Two Half Brains

Best. Condom Ad. Ever.

2009-05-30T09:31:00.000-04:00

Best. Shirt. Ever.

2009-05-29T09:30:00.002-04:00

Rare Photo of Deacon Stoic

2009-05-19T10:53:00.001-04:00

Here is a photo of Deacon Stoic hard at work.

Take it from me

2009-04-22T15:59:00.001-04:00

Never smell your Dad's fingers.

He only felt free, and truly adult...

2009-04-22T15:35:00.002-04:00

when he decided to blame his parents for everything. This new strategy didn't impress the judge, however
-- Arjun Basu

Oh shit!

2009-04-22T14:51:00.001-04:00

Is it Wednesday? Fuck it.

Two Half Brains Guide to Chat and Text Message Abbreviations

2009-04-21T14:21:00.001-04:00

Abbr	Meaning	Abbr	Meaning
F?	I have a fucking question	F?	What the fuck do you mean?
<3	I love balls	<33	Balls on balls
F411	Fucking information	2MFI	Too much fucking information
F404	How the fuck should I know?	FBFF	Fuck buddy for fucking-ever
FBRB	Fucking be right back	IMFO	In my fucking opinion
FLOFL*	Fucking laughing out fucking loud.	OMFG	Oh my fucking god
ROTFFLMFAO	Rolling on the fucking floor laughing my fucking ass off	WTF	Want to fuck?

* FLOFL is pronounced [fuh-la-fuhl]

I Wonder

2009-04-16T13:46:00.001-04:00

I wonder if Deacon Stoic’s wife is tired of reading all my boo-hoo-I-had-it-so-bad shiz-bot? I wonder if my wife is? I wonder why we put question marks at the end of “I wonder” sentences? I wonder if that’s proper?

Wayback Wednesday – Seems like yesterday

2009-04-16T13:45:00.002-04:00

…and actually, Wayback Wednesday was yesterday. At least the “Wednesday” part. I can’t go way back every Wednesday. Gotta bring the readers along slowly. Let them listen. Help them learn. Give them time to process.

Besides, after I write a WW, I’m in a pretty shitty mood for a couple of days.

So, instead of a WW, just imagine I wrote something whiny about how Dad drank and ignored me. Or how Mom enabled him and emotionally manipulated me.

Or how I was in the band in high school and we were so cool and important. Only later did I discover that at other schools, the band kids were seen as the nerds. (Only the other schools, right?)

Or something about homos, or soon-to-be homos.

Or about what a shitty little town I lived in, with that shitty little church and its shitty little hypocrites.

Or how I struggled with religion for years after I got out of that place.

Or how I struggled with self-esteem for years after I got out of that place.

Or how I thought everyone else had it all figured out, until I found my way to Hog Town, where everyone has it all figured out.

Shit-Holers (Yes. Again.)
You know what? The more I find out about people from back in the day - namely, 70s adolescent refugees of shit-hole town (shit-holers) - the more maxims I discover. Shit-holers who presently live within 100 miles of shit-hole town, on the whole

Have little or no college education.
Make less money than ex-shit-holers (dare I say “expatriates”?)
Attend church regularly and actively.
Have a lower divorce rate, to their credit. But, if I thought for a while, I could twist it into something about why it’s a pathetic shit-holy thing.
Can’t write a lick, unless it’s “Charley goin huntin” on Facebook. And if they do write, they don’t know the difference between “its” and “it’s,” “your” and “you’re,” “lose” and “loose,” etc. Then again, sometimes it seems nobody does. Sigh. And don’t get me started on the difference between “between” and “among,” except to say this very sentence contains a hint. (Yeah, we write incomplete sentences. And we start sentences with “and,” “but,” and “or.” What of it?)
Are lucky they had kids so they can get help with Facebook.
Seem to like their shit-hole. Some even return to shit-hole town after their duty is up (think military service, marriage, etc.). I mean, WTF? Nobody goes back to shit-hole town. Except to gawk. Or to buy hunting clothes on the cheap – like for a play or something.

Come to think of it, if you’re passing through shit-hole town, you should wear a bright red vest. They got themselves lots of pickups with gun racks behind the seats and lots of empty beer cans rattling on the floorboard.

Well, whaddayaknow…
We got ourselves a whole WW, after all. Wayback Wednesday, Thursday edition. Let the shitty mood begin.

iGod

2009-04-16T13:38:00.001-04:00

I know abortion and stem cells are controversial and all, but what about hunger, poverty, and general benevolence? Why aren’t more of you far right SOBs equally upset about those issues? Don’t answer. I don’t wanna hear your shit-holier than thou “because God wants us to XYZ.” You don’t know what God wants. It’s not God, it’s iGod. You know what iGod plays, because iGod plays whatever you want.

Tackling hunger and poverty is a dirty job. Way dirtier than voting.

