Zero F'ks To Give On a Sunday

Somewhere around here, there are more than a few fucks I could give about any number of things. I'm not sure how many of those things are worth my energy or thought - some are worthy, others not even close. Doesn't matter, not on this day at least. I'm not going to give a single fuck out. The sun is out, I'm currently in the final stages of the coffee portion of the day, listening to great music and giving thought to how today's gym visit will go. Winter has been hanging out much longer than I'd like for it to do, but this is Northeast Ohio, so that hardly comes as a surprise.

Later, there are a couple of things that I am going to give a fuck about out of necessity and in all honesty, because I've procrastinated long enough over. But that's later, after the gym, after the grocery store, blah, blah, blah.

At the moment I'm basking in the combination of the coffee, my breakfast of granola & dates, and Jeff Buckley's Grace, which up until six songs ago, had completely escaped my music snob ears for no good reason. I got nothin' on that one. This album is exactly what my ears needed on this perfect Sunday. I've no idea how this gem has avoided me all this time - and it doesn't matter, because one of my favorite experiences is an album that wows me from start to finish. There's nothing quite like the first listening of a collection of tunes that does this, and I'm thankful for getting to experience such a sensation today. Call it melodramatic if you will, add one more thing to the list of things that I don't give a fuck about.

There is much satisfaction in the combination of Sunday, coffee, good music, no talking - just listening, and for the time being, no fucks to be given about anything. Later, I said. I'll give a fuck about a thing or two later. Right now every sip of coffee tastes good, like coffee never tastes better than it does on a Sunday. Unfamiliar music washing over my very soul right now, music that sounds so good that it just feels like I've been listening to it for years, yet this particular music is new to my ears.

The coffee lifts the fog from my mind, tired from being up a bit late - but that's normal for me. My 9 to 5 is a bit different, though not entirely void of daylight. When I've had to be, I am quite good at being a morning person. As it turns out, I don't really have to be...so most of the time I'm not. Most of the time I don't like to talk until the coffee has taken its purchase in my bloodstream. I can, if need be, but oftentimes my filter wakes up slower than the rest of me. I've been told I'm at my sarcastic best when my coffee is still doing its work.

So there you have it, Sunday reflections on coffee, new music to my ears, all the fucks I don't really give on this allegedly Spring day...now approaching...well, a bit later in the afternoon than I'd hoped to wrap up my coffee thoughts at. Then again, I did say I favor a slow waking approach on Sundays, there's more Jeff Buckley music to listen to, my iPod Shuffle is still charging, there's a handful of breakfast dishes to do, and some fucks to give about something I've dreaded doing, but will get through it.

I don't know what anyone else's Sunday is looking like - I suppose everyone has got their own fucks to either give or not give today, along with whatever things one might take joy in. So now that the coffee portion of my extended morning is done, I'm off. Have a great Sunday and I wish you luck in whatever dreaded fucks you may have to give. Peace, good people.

The Death Cloud of Charmin

I swear to you that I'd never laid eyes on a Stinkbug until 20 years ago when I moved back to Ohio from Nashville. Never, not once. I remember the first time I saw one, albeit vaguely..."the fuck kind of bug is that ugly thing??"...or something along those lines. Slow moving, ugly and just plain creepy. How the fuck was I to know that they were staging a full on invasion? Again, I swear I'd never seen one of those things before. I dunno where the hell these things came from, but I fucking hate 'em. All of 'em. Every. Single. One. I'm okay with all of the ones who stay the fuck outside, but I think every one of those fk'rs is giving serious thought to coming inside at some point or another. So yeah, I hate 'em all. Outta sight, outta mind...

Which brings us to the last few Winters, when I find out that these creepy, ugly fuckers have made their way inside, like they do every year when the cooler air of Fall starts making its way in. Fuck these little ugly m'r fk'rs. I despise these creepy little fuckers. Every time I see one inside, my short term goals change - immediately. Doesn't matter what I'm doing, stop. Doesn't matter what I have to do, stop. At the top of my priorities right now is making certain that this creepy, ugly, slow moving m'r fk'r gets what's coming to him for entering my abode.

These little fk'rs have one thing going for them...well, actually, it works against them, but I find it rather appealing: they're slow moving enough to seal their own fate. Make no mistake about it, I'm going to move pretty fast - faster than I really need to, but now it's on. I don't give a single fuck what I was either in the middle of doing, or about to be doing. Pause that shit. Stinkbug alert. Oh I got this shit, believe me.

I head straight for the bathroom for a decent sized handful of toilet paper - don't have an exact number of sheets, but rest assured it's enough to ensure that none of the creepy little fucker that's about to die will touch my bare hands. No, I'm not going to catch and release the bastard outside - there's a price to pay for coming into my house - and that price is death by being squeezed into a fluffy white cloud of Charmin...no, a fucking DEATH Cloud of Charmin. Yeah, I said it. Worth noting is that I never get around to even thinking about how these little fk'rs smell. I've heard quite a few people say they smell like Cilantro. Yeah, you know what? Fuck that. I happen to love Cilantro, but I've never gotten around to noticing how these creepy home invading m'r fk'r bugs actually smell - they ain't gonna be here long enough for me to notice how they smell.

