Thinking About the Thing is Not Doing the Thing

It's a new year, so here is some unsolicited advice.

Stop talking about doing the thing and do the thing.

“Gee, Todd, I've always thought about writing...”

“You know, I've always thought abut trying stand-up, Todd...”

Thinking about writing is not writing.

Thinking about stand-up is not doing stand-up.

I've thought about playing the guitar. But that's ALL I've done. I'm not going to tell one of my guitar playing friends that I've always THOUGHT about doing what they have devoted their lives to, including calloused, bleeding fingers and countless hours of practice. Thinking about playing the guitar doesn't help you know how to play a D chord.

“If only my friends who are already doing the thing that I think about doing would help me do the thing or invite me to do the thing with them. Also, why would I spend time actually doing the thing, if nobody is ever going to see me doing the thing or see the thing I've done?”

If we're talking about writing or stand-up (and the two go hand in hand, because making your buddies laugh on your lunch break is not the same as writing jokes and telling them to an audience), they are solo gigs. It's up to you and no one else to do them. And you are never guaranteed an audience. If you're a writer, you'll write when no one is reading. If you want to try stand-up, it's on you to write jokes (yes...for the love of all that is holy...WRITE YOUR OWN MATERIAL AND DON'T STEAL) and to find out about open mics where you can tell them.

Now, a lot of people who do the things will be more than happy to help you out with advice or pointers once you've proven that you're serious about doing the thing. Telling people who do creative things that you've always thought about doing creative things without anything creative to show for it is like showing up at a surgery without having attended med school. “But I've always thought about taking out someone's appendix!”

Also, (and this is more of a personal pet peeve of mine, so feel free to tell me to “fuck off”) stop vague-posting and humble-bragging on social media about “projects in the works” or “big things coming.” You shouldn't need that kind of back-patting bullshit from your FB friends to motivate you to do something. Finish the project. Do the big thing. Then share it with the world.

To sum up:

If you want to do the thing...stop talking about doing the thing.

Do the thing.

And be nice to animals.

Giving Thanks for Tommy Womack

When I was a young college freshman at WKU Tommy Womack grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and pulled me into a bar right past the bouncer who was about to check my ID and discover that I was not, in fact, old enough get in and see Government Cheese. Tommy didn't know me. Maybe he had seen me at previous Cheese shows and thus, knew I was fan. I don't know. It was, however, one of the coolest damn things that had ever happened to me in my 18 years on this planet. In that moment, Tommy Womack, guitarist and vocalist for Bowling Green, Kentucky's very own Government Cheese, achieved rock god and damn fine human being status in my young alcohol-addled, weed smoke-filled frontal lobe.

That was almost 30 years ago and since then, Tommy Womack has become one of the finest songwriters in America. I've grown up listening to Tommy and from those early Cheese songs right up through his latest album “Namaste,” his music has been there, growing right along with me. Tommy writes songs that are sometimes deeply personal and sometimes deeply hilarious. Listen to his albums and you'll hear songs about his rock and roll heroes, getting older, Jesus, working shitty jobs, death, smoking cigarettes, growing up skinny and small, living in Nashville, and loving his family.

Some personal favorites of mine are “Positively Na Na,” about when you reach that age where you don't recognize most of the bands from the year-end reader's poll in Rolling Stone. “Nice Day,” gets me all misty-eyed and throat-lumpy. It's about going swimming with the family and hearing your son tell you he loves you...twice. “It Doesn't Have to Be That Good,” with the lyric, “No matter what your life is like, it beats the pants off death.” And from his latest album, “God, Pt. 3,” one of the best songs ever written about Jesus and “I Almost Died,” a brutally honest account of getting close enough to the Grim Reaper that you can feel his breathe on your neck. “Namaste” is one of this year's best albums. Listen to it and you'll hear a man giving thanks for his life by writing the best songs of his career. It's the sound of a man who refuses to just grow old gracefully, but recognizing that grace is there nonetheless.

Tommy Womack will be in Paducah this Saturday night at Paducah Beer Werks Showtime is 9pm. I'll be there. I hope you will, too.