While I’m at it…if, according to your interpretation of the bible, so many people are going to hell, how can you merrily work and play along side them, knowing their fate is eternal fire? I mean really. Eternal? Fire? iGod needs an upgrade.

“Will” trumps “smarts”

2009-04-16T12:34:00.002-04:00

You know what this IQ comparison chart tells me? Although there’s a general trend, your “smarts” don’t have a lot to do with where you are – or where you’re headed.

So what does? Hard work? Yes, but what comes before hard work? Pardon? Did you say “desire”? That’s it! Give yourself a cookie. No one can sustain “hard work” for very long if they don’t have a give-a-shit goal in mind.

Don’t get me wrong, desire without action is almost useless. I say “almost” because at least it’s funny.

In other words, don’t think you’re not capable of doing something or being something. That’s pity-speak. Truth is, you don’t want it. Or, you didn’t want it, and you’ll be damned if you start trying now.

“Will” trumps “smarts.”

Unless, of course, you’re a dumb shit.

Gators sign decorated guard, but wait!

2009-04-16T11:16:00.003-04:00

It's just women's basketball. Get back to work...

Kids Say the Darndest Things

2009-04-11T12:03:00.001-04:00

Hold on to the Feeling...

2009-04-09T10:24:00.002-04:00

Wayback Wednesday – Your Eyes Have Died

2009-04-08T15:36:00.001-04:00

Daniel is traveling tonight on a plane
I can see the red tail lights heading for Spain

Death crawls the far reaches of his new pathways. He has a fresh way to leverage His evil and to spread His sorrow. Night after night, in the near-darkness of my bedroom, He’s been whispering to me, telling me stories.

The room, and surely my face, are lightly illuminated by my iPod and the dreadful Internet behind it. The light flashes one horrible story after another. Death makes me listen. Death makes me feel.

Over the years, He has been claiming people I once knew. For decades, He’s been boasting, bragging, and spreading their stories. Now, He’s telling me. He delights in my despair. He whispers to me, He wants me to share. I’m helpless. I’ve told others. Now, I’m telling you.

Two died in automobile accidents, another by AIDS, and another in a horrible freak accident. There are others. I’ll be told, but all in time. Death is patient. His is a slow, steady drip. He watches me. Misery is His pleasure.

Until recently, I just didn’t know. People die…I know that much. But today, we can keep toll at a pace that I’m not sure I can handle. It’s not just that I didn’t know the stories, but I didn’t know they would find me. That He would find me. Social media is death media.

Even though some of the stories are decades old, they’re all only days old for me. Loved ones have come to terms a long time ago. They’ve made their peace…at least as much as they’ll ever be able.

For me, the stories are fresh and they play in my head. I picture the last moments. The violent ones and the weary ones. The screeching tires and the quiet beds. I picture loved ones as they first get word. Cries. Disbelief. Despair. I picture other loved ones at bedside. Quietly waiting. Quietly sad. Quietly relieved.

Against my will, I’m thrust back in time. 30 years fold in half and 1979 touches today. It’s fresh. It’s real. It’s now. I see the dead as I last knew them. I’ve gone nowhere. As before, shit-hole town pulls me back.

Oh and I can see Daniel waving goodbye
God it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes

In 1980, my friend Craig Fey and his brother are racing go-carts. They turn onto a highway and Craig doesn’t stop in time. He runs under an oncoming car.

My friend Chris Powers was the nicest kid you’d ever know. He was smart, generous, mature, happy. He was killed in an auto accident, the same way his parents were killed when he was a little boy.*

In the 80s, Daniel Berry died of AIDS. We were best friends in 5th grade. But now, for me, it’s high school again, and I hate that fucker. Later, he’ll figure out he’s gay, but until then, he always gets the girl. He’s comfortable with himself. He can talk to anyone. He’s popular. The nerve! That, my friend, is the unpardonable sin in my high school book.

So why is Daniel’s the hardest loss for me so far? Because. He is, or he was, larger than life. Because. He was funny, mouthy, and always got the girl. Because. He was popular and I wanted to be like him. Because. I was jealous.

I wasn’t surprised to hear Daniel died of AIDS. I hope he had a good, gay adult life before (your) God killed him.**

Daniel my brother you are older than me
Do you still feel the pain of the scars that won't heal?

Not gay, and not an old classmate, but I tell you one thing, I’ll never get over Dad’s death. Never. You know what I learned from him? I learned how not to live.***

My theory is this:
Good relationship? Good goodbye…closure.
Bad relationship? No goodbye…the dead man wins.

Your eyes have died but you see more than I

What is it about the dead that makes it seem like they know more than we do? Infants, children, elderly, it doesn’t matter. It’s like they know what’s on the other side, even if it’s nothing.

