Guns and Records

I’ve been trying to pinpoint the exact moment I knew, without any doubt, that I was living in the most base and stupid generation in American history.

It might have been when all of the warning labels started popping up on almost every product on store shelves. Even replica football helmets marketed to fans of certain teams have stickers informing consumers that the helmet is not intended for on-field use, and won’t protect the user in the event of a tackle. Are you seriously that stupid? Did you think that the $59 Packers helmet that you just bought at the fan shop could be used to keep yourself safe when riding that dirtbike? Moron. When did we as a country decide that we should intervene in the Darwin’s “fittest” theory?

I hate to agree with Bill Bellamy, but he told a story of his youth as it applied to “child-proofing”. There are now companies that will come to your home and install all kinds of kid-proof shit on your cabinets, outlets, glass coffee table, etc., in order to make your home safe for your children. Bellamy tells how his mother didn’t stop him from touching a hot stove, and when he subsequently burned himself his mom stated that the stove was now “child-proofed”. Remember when you could ride a bike without a helmet at the age of 8? How climbing trees and half touch, half tackle football was a weekly (if not daily) occurrence in your neighborhood? You hurt yourself, and through the pain you learned that the activity that caused the injury was now off-limits unless you just liked pain. Or maybe you are just stupid, and that activity might eventually remove you from society.

To continue on the “wrong era” theme, I’m getting quite tired of women wearing less and less in commercials, theme restaurants, and even on the streets/ in clubs. You can’t swing a dead stripper without hitting a Hooters, Bone Daddy’s, or Twin Peaks. For the uninitiated, these are restaurants that have female servers wearing less than your average NFL cheerleader while bringing you your hot wings. I long for the days of pin-ups that were fully clothed and posed in positions of answering the office phone, or on the street on a windy day. You might catch a glimpse of the top of a stocking, and that was all you needed to get a little excited.

Now, I have to be smacked with tits when I’m trying to eat lunch. Sure, I could just avoid those places, but it doesn’t stop there. Watch TV for a couple hours, and I’m sure you’ll be bombarded with half-naked women a few times. Maybe I’m just a bit old-fashioned, but I prefer to leave something to the imagination when women are concerned. “I wonder what she’s got on under that,” has gone by the wayside. I can usually tell how well a woman “maintains herself” with most of the outfits that can be purchased at the local mall. I know you girls have some class out there. Just watch any old movie, or even “LA Confidential” to see what I’m talking about. That’s some hot shit right there.

Of course, these are just my opinions. I like to think (or maybe just hope) that our nation isn’t as stupid as it looks. Even though we elected Bush Jr. twice, we can come back from the brink. Let your kids enjoy a helmet-less existence. If you’ve raised them right, they’ll make the right choice and not kill themselves when playing. And, for God’s sake, please put some clothes on.

Some of you might stop reading this blog after this story, and I’m OK with that.

If this is the first post you’ve ever read on this site, let me give you some information.  I’m a DJ in a small Dallas bar.  I play hip-hop, reggae, Baltimore Club, and some rock mixed in.  Sometimes people tip me when I’m playing music they like, or when they want to request a song.  The bar I play in is small, dark, and weird.  The bartenders are an eclectic group of guys, and I draw an eclectic group of people on Saturday nights.  A lot of the people that come out on Saturday are people that have been there before, and like what I do.  Of course there are the people that happened to show up there early and are digging my music and hang around.  This story is about one of the latter people.

Towards the end of the night (about 1:20am), a girl approaches the booth to make a request.  One of my friends is usually standing near the entrance of the DJ booth and heads off most “requesters”.  This time, it was my brother.  He talks to her, sees she has money in hand (which is a good way to get your request played).   She sticks the money out towards me, and my brother hands me a piece of paper with a song title on it.  I assume it’s her request, and I direct her to put the money in the jar I have handy for tips.  She puts the money in the jar, and goes away.

Two songs later, I play the song on the piece of paper.  As is the norm, I only play 2/3 of the song (since that’s where I usually mix out of a song and into the next one), and go on to the next tune.  The girl that had previously tipped me to play her song re-approached the DJ booth and started talking to my brother.  My brother looked bewildered and reached into the tip jar and retrieved her money.  She took it.

As she turned to walk off, I yelled to get her attention.  She turned back, and I said (loudly over the music), “Are you kidding me?!  Did you just take your money back?!”  She looked as if she was trying to think about how to explain what she had just done.  “I played your song,” I said.  Her mouth moved, but nothing came out.  She then thrust the money back towards me.  “Stick it up your ass! I don’t want your fucking money!  You don’t do that,” I yelled.