The "Revolution" is Right Outside Your Door

I've never been a “glass half-full” kinda guy. Shocking, I know. I'm more of a “half-full or half-empty it better be alcohol in that damn glass because the voices in my head won't STFU” kinda guy. I rant. I rage. It's what I do. If you had known me before I found a creative outlet for the demons that poke my brain with pitchforks on a regular basis, you probably would have just shaken your head and said, “Bless his heart” as we tend to do here in the South when confronted with the mad (I'm well aware that some of you say this now and when I say “some of you” I'm mainly talking about my family and people in my hometown). I'm a chemically-imbalanced miscreant, infected with a large dose of misanthropy that masks itself with a veneer of sarcasm, but who still tries to exercise the empathy muscle, because I'm convinced that empathy is the only thing that will stop the self-destruction that the human race has rushed toward ever since the first caveman knocked his brother over the head with a rock and discovered that that was much easier than negotiation as a means to eat the last mammoth leg. I spend most of my time disappointed with humans, but dammit, I can't quit you and I want us to do better. I want us to evolve to the next level of our existence and it makes me angry enough to bite my tongue in two when I see things like violence and greed and racism and bigotry and willful ignorance holding us back. I exist somewhere between pessimism and nihilism and I still have to turn the channel when the ASPCA abused puppy and kitty commercial comes on because I'm not fond of openly weeping and because seeing animals suffering sets me on a course into the blackest of depression and hatred that ends with holes punched in the dry wall and a hangover that lasts for three days. I got problems. Luckily, I can write passably enough to be somewhat entertaining and I can channel all of the above into a comedy act that, while it ain't for everybody, a few people dig enough to drop a five dollar bill to watch every once once in a while.
What I'm saying is that I'm not known for my “bright side.”
There is one, though. If you live here in Paducah, we have an awesome new mayor and I'm hopeful that our city will continue to grow and be an example to the rest of the world of what a town of our size can accomplish. Change does indeed start at home. The “revolution” is right outside your front door. You want things to get better nationally, do whatever the fuck you can do to make things better locally, wherever that may be. Take all of that sadness and frustration and rage and put it into your neighborhood, local government, charity organizations, and helping those that need it. Be kind to animals. Adopt one from a shelter. Teach your kids empathy. Talk to people who are different. Support local artists and musicians (and comedians). 
And if you're white and straight like me...recognize your privilege and open your eyes to the FACT that not everyone in this country has had the same American experience as you. You see, that's where that whole empathy thing comes into play. Stand up, for, and with everyone who is a victim of racism, bigotry, homophobia, and xenophobia. If you see them being attacked, step in and speak out. Let the worst of us know that they won't continue to beat down the best of us. Not on our watch. Not now. Not ever. 
"I am made by my times
I am a creation of now
Shaken with the cracks and crevices
I'm not giving up easy
I will not fold
I don't have much
But what I have is gold." - R.E.M.

I'm Done Being Tolerant of the Intolerant

Frances Scott Key said that African-Americans were, “a distinct and inferior race of people, which all experience proves to be the greatest evil that afflicts a community.”
There are people in the United States of America today who share this sentiment.
You know them. I know them. We all know them.
For most of this young country's history, people were raised with the belief that the white color of their skin made them more than or better than. I used the word belief purposely. I'm not talking about opinions or notions. It's a BELIEF. It's a belief that is kept in the same part of their hearts as their belief in God. It's a belief that is accepted as a fact that can't be questioned.
Water is wet.
The sky is blue.
God is in Heaven.
America is the greatest country ever.
Black people are less than.
You see, in their minds, believing that last part doesn't make them racist. “It's just how it is.”
Those of us who don't share that belief need to stop protecting those who do. I'm past the point of give a shit on this issue. I don't care if it's family, friend, coworker, who-the-fuck-ever...if you say or do racist shit, you deserve to be called out on it.
You might want to think twice before you elbow me and give me that conspiratorial wink and proceed to tell me some racist joke and assume that I'll find it as hilarious as you do because I'm white. I just might decide to share that shit with the world.
I'm done being tolerant of the intolerant.
And it has nothing to do with being ashamed of being white. I'm not ashamed of being white. I'm ashamed of how white people have treated anybody who is not white throughout the entire existence of America.
If you think racism is not one of, if not THE biggest problem facing our country, well, you are entitled to that belief and I'm entitled to tell you you're wrong.
There are millions of people in this country who belive African-Americans are inferior to whites and they will protest any efforts to achieve equality.
They simply won't stand for it.
But, let a black man protest and refuse to stand and...well, you know the rest.
Racism isn't over. Our silence when confronted with racism, equals our approval.
I'm going to start flipping the racist's nationalistic bullshit on them.
“Oh, you think white privilege doesn't exist and black folk need to STFU? That's un-American, asshole! You must not love this country as much as the rest of us. Perhaps you need to find another country that will put up with your racist ass. This is America, Jethro! Love all colors or leave it!”

YEEHAW! Death Spiral!