Daniel you're a star in the face of the sky

The dead are much too wise to share what they know with us. Maybe it’s the kind of knowledge only the dead can handle.

Oh and I can see Daniel waving goodbye
God it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes
Oh God it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes

It’s not the clouds. It’s the tears.

* Sorry, but don’t give me your “God knows best” bullshit. That’s just the God in your head.
** If you think AIDS is God’s way of punishing gay people, don’t come back to TwoHalfBrains.com.
*** One day I’ll be older than Dad was when he died. That means I’ll be older than he ever was. Can’t quite get my head around that.

Rock Your Ass Off Thursday: Alice in Chains

2009-04-02T04:05:00.003-04:00

Seven years on Sunday, Layne.

Hard to believe you're gone.

We miss you.

Hey, bitches. This time we mean it. Turn it up. Put on the headphones. Do what you have to do.

This stuff is special.

Alice in Chains. Rock your ass off...

Welcome to 2HB Month Four

2009-04-01T00:01:00.001-04:00

Happy April, bitches.

Ernie, Turn the Fuck Around Right Now

2009-03-31T12:01:00.000-04:00

Bert & Ernie Gangsta-Rap

2009-03-30T12:01:00.000-04:00

People like the guy who put this together make me feel like I've done nothing with my life.

Life’s River Shall Rise

2009-03-29T22:38:00.007-04:00

She said that time is unfair
To a woman her age
And now that wisdom has come
Everything else fades

Except for drinking, Dad was an underachiever. Everything he didn’t do said “I’m unhappy, I give up,” and everything he did do said “and it’s your fault.” Basically, Papa just kind of ignored me, unless he was jumping my shit about something. Something that was bothering him, that is. Like for singing at the dinner table. Or for the time I shouted “crap” once when the power went out (I’m mean, what the fuck?). It may have still been daylight outside, but every now and then if he had enough "life," he'd order us kids to bed. He never hit me or anything like that. He just didn’t want to be bothered. I think the kids, and Mom for that matter, just weren’t his bag. At least for most of my time at home. "If not for them, I could have been somebody," or some similar delusion.

She said she realizes
She’s seen better days

He did once draw his fist back to hit me. It was for “smartin’ off” to Mom. Understandable, I suppose. At least it was different, and that made it interesting. Also different…his stacks and stacks of dirty magazines in the trunk of an old car that had seen better days. A couple of those mags were of nude men. I always wondered what that back-story was. Maybe I should ask Mom. One was called Foxylady. I remember it had photos of a naked cowboy, except for a hat, vest, holster, chaps, and boots. Photos included him on a horse, squatting by a camp fire holding a frying pan over it with vittles, and so on. The usual rugged outdoorsy stuff.

She said she can’t look back
To her days of youth

One time, my sister asked Mom if she gave Dad head. Nice.

What she thought were lies
She later found was truth

Mamma came to the states an Atheist, and assimilated all-to-quickly into deep south religious ignorance. And she was hard on me. Not that I remember, but recently, she apologized for it. And she never lies; therefore, she was hard on me. I do know one thing…that lady can throw a guilt trip down your throat so hard it rots in your belly. And the rest of your life, it sits there and makes you feel it where normal people don’t.

She said her daddy had dreams
But he drank them away

But I wouldn’t trade my parents for anyone else’s. Dad and I never really hit it off, and I think that’s why his passing was hard one me. I’m still not over it. I’m still pissed at him. But I love that fucker. Not to confuse, but he was a great guy.

And her mother’s to blame
For the way she is today

I love Mom, too. Sure, there are stretches where we don’t talk. Not like we’re fighting or anything. We do the email thing. I’m just not much for yakking on the phone, and she gets it. But, she can’t resist a zing if I do ring her up, “Hey there, what’s the matter?” Like I only call when I get divorced or something. Bullshit. I’m pretty sure I’ve called her more than twice.

Life’s river shall rise, she said
Only the strong shall survive, she said
But I’m feeling quite weak, she said
Will you comfort and forgive me? she said

You know what, though? She’s the best goddamn Grandmother in the world.

She says she’s still searching
For salvations light
Yeah, she wishes all day
And then, she prays all night

I always get the impression that I’m the asshole in the family. I’m a little bit on the outside. Not asking in, by the way. I’m just saying, is all.

She said she won’t speak of love
Cause love she’s never known
Still its moments like these
She hates to be alone

Love that line: “I’m just saying, is all.”

Forgive me
She said
Forgive me
She said

Life’s river shall rise.

Rock Your Ass Off Thursday -- Stillwater

2009-03-26T04:05:00.001-04:00

A "cowboy beer."

A "red beer."

I don't know what it's supposed to be called, but I dig it.

It's a pretty simple concoction. I go with about two thirds beer, and one third V8, spicy V8 if I can get it. Cheap beer is the way to go on this one. There is no place in the cowboy beer for a Bass Ale or a Samuel Smith Nut Brown Ale. This is Miller Lite territory. This is the raw stuff only.