She turned away again, and walked back to her friends.  Keep in mind that the place is pretty busy, and full of people.  I’m fucking mad now.  If there’s a golden rule of bars, it’s DON’T TAKE YOUR TIPS BACK.  I’m assuming that the piece of paper with the request on it wasn’t hers, and someone had made a request to my brother at the same time she walked up.  So, maybe I hadn’t played her song.  Who cares?  You making a request isn’t a contract.  And, above all, YOU DON’T TAKE YOUR TIP BACK.

Two songs later, it was last call.  I usually get on the mic and do the usual speech- “Did you guys have a good time tonight?  It’s last call.  I’m not playing hip-hop anymore.  It’s time to get your last drinks, etc.”.  Except this time, my speech was different:

“Did you guys have a good time tonight? “  (Cheering from the crowd)  “My name is PappyFromJersey, and I have to point someone out in the crowd tonight.”  (More cheering)  “There’s a girl here that thinks it’s OK that if she tips me to play a song for her, and I don’t play it then she can come take her money back.”  (Rising boos and jeers from the crowd)

I point her out, and one of the barbacks shines a flashlight on her.  Cries of “Fuck you, bitch”, and “What?! Who did that?”  come flying out of the crowd.  All attention in the place is on her.

“I think I did a good job for you people tonight, did I not?”   Everyone cheers.  “If I didn’t play a request for you guys, then I’m sorry.  But, please don’t throw anything at me and certainly DON’T TAKE YOUR MONEY BACK!”   The cheering was almost deafening.  I went on to play my usual last call selections that get people out of the bar (Slipknot, Rage Against The Machine, System of a Down, etc.).  I normally get back on the mic when the lights come on to help speed up the process of emptying the bar.

“Alright people, the lights are on.  It’s time to go.  Thanks to all of you for coming out.  If that girl that took money out of my tip jar is still here: I hope you get AIDS.”

At that, the crowd that’s still left is laughing and smiling.  15 different people come over to tell me that I did an awesome job and put money in my jar.  I thank them all, and start packing up my shit.  At this time, a short Hispanic girl approaches me.

“Excuse me, are you the DJ that just said he hopes some girl gets AIDS?”

“That’s me,” I said.

“Do you know anyone who’s ever died of AIDS?” she says.

“No.”

“That’s an awful thing to say about someone.”

“OK,”  is my reply.

“Why would you say something like that?”

“Because I hope she dies of AIDS.”

“What if someone hoped your Mom gets AIDS?”

“I’d ask her what she did to make someone so upset.”

“It’s sad that you have no love for your own mother.”

“Where are you going with this?  What’s your point?”

I should have just turned my back by now, but curiosity got the best of me.  There’s a group of my friends forming, and her boyfriend that’s standing behind her is getting really uncomfortable.

“Are you from Texas?” she asks.

“No.”

“Then how can you represent Texas with that kind of attitude?”

“I never said that I represented Texas.”

“You’re a horrible fucking DJ.”

“Really?  What makes you say that? You’re still here at the end of the night.”

“Because you said you hoped that girl got AIDS!”

“What does that have to do with me being a good DJ or not?”

“Because you’re supposed to have compassion for people!”

“What does having compassion for people have to do with being a DJ?”

“You’re an awful human being.”

“How long have you known me?  A couple of hours?  That makes you an authority on what kind of human being I am?”

At this point, a couple of my friends were trying to get this girl to shut up.  She looked willing to take them all on, so I turned around and kept packing my shit up.  I took a bunch of shit from two of the bartenders about the AIDS comment.  I pointed out that we worked in a weird, dark bar where the bartenders eat broken glass and spit fire during the night.  I also pointed out that if no one had complained about my statements, then we wouldn’t be talking about it.  They had no reply.

I’ve never claimed to be the nicest person in the world.  If you reach into my tip jar to get your money back because you were unhappy with my performance, then I’m going to wish AIDS on you.  I won’t touch you or even call you names.  I’ll just hope that you get AIDS.

I found myself watching the Masters Tournament a couple of weeks ago on Easter Sunday, and Zach Johnson had just pulled off a nice run past Tiger to win. Before anyone gets the wrong idea, I don’t like golf. Never have. I just happened to be somewhere where it was on TV, and since it’s a sport- I watched it. Anyway, after someone wins the Masters, they get an awful green jacket and get to make a little speech on TV.

