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14. March 2008 by admin.
Even as it happens, it’s hard to figure out.
And later, after the tears have slowed, clarity emerges.
It can’t be preserved in a vacuum. It was good because it was good. It was great because it was allowed to be, not because it was supposed to be.
Could it be again?
Who knows, but with soft music playing and a fresh absence of the tension of trying so damn hard all the time…
There is understanding.
Of me, of you, of everything that’s true.
These things are tricky, and fear makes it even trickier.
So how ’bout we tell fear to take a hike, a long walk off a short pier, a permanent vacation.
I don’t have any idea how it’s supposed to be, but life is too short (and too long) to be steered by fear.
So simple and so complex.
Just like me, you, and everyone else in the world.
A big step back and a fresh perspective, a relaxing of the rules.
Realization.
Thanks so much.
For Understanding.
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10. March 2008 by admin.
It’s got great tires and 4 wheel drive, but on Saturday it became a time machine.
Yeah, it was snowing like the dickens, but that couldn’t stop me. (I don’t fear snow, snow fears me.) I set off for Toledo around 2pm and was hoping to be there by 7 for sound check.
See, about a month ago I got a knock on my door from a friend I hadn’t seen in what…14 years? He showed up on a Sunday afternoon, and shortly after reminding me who he was, he helped me remember who I am.
I really can’t be blamed for not recognizing him…I thought it was a ressurected Jim Morrison selling memberships to a religious cult…thanks, but no thanks.
“Steve, How are ya?”
Who are you?
“Dude, it’s Hayes!”
Hayes was the kid in school believed in us even more than we believed in ourselves. He rode the school bus, the same one on which Mike and I met…The same school bus that featured a driver that was taller sitting down than she was standing up. (Oh, how we tortured her…It wasn’t mean spirited, simply all in the name of fun.)
And I guess we tortured Hayes a bit as well…again, not mean spirited, simply all in the name of fun.
And so, after catching up a bit, he invited me to see his band play with my old band in Toledo March the 8th. When that day came, all the snow in the world couldn’t have stopped me.
There were times I thought I wasn’t going to make it, put after pulling 3 people out of the snow and waiting an hour for a semi to get a grip, I made it to club Bijou, made a phone call to get inside (a little VIP treatment for old time’s sake) and the time warp began in earnest.
(Wayne and Garth are waving their arms and gyrating their torsos even now…diddly doo, diddly doo, diddly doo)
Mike has cut his hair and has been working out, but other than that…nothing has changed. He’s still the world’s biggest fan of the best band in the land. (You wanted the best, you got the best…KISS!) We hugged long enough for someone to get the wrong idea, but we couldn’t have cared less. It took about a minute and a half to feel like nothing at all has changed.
There were stories about Mike’s mom Sandy, who let us practice all day every day in the little basement where I lost most of my hearing. Sandra Dee, who would empty the trash every time someone went in the bathroom. Sandy, who always knew when to call Domino’s and who knew every song by heart. God bless her, I hope she was able to smile through the pain of her last days. Who else would let us test pyro in the driveway? Gunpowder in a paint can? Yikes!
It wasn’t long before Andy appeared…Six feet plus of the best singer in Rock and Roll. His hair’s a little shorter too, but he’s the same under that too-tiny cowboy hat. (Do I have hat-hair? Seriously, do I?)
Ahh, Shaboogie.
I wish I had the time and talent to tell you some of the stories…but Hayes and Mike tell ‘em better, and you had to be there anyway. Suffice to say that we grew up together and shared the same dream for a long, long time.
Guidance Counselor: “Have you thought about which college you’d like to go to?”
Steve Anderson: “Nope. I’m a guitar player.”
Guidance Counselor: “Do you have a backup plan?”
Steve Anderson: “Nope. Don’t need one.”
You see folks, we really believed we could do it. We were barely old enough to drive, yet we were filling clubs that we weren’t even supposed to be in. With a singer or without, we didn’t care, we just wanted to play.
So we did.
Hayes says we wrote around 300 songs…he made a list. I’ve forgotten some, but he can still sing the riffs to just about all of them.
