Me Too Often
Too often I wait for permission, needlessly.
Too often I ignore the freedom around me; only to obsess over restrictions.
Too often I observe meticulously, but from the outside.
Too often I climb inside and regret it immediately.
Too often I put my hands behind my back, voluntarily.
Too often I exercise restraint.
Too often I stand so close to the door that only I can open it.
Too often I stay tight lipped.
Too often I choose to stay put.
I love hoodies.
and I creep!
[video]
![thedailywhat:
On Kony 2012: I honestly wanted to stay as far away as possible from KONY 2012, the latest fauxtivist fad sweeping the web (remember “change your Facebook profile pic to stop child abuse”?), but you clearly won’t stop sending me that damn video until I say something about it, so here goes:
Stop sending me that video.
The organization behind Kony 2012 — Invisible Children Inc. — is an extremely shady nonprofit that has been called ”misleading,” “naive,” and “dangerous” by a Yale political science professor, and has been accused by Foreign Affairs of “manipulat[ing] facts for strategic purposes.” They have also been criticized by the Better Business Bureau for refusing to provide information necessary to determine if IC meets the Bureau’s standards.
Additionally, IC has a low two-star rating in accountability from Charity Navigator because they won’t let their financials be independently audited. That’s not a good thing. In fact, it’s a very bad thing, and should make you immediately pause and reflect on where the money you’re sending them is going.
By IC’s own admission, only 31% of all the funds they receive go toward actually helping anyone [pdf]. The rest go to line the pockets of the three people in charge of the organization, to pay for their travel expenses (over $1 million in the last year alone) and to fund their filmmaking business (also over a million) — which is quite an effective way to make more money, as clearly illustrated by the fact that so many can’t seem to stop forwarding their well-engineered emotional blackmail to everyone they’ve ever known.
And as far as what they do with that money:
The group is in favour of direct military intervention, and their money supports the Ugandan government’s army and various other military forces. Here’s a photo of the founders of Invisible Children posing with weapons and personnel of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army. Both the Ugandan army and Sudan People’s Liberation Army are riddled with accusations of rape and looting, but Invisible Children defends them, arguing that the Ugandan army is “better equipped than that of any of the other affected countries”, although Kony is no longer active in Uganda and hasn’t been since 2006 by their own admission. These books each refer to the rape and sexual assault that are perennial issues with the UPDF, the military group Invisible Children is defending.
Let’s not get our lines crossed: The Lord’s Resistance Army is bad news. And Joseph Kony is a very bad man, and needs to be stopped. But propping up Uganda’s decades-old dictatorship and its military arm, which has been accused by the UN of committing unspeakable atrocities and itself facilitated the recruitment of child soldiers, is not the way to go about it.
The United States is already plenty involved in helping rout Kony and his band of psycho sycophants. Kony is on the run, having been pushed out of Uganda, and it’s likely he will soon be caught, if he isn’t already dead. But killing Kony won’t fix anything, just as killing Osama bin Laden didn’t end terrorism. The LRA might collapse, but, as Foreign Affairs points out, it is “a relatively small player in all of this — as much a symptom as a cause of the endemic violence.”
Myopically placing the blame for all of central Africa’s woes on Kony — even as a starting point — will only imperil many more people than are already in danger.
Sending money to a nonprofit that wants to muck things up by dousing the flames with fuel is not helping. Want to help? Really want to help? Send your money to nonprofits that are putting more than 31% toward rebuilding the region’s medical and educational infrastructure, so that former child soldiers have something worth coming home to.
Here are just a few of those charities. They all have a sparkling four-star rating from Charity Navigator, and, more importantly, no interest in airdropping American troops armed to the teeth into the middle of a multi-nation tribal war to help one madman catch another.
The bottom line is, research your causes thoroughly. Don’t just forward a random video to a stranger because a mass murderer makes a five-year-old “sad.” Learn a little bit about the complexities of the region’s ongoing strife before advocating for direct military intervention.
There is no black and white in the world. And going about solving important problems like there is just serves to make all those equally troubling shades of gray invisible.
Oh and don’t forget about Ambassadors for Sustained Health!](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m0iyiw3Jv01qzpwi0o1_r1_500.jpg)
On Kony 2012: I honestly wanted to stay as far away as possible from KONY 2012, the latest fauxtivist fad sweeping the web (remember “change your Facebook profile pic to stop child abuse”?), but you clearly won’t stop sending me that damn video until I say something about it, so here goes:
Stop sending me that video.