Well, it’s not without entertainment value. This whole death spiral of the Republican party that we’re witnessing. For most of my life, I’ve been told by conservatives that THEY are the party of God. THEY are the ones who support “traditional family values.” THEY are the ones who love the military. THEY are the REAL Americans and they America better than us liberals and progressives, because WE were the ones who wanted to DESTROY America. It’s kind of quaint to type that now. When you chose Donald Trump to be your nominee for President of the United States and when you continue to put a positive spin on every outlandish turd that he shits out of his mouth, well, you’ve blown all that other bullshit to smithereens. I’m talking nuclear annihilation. Trump is like Slim Pickens in “Dr. Strangelove,” riding a nuclear warhead straight into the heart of the GOP. He has shit on your religion. He has shit on the Constitution. He has shit on your leaders. He has shit on women and minorities and fire departments. He has shit on the military and those who have died fighting for this country. And you not only let him get away with it, you cheer it and hold your babies up to him, hoping a little bit of that Trump bullshit will land on them, too. After all those years of your pious, bible-thumping, we-are-the-true-patriots Americagasms, it turns out it was really about worshiping money and the people who have it and wanting someone to make you feel safe from all those scary brown people. Some of us kinda expected that all along, but I appreciate the conformation. What do I mean by “worshiping money and the people who have it?” Trump has money and in this country, if you can make money, you automatically are a SMART PERSON AND WOULD MAKE A GREAT LEADER. It totally does not matter if you were born into it and had a one million dollar head start on everybody else. Oh, and by “brown people,” I mean the Mexicans you’re so frightened of you want to build a wall to keep them out because Berlin had the right idea. I also mean Muslims, who have a right to practice their religion in this country, thanks to the Constitution you claim to revere so damn much. I’m also talking about that black family that lives in your neighborhood. The one you always said were some of “the good ones (wink),” until they put a Black Lives Matter bumper sticker on their car and became the enemy. That’s always been your thing, though, hasn’t it? Anybody, even your fellow Americans, who don’t share the exact same shiny-white vision that you have of this country is THE OTHER. It’s why you dry-hump the 2^nd Amendment and hoard all the weapons you can, because you never know when you might have to fight your own government to stop tyranny (by the way, it will be the death of irony when you lock and load and drive off to the battlefield to fight the mean ol’ gubmint in your pickup truck with all the Blue Lives Matter and I Support Our Troops bumper stickers on it). Republicans love to remind Democrats that it was the Dems in the South that started the KKK all those years ago, as if nothing ever changes or evolves. I’d like to remind Republicans that they used to be the party of Abraham Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, and Dwight D. Eisenhower. That grand old party is being brought down by a two-bit con man who fantasizes about fucking his daughter. Of course, if he wins, he could bring down the whole damn country.

Defeating Tiny Hands McWhite Supremacist

I'm voting for Hillary Clinton. I did not arrive at this decision lightly. As most of you know, I am a Sanders supporter. I voted for Bernie because I preferred the candidate who didn't take any money from the unholy cabal of greed demons on Wall Street who tanked the world's (again, THE WORLD'S) economy back in 2008. As Matt Taibbi recently wrote,

“When I think about the way the Democrats and their friends in the press keep telling me I owe them my vote, situations like the following come to mind. We're in another financial crisis. The CEOs of the ten biggest banks in America, fresh from having wrecked the economy with the latest harebrained bubble scheme, come to the Oval Office begging for a bailout. In that moment, to whom is my future Democratic president going to listen: those bankers or me? It's not going to be me, that's for sure. Am I an egotist for being annoyed by that? And how exactly should I take being told on top of that that I still owe this party my vote, and that I should keep my mouth shut about my irritation if I don't want to be called a Republican-enabler?”

Bernie didn't win the primary, though. I'm going to vote for Clinton, because I want to keep an honest-to-God fucking comic book villain out of the White House. Plus, those Supreme Court nominees are a pretty big deal, if things like LGBT rights are important to you and you believe women's health choices, including abortion, belong to them and not a group of pasty-white legislators with Baptist haircuts and an axe to grind with every woman who couldn't be satisfied by their half-flaccid Vienna sausage dicks. Also, I'm definitely anti-wall. There's also the fact that I'm legitimately terrified for my Muslim friends if we elect Orange is the New Fascist. I'm NOT crazy about how cozy Hillary is with Wall Street (And, yes, the Mule is just as addicted to and dazzled by money as the Elephant) and the fact that we'll probably continue bombing the bejesus out of brown people on the other side of the world (Middle Eastern parents watching a drone strike blow up their kid probably don't give a shit if it was sent by a Democrat or a Republican).