I’m so proud of them. Mike, Andy, Jeff. I made it through the third song before the tears started to fall.
(Tears are falling. My Dad helped me figure it out, and it was the first song Mike and I ever played together. I figured a KISS song would impress him. I was right.)
Watching Mike scowl at his hi-hat and then adjust it in between songs was all it took…
Of course, Andy sounds just like I remember him. Hayes was on bass because nobody knows where Mark is these days. Nashville? Amway headquarters? Who knows…
And Hayes… sorry… Hayez has his own band now. They’re called Novada and they’re very good. Andy’s in Sponge, and Mike’s semi-retired, just like me.
There’s some talk of a reunion show in May…If they want me there, I’m there.
How could I stay away? Andy was right…you can suppress it, but it’s gonna push out eventually. He reminded me of the song we wrote about it…a prayer, actually.
Lord let me be a music man
Lord, keep a song in my soul
Lord let me be a music man
Lord, everywhere I go
Thanks for the memories, guys.
And everything else.
Steve
(I’m a guitar player.)
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28. February 2008 by admin.
I got the call last night, driving home from Cleveland after a frustrating business trip.
I was thinking, as I always do while driving, deeply…
It seems my nephew had written an essay at school about his silly uncle crashing his Kawasaki-green big wheel at the park during an epic race around the park’s perimeter.
Yeah, I crashed it more than once… but in my defense, the ergonomics on that thing are miserable, and there is zero torque in the front wheel pedal to keep that infernal big wheel spinning. Not only that, but the rear wheel steering system is downright suicidal. If you don’t believe me, get your bad self down to Wal-mart and take one for a spin through the housewares and the put-it-together-yourself-with-glue-and-one-allen-wrench furniture. You’ll see what I mean in no time at all. Take some pictures if you do, I’d love to see them.
But I was thinking…why do I stay “removed” from the whole thing? Why do I not call, write, keep in touch? That little goofball would love to hear from his Uncle, and I must be a selfish jerk to deny him a little Uncle Sugarbear talk on the phone every now and then…I’m busy, but not that busy.
(Everything is so temporary?)
And then, right in the middle of the pointlessly poignant pondering, the phone rang.
A little small talk, followed by the inevitable.
It’s interesting that the chatter on talk radio was all about the passing of Bill Buckley some time yesterday. I don’t know much about him, but he has apparently been a heavy influence on many of my influences. Rush went on about him for the entire opening monologue, and that’s good enough for me.
We live, we do what we do, and then it’s over. People who knew us say some niceties, then it’s back to the news at noon. Thanks for the memories, have a nice day.
But I guess that’s just my perception of the passing of a guy I didn’t know, but who has enriched my understanding of the world immensely through others who have reached me directly.
(Albert King is on, singing about what the blues is all about. He’s all minor all the time, not like his soul brother B.B. who sticks with a blend of major and minor to keep it lighter and slightly more hopeful. Sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. Stevie Ray stole most of his vocabulary, and I stole it again from Stevie Ray. See what I mean?)
I knew Annette Anderson. She was my Dad’s mom. Sweet as iced tea and simultaneously as stern as any substitute teacher. I wish we all knew her better.
In her Eighties, playing tennis every day and driving meals-on wheels to seniors that were twenty years her junior.
She called me Stevie.
The last time I saw her, she called me Stevie.
I was in Austin on business, and rented a car to make the drive to San Angelo. I call it a car anyway, the sobbing greenies would call it the end of the world: A huge, unnecessary maroon Ford Expedition. Nobody needs it, everybody wants it. (power, strength, capability beyond the ordinary)
There’s not a direct way to get there. (Ain’t that the truth…)
Mostly backroads, two-laners surrounded by the glowing green eyes of confused deer looking for the deer crossing signs. I ignored them, just as I ignored the posted speed limit signs.
The kind Texas trooper who stopped me a short time later didn’t care how fast I was driving, he just didn’t want me to have a deer and glass sandwich to snack on during my journey. That’s Texas for ya, have a nice day and be safe on your way. Sincerely.
And so I arrived at Avenue J right on time, even a little early, to take my Grandmother Anderson out to dinner for the first, last, and only time.
