Hey a Nirvana parody! Nobody's ever done that before, right? I do think this is a pretty good homage, however. I committed garage rock sacrilege by plugging the guitars directly into the preamp and doing all the effects in Reason. But hey, I don't have a band, nor do I have a lot of fancy gear, so on the other hand, doing it all myself is about the most punk rock thing one could do, right?
What's that, Master? Is it time for a walk? I will do my best to destroy the harness before you put it on me. Yes, it is firmly ensnared between my jaws, as I intended. This is an amusing game we play, isn't it? You try to tear the harness from my teeth and I clench down as hard as I can. A-hah, you win again. Your fingers are delicate, Master. Let me bite them for you.
Oh, the outside is wonderful, is it not? Is that a frozen cat turd? Why do you restrain me, Master? Do you not know the deliciousness of petrified cat feces? 'Tis a treat unparalleled in the dog world. I must fight you, Master. You do not know what you deny me.
There, a stranger across the street! I will pull you to them, Master! Hurry, hurry, before they flee! Surely they will want to be clawed across the face and will reward me for pouncing upon their person! Why are you screaming? They want to pet me!
All apologies, Master. I am sorry that you fell because I had to lunge suddenly at a soiled taco bell wrapper. Your bruised knees and curses are worth it, I assure you. This wrapper tastes like garbage. Mmmumm, most delicious.
No, no, no, this is not the time to cross the street. I am sniffing here, Master. You don't understand. I detect the faintest whiff of cat urine on this particular spot. I'm sure the car will stop before it hits us. It's a risk I'm willing to take.
What, now that we're home, you don't want to play? Why can't you sacrifice your new shoe to my destructive urges? Well, if you're going to put that one back, I'm going to get another one.
Oh, this bread and plastic taste so good. What, why are you taking them from me? It was on the counter. Fair game, Master! If I can expend every effort to reach it, then I deserve to have a piece. Or the whole loaf.
This couch is not for me, eh? Then why does Mommy let me lie on it? Explain it to me, Master. I am good dog. I'm sure you won't mind if I indulge in a little casual pillow destruction. Mommy won't mind. As I said, I am good dog.
Hey! You there! Moving shadow across the window! Stop I said! Did you see it, Master? Did you see? Something moved over there! Who knows what it could be? We must raise the alarm! Intruder! Intruder!
I swear I saw something, Master. I better raise the alarm again to see if I can flush it out. Why do you berate me so? I'm going to choose to interpret your shouting as joining in with my raising of the alarm. Yes, shout Master! Let them have it! They will never cross our window again!
Oh, this shoe is great. Most delicious! Here, Master. Why don't you have a taste? I will share it with you. If you can take it from me. What a fun game we play.
Another excerpt from The Resurrection, a novel in progress about a former rock star named Mercy Maddock's quest to reunite his band. Here's a link to an early section of the book.
The Great Drive West
They say that California burned down in a great conflagration that swallowed LA and turned multi-million-dollar homes into ash and cinder. No one could afford those homes anyway, and the people who could, couldn’t afford to rebuild. In our collective mind’s eye, California is a paradise of beautiful people frolicking on beaches while skateboards slide down drained aquifers, punk music blaring in the background, emitting from speakers unknown. Cowboys and movie stars and tech giants and the omnipresent sun. It’s far away from the Midwestern reality that many of us know. Contrast that pop image with everlasting fields of corn and tiny towns rotting from the inside out, drugs and trash spilling from their crumbling houses like the disemboweled innards of a famished bovine. It’s not all good, nor is it all bad—I know the truth and the fantasy of both places—but the myth of the West has started to fade, and I wonder if the fires which char its surface are the result of a deal gone bad.
We were on our way to make a bad deal, to sell my soul for a guitar. The landscape flies past the windows as Mercy drives his SUV through the wide open spaces of desert and rock. This much emptiness has enough room to swallow anyone’s soul, although apparently I’m the only one left who has anything to sell. Mercy purchased a Rubik’s Cube for Maggle to fondle, and he’s made real progress with it, having matched the colors on two sides. I’m content to sit and stare through the glass, pondering the hazy mystery of my past, while trying to conjure anything real for the future. Mercy’s fine though—he’s huffing on a vape pen while the stereo plays Otis Redding—tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel, lost in his quest to get back what he once had.
The thing about the horizon is that if you keep on looking at it, you can see whatever you want. The shimmer and haze, the heat distortion, the curve of the earth. The stark monotony of the landscape. In an arid environment, nature becomes a minimalist. All that space begs for something to fill it, so you must oblige.
What I see is a woman walking through the sand. She’s so far away that I can’t make out her details, but I imagine that her hair is the same sandy blonde of my wife’s. Is she waving? Should we stop and make sure that it’s not a mirage…”
“What if somebody just shot all the rich people?” yells Maggle, tossing his Rubik’s Cube off the dashboard.
“Christ, Maggle, what are you going on about?” says Mercy, as he struggles to keep the car on the road.