The organization behind Kony 2012 — Invisible Children Inc. — is an extremely shady nonprofit that has been called ”misleading,” “naive,” and “dangerous” by a Yale political science professor, and has been accused by Foreign Affairs of “manipulat[ing] facts for strategic purposes.” They have also been criticized by the Better Business Bureau for refusing to provide information necessary to determine if IC meets the Bureau’s standards.
Additionally, IC has a low two-star rating in accountability from Charity Navigator because they won’t let their financials be independently audited. That’s not a good thing. In fact, it’s a very bad thing, and should make you immediately pause and reflect on where the money you’re sending them is going.
By IC’s own admission, only 31% of all the funds they receive go toward actually helping anyone [pdf]. The rest go to line the pockets of the three people in charge of the organization, to pay for their travel expenses (over $1 million in the last year alone) and to fund their filmmaking business (also over a million) — which is quite an effective way to make more money, as clearly illustrated by the fact that so many can’t seem to stop forwarding their well-engineered emotional blackmail to everyone they’ve ever known.
And as far as what they do with that money:
The group is in favour of direct military intervention, and their money supports the Ugandan government’s army and various other military forces. Here’s a photo of the founders of Invisible Children posing with weapons and personnel of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army. Both the Ugandan army and Sudan People’s Liberation Army are riddled with accusations of rape and looting, but Invisible Children defends them, arguing that the Ugandan army is “better equipped than that of any of the other affected countries”, although Kony is no longer active in Uganda and hasn’t been since 2006 by their own admission. These books each refer to the rape and sexual assault that are perennial issues with the UPDF, the military group Invisible Children is defending.
Let’s not get our lines crossed: The Lord’s Resistance Army is bad news. And Joseph Kony is a very bad man, and needs to be stopped. But propping up Uganda’s decades-old dictatorship and its military arm, which has been accused by the UN of committing unspeakable atrocities and itself facilitated the recruitment of child soldiers, is not the way to go about it.
The United States is already plenty involved in helping rout Kony and his band of psycho sycophants. Kony is on the run, having been pushed out of Uganda, and it’s likely he will soon be caught, if he isn’t already dead. But killing Kony won’t fix anything, just as killing Osama bin Laden didn’t end terrorism. The LRA might collapse, but, as Foreign Affairs points out, it is “a relatively small player in all of this — as much a symptom as a cause of the endemic violence.”
Myopically placing the blame for all of central Africa’s woes on Kony — even as a starting point — will only imperil many more people than are already in danger.
Sending money to a nonprofit that wants to muck things up by dousing the flames with fuel is not helping. Want to help? Really want to help? Send your money to nonprofits that are putting more than 31% toward rebuilding the region’s medical and educational infrastructure, so that former child soldiers have something worth coming home to.
Here are just a few of those charities. They all have a sparkling four-star rating from Charity Navigator, and, more importantly, no interest in airdropping American troops armed to the teeth into the middle of a multi-nation tribal war to help one madman catch another.
The bottom line is, research your causes thoroughly. Don’t just forward a random video to a stranger because a mass murderer makes a five-year-old “sad.” Learn a little bit about the complexities of the region’s ongoing strife before advocating for direct military intervention.
There is no black and white in the world. And going about solving important problems like there is just serves to make all those equally troubling shades of gray invisible.
Oh and don’t forget about Ambassadors for Sustained Health!
will be the year my life changed. just watch.
It dawned on me the other night that I actually don’t know how to write. I only feel. This is a strange realization for someone who thinks himself a writer and hopes to earn a living writing someday. But the reality is, I don’t really write; I feel.
A few weeks ago, I watched “Page One: Inside the New York Times” and walked away thoroughly impressed and grateful for all the true journalists in the world. Journalists full of integrity and talent and complete badass grit. Journalists who wrestle with deadlines and grind at a merciless pace that would certainly kill any mortal man. Above all, it was their unrelenting need to get the truth that struck me most. They want to get it right. They have to. They put their feelings and prejudice aside [as best they can] and they dig and dig until they get it right. They write on command about anything, really, and they’re able to translate mountains of data from head to print with such ease and balance. That is real writing. That’s not what I do.
I watch or read or experience and something inside needs to come out. I just feel it. Usually I don’t know what it is and so I force myself in front of a white screen and a blinking cursor and just let shit out. I have no recorded interviews or notebooks filled with research, I only have my feelings. And even if I did have all that other stuff, it would still take me weeks to put it together in a cogent way unless I had some strong feelings about it. This lack of skill and logos makes me feel incredibly inadequate at times, but feelings are all I’ve got. It’s who I am. So, maybe I’ve been wrong to consider myself a writer all this time. I only feel. I consume and consume and consume and then write down what I feel. What do you call someone like that?
