My brother's Big Game audition Video

My Friend is Dead, But Am I Alive?

     I sit here this night in front of my computer watching Pearl Jam videos and drinking my favorite beer-Old Milwaukee. It's been 6 years since my friend, my best friend, walked this planet. It's his birthday today. He was full of life. Fun. He would jump in a car at the mere mention that there may be some trouble involved in the night. Mischief, I mean. What a MAN.
     But he's gone. Too many mood altering drugs, too many pills. That was the end of him. But that's not why I write this piece. I don't write this for him, who has long since passed, but for us, you and me-who, even though we still eat and breathe and walk and talk have long since passed.

    I think to myself as I while a way the night- what about my life? What am I doing? How long do I have?
    You see, I, like you, am wasting away the only thing I've ever been given of real value in this world-my time.
     I waste it on chasing success. Whatever that means. I waste it on people and things that greedily vacuum the life out of me. I waste it on ideas of freedom and unlimited movement instead of freedom and unlimited movement, and that makes me a slave.
    How long will I chase my tail fighting for imaginary victories? Why must I do this?
     Have you ever waken from a dream and thought to yourself, breathing heavily-thank God that wasn't real? Have you ever had that moment of clarity where the world makes sense, just for a moment, but it makes sense? Have you ever asked yourself why? Just why?
    WAKE UP!

    Isn't it funny that we are always telling ourselves-don't worry, we'll be able to do that soon? We'll be able to travel to that far away place, or see that famous mountain range, or write that book...or whatever....Do you think you will?
    Why is it that we find ourselves doing the things we hate so that someday we may do the things we love?
     Why?
       Do you think that all of those people, long since retired and now confined to a chair or a bed or, God forbid, a nursing home had these same thoughts?
     Do you think that they just said the hell with it, and just LIVED? Or do you think that they kept telling themselves maybe this year, maybe this year I'll finally be able to take some TIME for myself? And the years passed by, and they passed by and then it was too late. Do you think?
     As I sit here writing this, now two beers later, five Pearl Jam songs later, I think about that best friend of mine- so full of life....gone. I think it's time.....to live.

Knife Check...

I was twelve when my grandfather gave me my first pocket knife.  He told me that with this little tool that I could accomplish many things, and to never be without one.  Well since then I have always carried a pocket knife or two or three.  Fact of the matter is that I carried it to school with me.  That was back when it wasn't a crime, that would get a kid tazed.  Grandpa's words held true still to this day.  Right now I have on me a Letherman  "Wave" (best all around multi-tool out there in my opinion), a 3" Buck pocket knife, and Grandpa's gift.  Its like carrying a tool box on your hip.

Several years ago I worked on a paving crew and if a piece of equipment went down then the paving stopped.  If the paver ain't moving then the company wasn't making money.  Waiting for a mechanic took time sometimes a hour or three.  I can't count the times I have patched up equipment with nothing more than my Leatherman (http://www.leatherman.com/multi-tools/full-size-tools/wave.aspx) and some wire.  It really doesn't matter what you carry or that you carry three or four knives on you at any give time.  What matters is that you carry something on  day you'll thank my grandfather for thous words of wisdom.

Were I grew up every fall would be the big Deer hunt.  A group of us went hunting on a local farmers land (we had permission) and I called out "KNIFE CHECK".  Out of the five of us there only three of us had at least a buck knife.  I had my Buck, Leatherman, and my skinner.  Wounder full little knife, full tang about six inches in total length, two inches wide, and slightly curved like a cutlass.   Just above the handle was a hole for your index finger.  You would hold the knife so that your index finger went through the hole and your thumb rested on top of the blade. Using only the wrist motion of your right hand you separate the skin form the flesh.  But why would you bring a 12gage shot gun and not at the very least your buck knife.

Its a small thing, but when you look at it men stopped whittling and then the next thing you know you can't even buy 9mm rounds for target practice.  What next, are men going to start having kids and doing the cooking and cleaning while the women go off to do the hunting and building.  I hope I DIE before that completely happens.