Like so many other athletes before him, when presented with a trophy or some other big win in a big event, he thanked Jesus. Zach Johnson believes that Jesus played an active role in his winning the Masters. Not Johnson’s belief in Jesus, but actually Jesus himself had something to do with him winning.

So then, we are to assume by all of these “I’d like to thank God” speeches that God/ Jesus have stakes in how well a certain player or team does in their respective competitions. How fucking egotistical and selfish are you that you think that what you’re doing on that course or field is that important that God Himself would affect the outcome or assist you in winning some inconsequential game. Ever hear the losing opponent blame God in a post-game interview? “Our team would have won if God had helped us out a little more. Thanks for nothing, Jesus!”

I wouldn’t have a problem with athletes attributing their wins to “my being a Christian”, or “my belief in Jesus Christ”. That speaks more to having a belief system or a mindset that was conducive to being successful. Hell, the athletes in question could have just seen a particularly inspiring episode of “October Road”, and that’s what helped them win. That would be easier to handle than the idea of you being such a good Christian that God felt it necessary to step in on your behalf to defeat your obviously less devout opponent across the pitch.

In the future, just thank your wife and sponsors and shut the fuck up.

There’s a woman I know who is a lesbian. She likes women, and only women- as far as I know. She doesn’t live her life as a lesbian, but as a woman who likes women. At the time of our last meeting, she didn’t have one peice of rainbow paraphenalia, one rainbow sticker on her car, and hadn’t been to a single “Gay Pride Event”. Not because she was afraid to do any of these things, but because she just didn’t care to broadcast it. Why can’t all gay people be like her?

I’ve tried to understand where the gay community is coming from. You’ve been opressed into hiding who you like to sleep with your whole life until you “came out”, and now you want to show the world what you’ve been hiding. No one cares. Join a support group or something, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want to be bombarded with your sexual preference while I’m driving to work. No one I pass on the highway would know that I’m heterosexual unless they saw me banging my girlfriend. Let’s keep it that way.

The same goes for you, soccer moms. This new trend of the stickers with your kid’s name and number and their sport of choice on your rear window is fucking stupid. Why did you do that? Is “scrapbooking” (you know, that moronic industry created by bored housewives to make their day seem meaningful) getting old? Fuck your kid. I hated kids to begin with, and now I’ve got a particular kid to hate now. My prayers are now directed at your kid’s team losing terribly in whatever sport they choose, and have their dreams crushed. Don’t worry, they’ll still get some kind of fucking trophy anyway. See how childhood is becoming more and more like the special olympics? Your kids are now emotional retards. Congratulations. What’s next, “My kid took his first steps today!” sticker? I hope your children grow up to become drug addicts that won’t move out of your house, just to prove that your idea of childraising (enrolling your child in as many extracurricular activities as possible) came back to bite your dumb jogging-pants-wrapped ass.

See a trend here?

I went to Potbelly today with my girlfriend for a little lunch. I ordered the ham and swiss with some mustard and various vegetables. I even purchased one of their “deli pickles” which I’ll get into later. When I read the menu of sandwiches, I failed to notice the “served warm” part. I had read, “warm bread”. Silly me. When I retreived my paper-wrapped lunch, it was warm in my hand. I then realized I had made a mistake.

Let me fill you in on my eating habits, that way you’ll understand my frustration during the above transaction. I eat the same shit all of the time. If I go to a Mexican restaurant, there are two items on the menu I’ll order (tacos or chimichanga- maybe a burrito if I’m feeling wacky). Chinese? Chicken with broccoli, please. Seafood restaurant? Good luck. This drives my girlfriend, brother, and just about anyone else fucking crazy when they go out to eat with me.

“Why don’t you try something different?”

“Because it’s my meal. I want what I want.”

“That’s so boring.”

That’s me. Boring, picky eater. The list of things I’ll eat is probably shorter than the list of things I won’t eat. I spent my whole childhood with an experimental chef as a mother. Remember the health food craze in the 80s? I remember it well. Tofu, brown rice, vegetarianism, etc. One night, I sat at the dinner table until about 3 am because I wouldn’t eat a quiche my mom had made. It wasn’t until she had gotten up to use the bathroom that she remembered I was still sitting there and sent me to bed. The same quiche was served to me a few hours later for breakfast. I went hungry that day. This is probably where my pickiness began. Where most kids learned variety is good, and one should try different things is where I learned that as an adult I can eat whatever the fuck I want.

Cut to me leaving the sandwich “shoppe” pissed with a toasted sandwich. Having spent many years in New Jersey (where, in my opinion, the best sandwiches are made) has made me enjoy giant, non-toasted sub sandwiches. Companies began toasting sandwiches to make themselves seem different than “the other sandwich chain”- Subway. Don’t even get me started on that fucking abortion of a sandwich joint. Fuck Subway for life. Even Subway has begun to toast their awful garbage they call sandwiches.

