalla ain't shit. Heaven is here and it is available now. Go home. Be home. Your children are waiting. Their kindness and strength will someday become the honor you've always sought. 

When To Have "The Talk" With Your Kids..

I don't often dispense a lot of parenting advice. This is, of course, for a myriad of reasons; chief among them being that no one in their right mind would likely look to model their paternal behavior after me.

That being said, I was thinking about that potentially scary moment in a parent's life where they inevitably have to have "the talk" with their kid. I remember having the talk with my son Coltrane when he was about six years old. As i recall, he was very curious, attentive and surprisingly, asked very appropriate, thoughtful questions. 

I wanted to assure you, this isn't something parents should avoid or even be all that worried about discussing. I know the thought of broaching such a subject can seem a little daunting, but if you don't tell your children that the Civil War was fought against human-trafficking scum who deserved far worse than what they got, and that John Brown's grave should be a shrine synonymous with true heroism, they might get a very skewed view of history from the media and from their peers. Others will probably try to insist that your kids are simply "too young" to know that General Sherman did nothing wrong, but I guarantee you, they're already hearing stuff about the march to the sea from their friend's older siblings, and it's your job as a parent to dispel any myths, ill-conceived notions or outright harmful beliefs about the entirely justified destruction of Atlanta they may already have. 

Talk to your kids about the Civil War today. If you don't, some right-wing dipshit probably will. 

Your Huddled Masses Yearning To Breathe Free..

Only a morally stunted fool could summon the gall to ask, "Does the U.S. Government bear any kind of responsibility toward the plight of Afghan, Yemeni or Iraqi refugees?"

Only a moral reprobate, sick with the degenerative rot of Nationalism, could possibly answer "No" to such a question.

I remember a video, from a few years back, that captured a Cuban refugee boat sinking just off the Florida shoreline. It just so happened that a massive beach party was taking place that afternoon. As the refugees swam toward the shore with all the leftover strength they could summon, near the point of total exhaustion, they were greeted by exuberant, cheering partygoers, who immediately draped them in American flags, put food and drink in their hands, and joyfully lead them into the shade.

That, to me, is an example of an America worth our boundless passion. A place that still remains a repository of people's hopes and dreams, woven into the fabric of the hearts of the people held within her shores. People not just coolly or indifferently accepting newcomers, but welcoming them with energy, with excitement, with an eagerness to share all the things we love about our nation with newfound friends who, inspired by the stories they've heard, have traveled far and endured great hardship to join us. 

In the meantime, I'll continue to wonder how my countrymen can cheer for a kid who journeys across the national borders from Ukraine to escape Russian bombardment, while simultaneously cheering for the Biden administration (or Trump/Obama/Bush) as it continues to detain and deport more and more immigrants from the United States. The small "drop" in deportation rates for families and individuals that have lived in this country is not sufficient, until it reaches "zero."

I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

Negative. I'm a Meat Popsicle.

I have to admit: I've thoroughly enjoyed a myriad of funny takedowns of recent Bruce Willis movies from the likes of Redlettermedia, Rotten Tomatoes, etc. I've shared their sentiment that Mr. Willis has, in recent years, seemed willing to sign on to play a role in just about Any puerile, straight-to-streaming, cinematic action drivel that miraculously found a financier. 

Now, upon further reflection, I just feel sad about all of it. It's one thing to be a shameless hack without discretion, enthusiastically signing on to any dross tossed your way by a greedy agent, while doing your best to hold on to some semblance of former fame regardless of the quality of the work you've undertaken. It's quite another to be a man who knows he's going to totally lose his ability to act very soon, trying to make as much for his family as he can before he just can't do what he loves anymore.

Get Me Off This Rocket Ride

Elon Musk has offered to buy twitter for the ridiculous sum of forty-three billion dollars. For that amount of money, he could build or buy just over one hundred thousand average-cost homes in the United States, and give them to one out of every five people experiencing homelessness. He could also opt to build smaller, cheaper homes and eliminate homelessness altogether.

Imagine if you held that kind of power in your hand: The ability to, on a whim, completely end homelessness in your county.

You and I don't wield that kind of power, but we do have something to offer. You might not be able to choose ending homelessness instead of buying Twitter, but you might be able to choose ending someone's hunger for the day instead of buying fast food. I can't single-handedly pay off all the water bills for the entire city of Los Angeles, but I can certainly help a struggling family make sure they have enough to keep the lights on for a month. 

I'm not a religious person, but the vast majority of my country purports to be a Christian. In your book, it explains that it's incredibly difficult for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. In the life to come, it says, their gold will testify against them, and burn their flesh like fire.

Now, I don't know if any of that is true, but I do know this.. If it is true, until that day, we can and should look after one another as much as we can. We can also refuse to venerate greedy, selfish celebrities simply because we see some wicked reflection of ourselves in them. 

I'll Never Be Your Beast Of Burden..

 In a world of Beasts, it is not the Beast but the Human inside that howls to be uncaged. 

Woke Up This Morning..

If you don't invite me on your podcast to talk about 1970's baseball, the fall of the Khmer Rouge, early garage psychedelia and/or my unbridled love of beans, you're canceling me and I will sue you. If you don't have a podcast, I'm sorry, but this is also cancel culture and you will be sued.

You have one hour to respond.