Well, “amateur” comes to mind. Or how about “raw” or “unpolished”? That would be a fair assessment of my character. It’s pretty spot on, as a matter of fact. It explains a lot; my taste in music, for one. I like things that sound honest, whether it’s a warbling poet or a drunken, hot mess diva, certain songs and singers and tunes just sound more honest than others. I’m all about shit that comes from the gut (where else would shit come from?). I value honesty in art and everything else. I think I’m ok with that. I’d never want to write something I didn’t believe or just to appear contrarian. The people I love most are also this way. They may be utterly sweet or harmless pricks, but they are who they are. Honest to themselves and loyal to others. Keepin it real.
I’ll keep writing; probably forever. Because that’s how I stay honest. Whatever it is I can’t say for fear of hurt feelings or appall or ridicule, I can write. This is probably why I write so much about religion and parenthood and career and angst and other things that tend to get bottled up. It’s my way of staying honest - setting the record straight. However far that takes me, it’ll be enough to keep me satisfied - knowing that I did the best with what I had and held onto some integrity of self along the way. It may not get me onto Page One of the NY Times, but it’s all I’ve got. And I think I feel pretty good about that.*
*is it me or is all of this starting to get a little too “Sex and the City?”
Idea Roadblock by Andrew Myers
I found this at the New Leaf Gallery in Sonoma, CA this weekend. The books are titled “Self Doubt” and I thought it was brilliant.
One morning, when I was 12, I stood waiting for my school bus at the bottom of the hill where Granalta Circle meets Kemp Lane. It was a crisp Maryland morning, still early enough to see the white fog of breath and the light grey sheath of morning dew atop the fields across the street. I was alone at the bus stop each morning as I was the oldest kid in the neighborhood (there were only 4 of us), and I usually just stood there fidgeting in my Redskins Starter jacket, pushing my glasses tight up against my face. This was the only method for keeping my glasses in place on my fat, flat, Asian face which lacks a bridge above my nose.
My fat, flat, Asian face.
I wasn’t aware of any of this at the time, my fatness or flat facedness or Asianness. Well, not in a self-conscious way, anyway. I knew I was different, but I was just a goofyass kid. I had scored some major cool points in 6th grade by writing an original horror story about a family that had their limbs cut off and stuffed into pizza boxes and delivered to their relatives as free pizza (because, hey, who doesn’t love free pizza?). Not only was I writing for an audience, I was also performing quite a bit in the classroom. I once received a written referral citing my creation of “250 paper missiles and other spitball projectiles positioned in a threatening way to fellow students.” Another time I was made to sit out in the hall during science class because I kept pointing to an empty chair next to me and telling my friends to “come shit over here.” I once spent an entire math class miming as “Michael Jackson in a Box” from my desk at the back of the room.
And that morning, waiting for the bus at the bottom of Granalta Circle, I was just another goofyass 7th grader waiting for the bus. The bus was a crazy place. My middle school shared a parking lot with my high school and so, the district thought it only made sense to pack petrified 11 year olds alongside 19 year old redneck ‘super seniors’ who’d had their driver’s license revoked for conducting ‘hillbilly drive bys’ with their BB guns, all in one yellow school bus. This is all true. And for the fifth year in a row, I was the only non-white person on the bus.
When the bus finally arrived that morning, I climbed aboard and found it unusually quiet, even for a Monday. Our bus driver, Mehrle DuVall, usually had country radio playing in the background, but he was in no mood that morning. I quickly surveyed the scene: the eighth grade girls doing their hair up front, as usual; the 6th graders huddled three to a seat hugging their clarinets; the high school couples dry humping at 6:47 in the morning; and the aforementioned super senior rednecks in the last three rows. I usually sat with my friend Colin somewhere in the teens, but that morning, I saw Colin’s pale arm shoot up and wave me to the last row - he had been accepted by the rednecks! My face lit up as I made my way back; there was always unspeakably awesome mischief taking place beyond row 25, or at the very least, candy.
I sat down next to Colin and kept quiet. I had no idea how he got the invite back there, but I wasn’t gonna blow it. I fidgeted some more with my jacket - it kept puffing up in the middle, and I cleaned my glasses with the Redskins shirt I had on underneath (we had just beaten the Giants on Sunday). I still couldn’t help but wonder what Colin had done to move up (back?) the social ladder so fast. After silent deliberation, I decided it was the condom-as-a-skullcap bit he did on Friday that put him over the top. Yep, condom as a skullcap, it’s exactly what it sounds like. The hicks LOVED that.