One stinkbug, about to die in a swirling cascade of water in the flush of a toilet handle...and it's back to what I was doing. Jeezus, I hate those little fuckers. All of this could have been avoided, the fucking Death Cloud of Charmin, the flush of a toilet handle-spiraling-cascade-water-death, hell, even the fucking swearing, had you simply stayed the fuck outdoors where your creepy ass belongs. I wouldn't have cared, wouldn't have looked for you and wouldn't have bothered you.

But, nooo...you had to come into my home. Make no mistake about it, I hate these little fuckers. What I hate more than seeing one inside my home, is hearing the slow, vibrating baritone/hum/buzz as one flies in close proximity to where I'm sitting or standing....VvvvvvzzzzzzzzzzzTPT! Oh it's ON now m'r fk'r, only now, instead of calmly heading for the bathroom, now I'm twice as pissed. Not only was that your last flight ever, but now I feel like single-handedly making all of you fuckers extinct. No one would give a single fuck. No one. Matter of fact, eliminating every last one of you fk'rs just make make me a national hero - I mean, seriously, who's gonna miss your creepy little asses? Fucking no one, that's who.

Sunday Reflections

It's Sunday afternoon - weekends don't really mean much in my line of work, but I am off on Sundays, and I rather like that. Coffee never tastes better than it does on a Sunday morning - albeit the later side of morning into the earlier side of afternoon. I'm not really one to let the weather dictate my moods, but I do love a sunny sky any time in Winter...not that I always get to pick that here in Northeast Ohio. It's here today though, and I'll take it - along with big, deep breaths of clean, cool Winter air.

Sundays and the aforementioned coffee make me think of a line a friend used to say when a waitress would ask if we wanted coffee: "Lots of it."

Ah, but that was years ago - never mind how many, or that "Lots of it" was the phrase that was going through my foggy mind as I shuffled into the kitchen. It's always best to have zero dishes to do in the morning so as not to have any hurdles between me and that first awesome cup of coffee. Note to self: Don't leave a sink half full of rinsed dishes from dinner like a dumbass.

This morning I'll openly admit that I was indeed a dumbass last night. It's an odd mindset to be pissed off at oneself and mentally reprimanding myself as I wash, rinse and dry my way through the domestic obstacle course that stands between me and my coffee - not unlike Brutus, the asshole who stood between Popeye and his can of spinach, getting in some m'r fk'rs of punches in before Popeye gets to his can of spinach, opens and downs it. Now is when the real ass whooping commences. Boom. It's on.

Now I have had my coffee, now I'm ready to whoop this beautiful Sunday's ass. Turns out my gym rotation lands on a workout today. I'll openly admit that I have an odd relationship with the gym as an older dude. How old? Well I'm not farting dust or wearing silver sneakers - but it's a bit unnerving to realize that exercise is something I can't stop, not that I want to...it's just that all the things that come with middle age pretty much follow one around like a bully waiting for just the right opportunity to take your lunch money. Miss a week at the gym and the magic that makes you feel so good after even the lousiest of workouts usually wants two to allow you to feel that good again.

I'm convinced that the mirrors at my gym were made by the same company that made the old school funhouse mirrors - you know the ones that made reflections of bodies look funny/odd in various ways of height/width ratios...but at the gym the mirrors, I swear to God, seem to accentuate every positive thing I hope to accomplish by working out. It's like, "Wow - I'm really coming along - fuckin' A...yeah, not bad for my body type/age....blah, blah blah."

The bad news is, none of that follows me out of the gym and is visible to others - particularly when I put my street clothes on and go about my day at work. No one sees me and thinks, "Wow, that dude must have killed it at the gym today." Matter of fact, if I told anyone that I even went to the gym - and I'll be honest, sometimes I tell hundreds of people on Facebook that I went to the gym, they'd probably think I left early. Incidentally, while I may post that I went to the gym, what I will never, ever post, are pictures of video footage of me at the gym.  You're welcome.Take my word for it, I go, I like it....some days better than others, some days I miss.

So this is my Sunday today. Done with the coffee portion of the day, a lighter breakfast and heading to the gym. After that I've got lots to do around here - none of which is exciting. I suppose there's no real point to this post, but for wanting to kick my own ass a bit and write more. There you have it, folks...a late Winter Sunday, a few deep breaths of the air that never feels cleaner than it does on days like this. Grateful, life is good. Peace out, good people - have a great Sunday.

CRO

Rest In Peace, Bob McKee

I grew up hacking my way through playing rock and roll drums. In the beginning I sometimes thought I was too cool for lessons, but even then I learned who Bob McKee was - the Split Page author, Cleveland Theatrical drummer, drummer for the Mike Douglas show. Bob McKee was the real deal - and he had been long before I even wanted to pick up a pair of drumsticks.