“I’m not talking about your healthcare CEOs or that guy on your block that drives a Porsche,” says Maggle. “I’m talking about the super-rich. The guys who have enough money to build rockets and own stretches of Hawaii. The real sonsabitches.”
“That’s a real novel idea you have their, Maggle,” says Mercy. “I’m sure no one has considered it before.”
“The guys who are trying to replace us with computers. The guys who own all the trucks that deliver packages. The guys who ruined the internet. The guys with more money than God or Davy Crockett.”
“Davy Crockett?” I ask.
“Does he mean ‘More money than Croesus?’” asks Mercy.
“Why should we want to kill them, Maggle?” I ask, fearing the answer.
“Because what the fuck are they doing with all that money?” he snarls. “I’m living in a house full of trash. So are my neighbors. You telling me I haven’t worked hard in my life? Well I have, if not lately. But that don’t mean I deserve to live like I do. What about all those people in Africa who can live off of like fifty bucks a month? What about instead of building a giant dick to the Moon, one of those assholes donates half of their fortune? What about instead of buying off the President, that South African rat man stops the world from heating up? How can you have that much money and not do anything good with it?”
“Rubik’s Cube really flummoxed him,” whispers Mercy.
“If I ever win a bunch of money,” says Maggle, voice rising, “I’m gonna buy all the girls on my street new TVs and fancy perfume, and then I’m gonna donate half of it to the town and make ‘em change the name of my street to Maggle Street, and then if I have any left over, I’m buying guns and Scotch for anybody that’ll spend the day with me, just doing whatever I want.”
“That’s kind of sweet and terrifying at the same time, Maggle,” says Mercy.
“They took away our connection to people!” he blubbers, tears beginning to well in his eyes. “You can’t talk to anybody no more! There’s phones in people’s faces, and pretty soon they’ll put them in their brains and nobody will go outside their house and the whole damned mess will collapse like Rome and Athens and Machu Picchu!”
“We’ve got to keep it real, luv. You, me, and Julius,” says Mercy. “If there’s love in this world, then there will always be people.”
“Nobody loves me!” says Maggle, sobbing now.
I reach back and give his shoulder a shake.
“Nobody cares about a fat, middle-aged methhead who lives in trash and talks to rats!”
“I care,” says Mercy.
“You care because you want me to play the piano!”
“Yes, of course. I want to give you a purpose. I want to let you show the world that you still have it.”
“I don’t have it!”
“You do, Maggle. Everyone of us has something to give.”
2024 was mostly a year of doing bodybuilding training with relatively light weights while maintaining my bodyweight at around 185 to 190 lbs. Losing weight earlier in the year really impacted my training. I had to abandon my PR every week strategy, since I couldn't lift anywhere near as much weight as I had been. Throughout the year, I kept my weight loss, although my weight has been creeping upward after the holidays. Being lighter and moving without soreness became more important than doing a deadlift with 405 lbs for 9 reps, for example. For 2025, I'd like to slowly add back some weight and see if I can't start lifting a little heavier. At 39 years old (turning 40 this year!) I know I can still get stronger; I just have to balance the demands of heavy training with middle-age and a physically-demanding lifestyle. We got a puppy last August, which turned out to be a German Shorthaired Pointer in disguise. She's a very active dog that demands multiple walks every day, so I've been doing a lot of walking.
This is my current routine, which I just started a couple weeks ago. It's a bodybuilding/powerlifting split, with plenty of exercise variation and a few heavier lifting days. If I miss a day, I'll just do it the next day.
Sunday: Upperbody hypertrophy
Incline DB press 2x12
Overhand chins 2x10
Chest supported rows 2x12
Curl movement 2x12
Triceps movement 2x12
Monday: Lowerbody hypertrophy/shoulders
High bar squat 3x10 (pyramid progression)
Good mornings 2x12
Abs (crunches or knee raises) 2x12
Side laterals 2x10-12
Upright rows 2x10-12
Tuesday: Light bench/upperbody hypertrophy
Bench Press 3x10 (pyramid progression)
Underhand chins 2x10
Inverted rows 2x10
Curl movement 2x10-12
Triceps movement 2x10-12
Wednesday: Heavier lower body day/shoulders
Low bar squat 4x5 pyramid progression
Deadlift 3x5 pyramid progression
Abs 2x12
Side laterals 2x10-12
Upright rows 2x10-12
Thursday: Heavier Bench Press/upperbody hypertrophy
Bench Press 4x5 pyramid progression
BB rows 3x10-12
Biceps movements 4x10-12
Triceps movements 4x10-12
A simple song about raging against the current. Quite a bit of stratocaster soloing over a minor I-V7-IV vamp. Baby Yoda is caged while John Cena looks on. Such is the way of life.
All it takes is one more scream,
and there goes the hairbrush,
the toaster, the broom
snapped across my knee
like Bo Jackson
splintering a baseball bat
in half.
The dismal daylight,
The constant confines,
The time of year.
I am not who I thought I would be,
and though my love
is like a steel cable drawn taut,
I can’t help but rage against
my circumstances of being.
Hey a Nirvana parody! Nobody's ever done that before, right? I do think this is a pretty good homage, however. I committed garage rock...