So there you have it -- lousy beer joined with something just on the other side of tomato juice. It does down better than you might think, almost too fast. Sometimes the less-than-obvious concoctions are the best ones. Stumbling across such a combo is a very cool surprise. It's something that sticks, becoming one of life's great joys for those who find the right mix. And you just take it in. No analysis. No note taking.

It should be mentioned for those who are looking for a day-after fix up that a cowboy beer is the best elixir you can find. I wouldn't know this first hand, but so I've heard. Believe me, I've never "awakened" in a Vegas hotel room or on a Mexican beach and sought some afternoon help. Really.

The mix of the raw stuff is the ultimate Hair of the Dog. The Hair of the Fever Dog.

What would happen in rock and roll if a mix like this occured? What if it was an invention, something that someone crafted out of nothing? Something that some people didn't see as "real?"

What would happen if somebody fashioned a U2-meets-Zeppelin? Weird.

Would fans dig it if a lead singer looked straight out of the 70's and sounded a lot like Robert Plant? What would happen if during the guitar breaks you just had to say And I can see those fighter planes. And I can see those fighter planes...?

Would it be a life-long concoction, one of life's joys? Would it be the Hair of the Dog for the rock and roll junkie? Would it be the Hair of the Fever Dog?

Beats me.

Stillwater...rock your ass off.

No time for the old in-out, love, I've just come to read the meter

2009-03-23T11:00:00.002-04:00

Your Time is Gonna Come

2009-03-20T22:13:00.003-04:00

Lying
Cheating
Hurting
That’s all you seem to do

Messing around with every guy in town
Putting me down for thinking of someone new

Man, oh man, there were times in my life when that song was burrowed deep into my head like that earwig on The Twilight Zone. The little fucker ate right through some poor guy’s brain and laid eggs along the way.

I know what you’re thinking. OK, half brain, tell us who your metaphorical earwig is. Go through your self-pity routine, and then we can all get on with our day.

Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to remember it all to myself. But, I’ll share the soul of it with you.

What then? First, do you even have a soul? We’re all born with “soul stem cells,” but for those of you that skate through your early years unchallenged and over-nurtured, the cells never activate. You just become more of the way-too-many soul-free fuckers out there in my way. You look normal. Shit, you look happy, even, but you’re bland. You don’t even know it. You have no passion. Your jokes are safe and stupid. Your friends are safe and stupid. You read, listen to, and watch cardboard. You have no clue.

By the way, your wife hates you. You ruined her life. She’s right.

On the other hand, if life overfucks the child you – if Dad ignores you, Mom rides your ass too much, or Uncle Harry dicks you – the balance may tip the other way, damaging those precious cells. You become one of the way-too-many weird fuckers out there. An addict. Oversensitive. You overreact and you under react. You don’t connect. This is not your beautiful house.

I’ll take the weird fuckers over the bland fuckers every mother fucking time. At least the weird fuckers have soul. The bland fuckers are marking time, taking up space, and breathing my air.

So here we are, dear reader. All of us a little closer. Closer to the end of the day. Closer to tomorrow. The next crises. The next heartache. Death. Your time is gonna come.

Here we are, indeed. This is the unauthorized, unofficial, special Friday night edition of Rock Your Ass Off Thursday. Hijacked, invaded, occupied, supplanted, and embedded.

Yes, you can play Led Zeppelin’s original, and goddamnit, that was good enough for me back in the day. But what if you have an itch for Elvis? And, what if you’re burning a fattie, so reggae is a must-have?

What then? Its’ not impossible, child. Close your eyes and listen. Yes, these fuckers have skeletons. But goddamnit, there’s a little soul in there. Or at least they can pull it out of you…if you have any. Dread Zeppelin. Rock your ass off…

(If you really can't stand the picture, try this one. I think the audio is even a little better.)

Not Your Momma's Sesame Street

2009-03-20T09:36:00.002-04:00

"Poppy Seed Street," perhaps?

Usually, insight and commentary go before the video, but I say fuck it.

Ghetto Sesame Street

Drunk Ol' Rocky Top

2009-03-20T08:32:00.003-04:00

1998: Former Tennessee Volunteer defensive end Leonard Little, driving with a blood alcohol content twice the legal limit, hits and kills a pedestrian in St. Louis. Little pleads guilty to involuntary manslaughter.

2004: Little, pulled over for traveling 78 mph in a 55 mph zone, gets another DUI. A DUI after he'd killed someone six years before.

2009: Former Tennessee Volunteer wide receiver Dante Stallworth, driving with a blood alcohol level exceeding the legal limit, hits and kills a pedestrian in Miami.

Not good.

Maybe this is a little below the belt, but Jesus, Tennessee.

Not funny.