In my later playing years and more bands than I can name later, the self awareness that I was most definitely not too cool for lessons loomed large. I knew I wanted to play better, I knew I could...and I knew that I couldn't do it on my own. All of the misguided excuses I'd bought into, all of the excuses I'd made up to that point to convince myself...was bullshit. There are numerous reasons I came to my decision, but none of them seem to matter now, not with the news I got today learning that the greatest drum instructor I ever had, or ever could have, Bob McKee,  passed away this morning.

I was tending bar in an upscale restaurant, studying with a guy who took some of the mystery out of the things I wanted to correct on the instrument - but this guy's availability became erratic. I decided to seek instruction from someone more consistent. It was convenient that jazz trios played where I worked, and someone threw out Bob McKee's name, asked me if I'd heard of him. I can't recall exactly who dropped his name - I want to say Duncan Crooks, but it's been more years than I want to count...but yes, I had heard of Bob McKee. Bob McKee!

I was thrilled to learn that Bob would be playing with a trio where I worked one upcoming weekend. I'd been asking around and had a couple of other suggestions, one of whom was a guy who seemed completely unreceptive to taking on students - I guess he thought if he could intimidate someone beforehand, it would save him wasting his own time. I get it, but I found that more than a little off putting. That didn't stop me from asking him about Bob McKee:

Off-putting drummer/potential instructor: That's a good way to go - he's my teacher.

I remember thinking, great - Bob is going to be twice as intimidating as this guy...I'm screwed.

I couldn't have been more wrong about that if I tried. Bob was completely encouraging - but he did tell me:

"Look, I don't give a rat's ass what you do with your time, but if I think you're wasting my time - along with your time, I'm going to tell you not to come back, okay?"

I spent a brief two and a half years with Bob - and mind you, I came very late to that party. It seems brief, like mere seconds now, because today I learned that Bob passed away this morning. The impact he had on me was tremendous. I guess you wouldn't know that now, but it was - still is, and I need to say it. Not only was he a great teacher, he was also the sweetest man with the biggest heart. He used to say that he loved every one of his students - and he did. Bob didn't care what you did with what he gave you, as long as you put the work in. He suffered no fools, tolerated no bullshit - if he didn't think you were putting in the effort, he'd tell you not to come back.

Why would I drive all the way up to Parma from Akron to see Bob, if I hadn't done the work? This was Bob McKee! Bob had seen it all behind the drums on more bandstands than I could count. He was like a kind uncle or grandfather, so happy and in his element to share his wealth of knowledge. I remember talking to him about an audition I blew and the guy who had the gig not being terribly friendly....

Bob: "Chris, don't let that stuff get to you - those kinds of guys can be like that sometimes - let me tell you something: that guy was very humble down here in my basement when he came to me, very humble - don't waste your time worrying about what guys like him think about you."

Not everyone is cut out to be a full time musician. I certainly wasn't, despite my love for music and the drums. Accepting that doesn't mean I don't still love both. I went to Bob McKee seeking help, knowledge...and petrified that I was a jive m'r fk'r who hoped to God I didn't get found out. Every time I went up to him for a lesson, I worried that would be the time he'd tell me not to come back. Thankfully, Bob never did - but another thing Bob never did, was call students and ask where they'd been or if they were coming back. He didn't need to - he was never lacking for students who were hungry for knowledge, never. You wanted to go back to Bob, you put in the work and you went back. If you didn't, well...you didn't.

When I was studying with Bob, I went to a drum clinic that Greg Bissonette did at the drum shop I ended up working for a few years later. I'll never forget the feeling of pride I had when Greg, before he even picked up a stick, talked about the importance of finding a great teacher and said:

"We have a great teacher here with us tonight - please give a round of applause for the great Bob McKee!"

If I could rewind anything and do things a bit differently, I'd have sought Bob out much sooner...and I most definitely would have gone back to see him at least one of the fifty or so times I thought about it or told him I would when I saw him - because I always walked away from my time with Bob in awe of what he knew, what he shared and how he was so willing to do that with me - and I know anyone and everyone who walked out of that basement from a lesson with Bob McKee knows exactly what I'm talking about. Bob McKee, your passing is a huge loss to the world of drumming. Huge. There are still so many things I wanted to ask you, needed to ask you. Mostly I'm sad that I never told you to your face exactly how much my time with you meant to me - it was everything to me back then, Bob...everything. I'm sitting here typing this and I still can't fucking believe that you never told me not to come back - I never stopped being scared shitless that you would do just that...and then who could I go to? You know you're missed already - I know you do, but somewhere up there, there is a band...and that band is swinging like a playground at recess, because of you.

I love you, Bob McKee and I will never forget my time with you. You always told me that you loved every one of your students, and Lord knows you had many who did you much more proud than I ever did, but you have got to know that every one of your students loved you, Bob McKee. Rest In Peace - and thank you.