Anyway, I ate the toasted sandwich. It wasn’t so bad that it was inedible, but wasn’t anywhere near good. Actually, it probably wouldn’t have been half bad untoasted. Their pickle, on the other hand was another story. Imagine a soggy cucumber. It smelled like a pickle, but tasted like it had a few more days worth of soaking to do. All in all, a disappointing lunch.

My applause for all of you who try new things. Good for you. You’re the type of people who others enjoy dining with. You don’t have a short list of restaurants that you’ll eat at. You haven’t made someone feel bad at Thanksgiving because you only ate turkey and mashed potatoes. I’ll be sitting over here in the corner with my Kraft macaroni and cheese and tacos perfectly happy.

Congratulations, you are now living among the worst generation in America’s history. I was listening to the radio today, and heard that Texas is considering a bill that would ban smoking in ALL PUBLIC PLACES. That means not just bars and restaurants, Dallas, but anywhere that’s not your property. God forbid the business owners should have a right to determine whether their patrons are allowed to smoke in their establishments. One caller into the show even had the balls to say (and I’m paraphrasing through my anger),” Excuse me for wanting to stay healthy when I’m at a bar”. Basically, the caller wanted to turn his liver into a ball of scar tissue in a smoke-free environment.

Next time you’re in public, look around you. You’re probably surrounded by idiots. Remember the time before A.D.D.? When kids were just “hyper”? When dyslexic kids just worked harder to keep up with non-reading-disordered students? A friend of mine has a dyslexic daughter, and she gets more time to turn in book reports and has an altered curriculum due to her disability. What the fuck? Our school systems seem to be telling children, “don’t try harder, we’ll just make things easier for you because we’re afraid of hurting your feelings”. School is supposed to prepare children for public life, and with handing kids a crutch they’re probably making future life harder. Does your boss give a shit about your feelings when you miss a deadline? Do you think the person who just caught HEP-C because of me misreading plumbing plans will be more forgiving because I might have dyslexia?

Look back at the “greatest generation” (the Americans who lived during the Second World War). This is the generation that conquered fascism, invented computers, and didn’t cry over not being able to read as well as the next kid. Do I blame the children? Of course not. As parents of this new generation of nancyboy crybabies, you should be ashamed of yourselves. Stop the “time-outs” and start hitting your kids. Yes, I said it. HIT YOUR KIDS. My mom beat my fucking ass when I got out of line, and here I am without a criminal record, multiple outlets for my creativity, respect from my peers, and a Journeyman Plumber’s liscence to show. I couldn’t be more happy with how my (divorced and single) Mom raised me. At the time, the whippings sucked. The pain didn’t last long, but the lessons did. I learned “Yes ma’am” and “Yes sir” at a young age. I learned to respect my elders, whether I knew them or not. If I failed at something, I heard: “Get up and try it again, son.” Not: “It’s OK son. You don’t have to try it anymore. Here’s a hug.” Kids don’t have respect for shit anymore. Not each other, not their elders, not your shit, and especially not their parents. Since the “hugs and time-outs” books hit the shelves, the “whack your kid’s ass” books got put away, and we now have a generation of kids who have no idea of how to deal with real-life situations. Ask any average 13-year-old if he/she reads for fun. You’ll most likely get a “fuck no, and fuck you for asking!”.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that all parents are doing a bad job. I’m not saying that all kids are awful these days, either. A majority of the ones I come into contact with ARE, though. Keep this up people, and we’ll have an entire country of fucking moronic Americans who can do nothing but point the finger at someone else for it all.

A couple of tips to curb the retardation:

-Listen to your local NPR station with your kids.

-Take your kids to Barnes & Noble (or any other book store) or to a library. READING BOOKS FOR FUN IS EXTREMELY IMPORTANT. Imagine your favorite author. Now imagine your favorite author growing up as your kid sitting in front of the TV or playing XBOX 360 and not reading. Do you think they would have written your favorite books? Probably not.

MAKE YOUR KIDS THE SMART KIDS. -Take your kids on interesting trips. Not Disney World, but historically important locations like Gettysburg or Pearl Harbor. Teach your kids that Rushmore took a shitload of work and wasn’t created with lasers.

Smart kids who have been taught to be strong when others aren’t, become leaders. They’re afraid of many less things. Do your part parents. Make sure you can be proud of what you raised.