Good enchiladas, bad salad, and a great time. We returned to the house that has never changed and continued to catch up.
She made a pecan pie in what seemed like ten minutes, just for me. From scratch, I guess. I never saw any evidence of any of the preparation. Easy as pie, I suppose.
This was the house where you didn’t open your Christmas presents until after Homer Anderson read the Christmas story right from the good book. No leg lamps in that one, no lost lug nuts, just the three wise men and all the rest of it.
Homer had a German Shepherd named Lappie, and all I ever wanted was to have Lappie be my buddy. No such luck. She only had eyes for Homer and wanted nothing to do with me. That’s just about the only dog in the world I couldn’t make friends with, and it bugged me to no end. (Just one more thing I’ll never understand)
And I’ll never understand why I didn’t call her more often. She never wanted to talk long, just long enough to tell me how much she loved me and that she was thinking of me. Me more than the others? Did we all get the same sincerity?
That’s one more thing I don’t know.
Just like the names of my cousin’s kids.
(Albert again, everybody understand the blues)
I coudn’t talk much about it last night. Everybody’s too busy to go, and the close family wants to keep it small. As ususal, I don’t know what to do.
I played the same song for an hour and a half to a small audience.
E9, down to C#m7, down to A (add9), and then of course to the v, B7.
Do that a couple of times, then the bridge: G#m7 to C#m7 (a tiny Hendrix flourish there, nothing fancy, just enough to suggest the next chord) F#m7 and then back to B7. The open B and E strings are always in key, so they can jangle at will throughout.
When that has breathed enough, E minor pentatonic is (as always) the language of sadness. I played forever and never hit a bad note. A mistake can be bent until it works. Some slight chromaticism can end up on a major third here and there, and the combination of the major and the minor breaks the rules and becomes the blues.
(Do we get the blues because we break the rules?)
First unplugged, then through the amp with the wah pedal just slightly engaged, rocking back and forth very, very gently. A bit of echo lets the phrases trail out into infinity, going wherever it is they go.
Do that for 90 minutes or so, then segue into “People get ready.” If I could sing, I would have.
People get ready, there’s a train a-coming. Don’t need no ticket, you just get on board.
And so she did, sometime yesterday morning, after 95 years of sweetness and faith.
(All you need is Faith to hear the diesels hummin’)
On to Homer, on to Bill, on to the great reward.
Goodbye, Grandmother Anderson.
I guess the questions will have to wait a little longer.
Stevie
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8. January 2008 by admin.
I’ve been enjoying watching her crack.
Privately, of course… It’s not polite to revel in someone’s breakdown, and I’m qualified to judge, having had a breakdown or two of my own.
In old Hill’s case, the humor is in the surprise of it.
Conventional wisdom said that she was gonna go all the way, just coast on in to the white house. And I’m sure Billy Boy was hoping his porn stash would be right where he left it.
But it looks like it won’t be that easy for ‘em. They might actually have to work for it this time. I don’t mean to suggest that they haven’t worked…spinning is hard work after all, and it’s tiring…just look at her these days.
I’ve tuned out of politics lately…I guess I got tired of caring so much about things that never seem to change. I still like G-dub, mostly because he leaves little doubt about where he stands and what he’s gonna do. I like that a lot, and our enemies have no choice but to respect it.
I’m paying some attention now, but nobody really inspires me yet. That’s all I really need from a leader: Inspiration. Make me care again, will ya?
You can still write me in if you want…I’ll go and get it all straightened out. You’ll get a whopper tax cut and then I’ll get impeached. (I’d rather get pecan-ed… peaches were never my favorite, and dessert needs to be crunchy to be worth the calories.)
Mostly I just want it to be warm again. I want to shoot and ride.
I rode yesterday…it was up in the 60’s, sunny and pleasant. Did you hear the blat of the V4? Magic, even through earplugs. The v-tec kicks in and it’s giddy-up time. Miles of smiles. What a great day. Makes me believe that spring is inevitable.
Just like everything else.
The book is coming along fine, by the way. It’s morphing a bit, and that’s cool as can be. I just finished reading Stephen King’s “On Writing,” and I felt like I’d already read it. No secrets, no surprises, just hard work and patience.