So, there ya go Democratic Party. You got my vote. Surely you won't mind a little constructive criticism, right? You can't keep running campaigns based on the “lesser of two evils” platform. Granted, the evil you're running against this time is pretty goddamn fucking evil, however, this attitude is becoming more and more frustrating for voters. Don't be afraid to actually be liberal and progressive. An example from right here in Kentucky: If you took the campaign ads from Jack Conway and Alison Lundergan Grimes and showed those to people above the Mason-Dixon Line, they'd assume they were watching Republicans. The days of holding a shotgun and saying Jesus to inspire Democrats to get off their asses and to polls are over. It's pandering, it's insulting, and it's everything you accuse the other side of doing. Most importantly, though, it would be a grave error to alienate and ignore all the millennials who support Bernie. Probably not a good idea to continue being snide and condescending to them (and older liberals, like yours truly), as well. The main reason? Most of the millennials that I know don't give fuck one about the Democratic Party. They care more about candidates who take therm seriously and who they can believe in. When they hear calls for “party unity,” they hear “you're idealism is adorable, but now it's time to be cynical bastards like the rest of us and choose the lesser of two evils because this is the system we have, blah, blah, blah.” Look, I'm old enough to remember when there were only three channels to choose from on the TV. These kids grew up with 200 fucking coffee flavors to choose from every day of their lives. Good luck convincing them that only two parties are really the best we can do as a country. It's going to take more than continually pointing to the other side and saying “BOO” to inspire them. And I, for one, admire the hell out of that. I even married one.

Again, before you feel the need to Demsplain to me about party loyalty, I've already said I'm voting for your candidate. Just remember, if we defeat Tiny Hands McWhite Supremacist in November, don't think that gives you a free pass to coast next time. We'll talk again in four years.

Giant Tubs of Peanut Butter: A Post for My Mammy

Giant tubs of peanut butter. I’m trying to memorialize my grandmother, Kathy Holloman, (“Kitten” to some, “Rose” to my Grandad, “Mammy” to her grandkids. She didn’t have a middle name, so all the pet names made up for that) and all I can think about are these giant, food-service size tubs of peanut that she and my Grandad would bring me when I was in college at WKU. I was a theatre major and they never missed a I play in which I was cast (even a play called “Pvt. Wars” where I had to show my naked ass on stage. She said I was too skinny). Mammy, being a grandmother, always worried that I wasn’t eating. Of course, I wasn’t. I was a college student. I spent my money on cigarettes and beer and the occasional cup of coffee and slice of pie at Murray’s diner. So, whenever they came to Bowling Green, they would bring me a giant tub of peanut butter so I “didn’t go hungry.” To this day, when I need comfort, I will get a jar of peanut butter and eat it with a spoon. Mammy’s house became a popular destination for some of my college friends, because food. Dear lord, THE FOOD. An average weekend home from school would find a couple of pizzas, burgers, BBQ, bacon and eggs, banana pudding, coconut cake, and any number of sides and all of it prepared because, “I didn’t know what y’all would be in the mood for.” It’s at this point where things might get disjointed, because that’s how my mind is right now as I write this. Mammy’s oldest son, Bobby Holloman, my Dad, died at the age of 24 in 1975. I was five and my sister, Brandy, was eighteen months old. As a result, we were very close to Mammy. We would spend just about every weekend with her and Grandad. We went on a few vacations with them to Mammoth Cave or to spend a few days in a cottage at Kentucky Lake. One time, we were headed to St. Louis for a trip and I was torn, because there was a movie playing at the Capitol Cinema in Princeton that I really wanted to see. We were about 50 or so miles down the road when I pronounced that this movie was more important to me than St. Louis. Grandad turned the car around, we drove back to Princeton and went to the movies that night. I don’t remember what movie it was. It may have been Star Wars. Mammy played board games with me. She and Grandad taught me how to play Poker, Rummy, Black Jack, and Rook. When I was older, I lived with them off and on, when things would get tough. The woman loved Christmas. Nothing made her happier than a house full of family. I get a lot of my sense of humor from Grandad and it was honed and practiced on Mammy. There were many head shakes and eye rolls thrown at me and Grandad over the years. She was old school and would not leave the house unless her hair was done and she was made up. She loved to shop. There were times when we would ask how she was feeling and would tell us she wasn’t feeling that great and we would tell her that’s too bad, because we were going to go shopping and she would immediately respond with, “Well, let me get ready.” She lived long enough to see me get married, which was something I had been assuring her for years would never happen. She loved her grandkids. As long as she was able, she was at every play, show, recital, graduation, and court date. That last one was a joke. It’s going to be very weird on this planet without her on it, too. I lost my maternal grandmother, Mammaw, about eight months ago. This Christmas will be the first without both of my grandmothers. Considering that I’m 46, it’s remarkable that I got this many years with them both. I won the grandma lottery. We buried Mammy yesterday. She was laid to rest right next to my Dad. Everyone who knew her will miss her. She was 87. If she had lived just a little bit longer, she and Grandad would have been married 68 years. He and the rest of us were lucky to have her for so long.