He does it because he can’t rest until the idea takes flight with a life of its own. He never even really plans what his characters are gonna do. He just lets ‘em decide after they begin to breathe on their own.
It’s like shooting, and everything else. When we quit trying so hard, good things are inevitable. You don’t stop working, you stop trying.
Does that make sense to anyone but me?
Have a great day, folks!
Steve
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6. January 2008 by admin.
It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?
Did ya miss me?
Yeah, I missed you, too.
I don’t have much time today, and I suppose that’s part of the reason that the blinking cursors of the doodle have been still and silent.
The other reason is that ____________________.
Well, It’s not quite that simple. Few things rarely are.
Largely, I was a bit bummed by the loss (to India’s stinking, English challenged black hole) of the body of work that had consumed and revived me for so long.
And of course, I thought about it.
Thought about it a lot, actually.
I wonder why I wonder why?
And, as usual, I concluded that there are no conclusions. That’s the luxury of thought, especially private thought. We get to kick the question-can all about our own little playground and then ponder its final resting place.
I’ve also been busy. There is much to do when two lives become one.
Where is the trash kept again? What’s recyclable? Where the hell are the batteries?
It’s cool, not the least bit problematic at all, unless you’ve got a dirty kleenex and you’re not too sure where it goes…
But I figure it out.
I always do, right?
I just need a little more time, sometimes.
All the time.
And winter, Columbus winter, is not my favorite of seasons.
Gray and wet, not so much white and not at all wonderful as seasons go.
But there are things to do and things to look forward to, now and always.
That’s precisely why I got to get going, folks. But there’s juice in the lines, the outlets have power, and we’ll get to all of that soon enough.
Be patient, OK? The best is always just around the corner…
Steve
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19. December 2007 by admin.
I have no use for political correctness in any form.
Let’s see if I can define it for you: The modern art of not saying something that is basically true.
Or how ’bout this: The modern art of not telling the truth.
Please don’t misunderstand me… (Ya’ll know I’m frequently hating of the being of the misunderstooding, right?) There are times when we should not say a thing or three, but that should result in silence, not avoidance, at least in my not-so humble-opinion.
Cheryl and I discussed it very early on, during our first phone call as I, uh, recall:
“I pretty much say whatever comes to mind at the time”
“I agree, but sometimes it’s better not to say a thing.”
She’s right, as usual. And I’m occasionally capable of that…sometimes, some of the time, every now and then, not very often at all.
And not so much these days.
I’ve been hearing a lot of “Happy Holidays” as I traverse the malls and stalls and stores of chores getting my shopping wrapped up, and I’m not a big fan of this PC salutation at all.
In fact, I may be offended by it. Let me think about for a second…Yep, it offends me.
A holiday is when you’re given the day off by the government, or when the government shuts it down in remembrance of one of its own…pretty self-serving if you ask me.
(What, you didn’t ask me? Oh no…let me see if that changes my opinion. Hang on a sec…nope.)
This one coming up is the big one, the Father of all Holidays, I guess. It’s special and different, but not for the reason you might be thinking that I’m thinking.
It’s a day to give and receive.
To wake up happy and go to bed gloriously worn out.
It’s a day to spend with loved ones, travelling like idiots to get where we’re going, just to hang out and be together a bit.
It’s for the kids. To give them something wonderful and pure to believe in, on whatever level they place their wishes and hopes.
Some see a tree, some see a cross. Both of those include a guy with a beard…and a reason to be better than we are inclined to be.
I’m not sure what I see, it changes all the time…but I’ll tell you this:
It’s not “Happy Holidays.” We’re not wishing someone a pleasurable labor day for Christ’s sake. (That’s not the taking of the name in the vain, Mom. I capitalized it for both of you!)
We’re not telling them that we hope they smile a lot on the 4th of July, are we?
Nope.
And last night, as I watched Santa ride by on a Harley while I bought printer cartridges at Office Max, I told the cashier what I thought about it all, even though she didn’t ask…
It’s called Christmas.
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19. December 2007 by admin.
Shooter Grrl here (webmistress extraordinaire) I was able to retrieve some of the past blogs from google’s cache - they’ve been .pdf’ed, uploaded, organized and stored as andersonshooting.com/blog/archive
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18. December 2007 by admin.
I’m becoming at peace with it.
Maybe it’s my new perspective, my new Holy-crap-life is-good-these-days-itude, but I’m gonna be OK if all the brainpower sublet to India cannot “be bringing of the contents of the old doodle of to the new server.”
After all, I did “changing of the package.”
Damn right I did.
I changed up the whole shebang.
Whiz-bang-golly-jeez Wally, I made some changes.
I let go of the past, the pain, the doubt, the fear and the worry. Stepped right on in to a world of newnessosity, didn’t I?
And what do I need the pictures for? I know where I was and what I did…now I remember only those events of my choosing, just like always.
I have discovered that the almight Google keeps a cache of just about everything on the web, even those naked pictures of your sister! (My goodness that girl is flexible!)
So, I have the ability to go in and grab the good ones that way if/when I choose, if the dumb and dumber team of 1 and 1 internet hosting cannot be helping of the situation.
That’s what really steams my beans ya’ll, the blase’ (hope I got that apostrophe right, otherwise that’d be a catastro-postrophe, yikes!) attitude of the tech weenies and weenettes reading from their cue cards while I poured on the emotion about the loss of the pouring out of my emotion. The morons kept saying the same thing over and over while I incredulously did the same. It was a fun little circle game that ended, as pointless circle games should, in eventual acceptance.
When we accept what we cannot change, we are free to start anew.
This whole thing happened on the internet, right? Did my counselor sense that those words were no longer needed? That maybe those who needed to read them had gotten their fix even as I got fixed?
And am I ever fixed…I’m fixed up real nice. Ya’ll wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
I’ll tell you what you need to know, the PG-13 bits and pieces anyway, over time I guess.
It’s just so amazing what you find when you stop looking so hard. The shooters among us know (or will one day learn) the folly of trying to do anything. All you can really do is be.
Be the shooter you wish to be. Be a better man for all the right reasons.
Be content. Be at peace. Be yourself. Let it be.
I guess I’m beginning to really be-lieve in all my own bullshit, huh?
So yeah, I’ll call 1 and 1 at 877-435-7281 and reference case number 87588967 and tell them to restore the old blog…feel free to do the same if you’re moved to do so. I know it can be done, and this may be one scrapbook that needs to hang around.
I can’t hang around too much here today…I’m off to ruin Christmas for a bad manager and his fiancee. (Does that word get an apostrophe? I may need to know for sure, soon enough) I hate that they make me do it. I get no joy from Grinching their goodness, but they do it to themselves…all I do is sign, seal and deliver the news. Chances upon chances upon good graces and hopes. Enough is enough. All ya had to go was go to work and mind my business, buddy…you’ll come out of it stronger if it doesn’t kill you.
And I’m pretty sure you can survive the pain.
I might even tell you how I know this is true.
Someday. Again.
So have a great day friends and neighbors…and wherever you are, be.
Be all there.
I wouldn’t want you to miss the best days of your life worrying about something you cannot change.
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17. December 2007 by admin.
This may be left to fate.
I guess that’s appropriate in a way, although, like most matters of fate and faith, I don’t like it one bit.
It seems that in the process of trying to get the main site to accept credit cards instead of the infernal paypal, the previous contents of the daily doodle have been sent to cyberspace forever.
Never mind the fact that I was told by everyone involved that the content would be saved…I was assured of that during every switch by everyone involved. Numerous times…ad nauseum infinitum. (That’s Steve-latin for a shitload of times)
I asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yep, No problem.”
Uh-huh.
Yeah, right.
And not 3 minutes ago, by two different english-challenged technical advisors, I was informed that, “When you are switching of the packages you are switching of the platforms and you are deleting of the connection to the server.”
So now I have a real nice case number, and not a lot of hope.
What about the FBI going into the landfill and getting Ken Lay’s email? Maybe this isn’t that important, but it is to me.
So, if any of ya’ll kept any of that juicy goodness in a cache or a backup or whatever, lemme know. I’d sure love to see some of that stuff again…
Steve
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