So there I was, wedged into row 28 with my knees up against the back of row 27, listening to Alpha Redneck talk about how he was building a wall of beer (“burrr”) cans in his shed. He had fresh welts on his face and arms; apparently from a game of paintball war he plays with his brothers except instead of paintballs, they shoot copperhead BBs at each other. “Paintball is fer pussies,” he said. He looked hungover.
The bus hit the wavy part of Shookstown Road and Alpha Redneck slowly turned his neck a full 90 degrees to stare straight at me while keeping his shoulders awkwardly square with the seat. I avoided eye contact at first, but flashed a bashful smile and raised my eyebrows.
“What’re you doin back here (‘hurrr’)?” he asked.
I just shrugged, unable to speak as my mouth was suddenly deathly dry.
“This bus is white man only, don’t you know?”
His tone was obnoxious and laced with a hint of sarcasm beneath it. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, he always sounded like that. Like Stifler making the jerk off gesture.
And suddenly, before I could respond, he said it: “no Chinks allowed.”
I gave a nervous chuckle and looked away. I was scared and I immediately sensed my brain trying to process the situation. The only thing I could surmise was that I had somehow never known the meaning of the word “Chink” until now. Why did I think it applied to Mexican people? Was it ‘Chico’ that I was confusing it with? Chicano, maybe? Wasn’t A.C. Slater Chicano? Is ‘Chink’ supposed to imply that I’m Chinese? He knows I’m not Chinese, he’s asked me before. In fact, just last week he kept referring to me as ‘Koreanese.’ I distinctly remember not knowing how to feel because I had no idea what the intended effect was. Is he joking? Is he gonna pick me up by the collar of my puffy Starter jacket with his huge, hay-bucking hands and kick my Koreanese ass? I knew it wasn’t the “N word,” but I knew it was derogatory. At least, I thought it was meant to be derogatory. No one had ever called me that before. Could Alpha Redneck really be that unabashedly racist and stupid?
So I just chuckled. That’s all I could do. Chuckle like a harmless, cowardly, little Chink. Chinks don’t fight back. Chinks act like they didn’t just hear that word come out of your mouth. Chinks sit there and chuckle, quietly. Stupid, scared, little Chink.
Alpha Redneck looked right between my eyes, at my fat, flat, Asian face and he said, “yeeaaah I thought so.”
Then, suddenly, he shot up like a prairie dog and pointed to the window, “Holy shiet! Look at that buck! Thas at least a 10 pointer right thurr!”
I was saved by a fucking deer. Durrrrrr.
Almost 18 years later, I think back to that morning and what it meant. I remember wanting to cry in the moment, but not because it hurt me; I just didn’t know what to do with it. Maybe it was the impetus for my fascination with words and my irreverence about race. Maybe it was the day I started classifying everyone in the world as either “stupid motherfuckers who don’t know what they’re doing and saying” or “cool people.” Maybe it was just another one of a billion odd and wonderful things that happened to me in Frederick, MD.
Last week, ESPN.com went with the headline, “Chink in the Armor,” when the Knicks lost and Jeremy Lin had a bad game. I chuckled. It was the first time I’d heard the word since 7th grade. The first time I recall, anyway. I wasn’t offended. In fact, my first instinct was to laugh my ass off. And when my wife heard about it the next morning, I told her I was certain the writer made an honest mistake as “Chink in the Armor” has become a rather boring, but common idiom in the American sports vernacular. (I swear this was my reaction! My wife will vouch for it! PLEASE BELIEVE ME!!) Anyway, over the next few days, the requisite media shitstorm invaded my internet universe and even conjured up some of Jay Caspian Kang’s best writing. I still chuckle at the whole thing.
I’m not 12 anymore and I don’t chuckle because I’m scared or confused. I chuckle now because I think a headline featuring an Asian basketball star that says “Chink in the Armor” is a pretty damn funny mistake to make. It’s better than a chuckle, in fact, it’s worth a full-throated laugh. Of course it’s not ok. Of course he should be fired. Of course we shouldn’t teach our children such words or values. Of course it’s hurtful and ignorant. Of course. But we’d all get on so much better if we’d just accept that racism happens. Yes, we’ve come a long way and we’ve all evolved so much in the last 20 billion years (Eminem! Obama! Tiger! Lenny Kravitz! Larry Bird! Jeremy Lin! ALF!!), but stupid racist shit still happens and it always will. Do you know why? Because there will always be somebody dumb enough to be ignorant or hateful, or both. There will always be stupid motherfuckers who don’t know what they’re doing or saying.
But there doesn’t always have to be somebody on the other side being offended by them.
In the case of words, victims are voluntary. They called him Chink. So what? Give em the finger and move on. It is beneath us, all of it: the chatter, the fight, the “one step forward, two steps back” essays. I’m more offended by the amount of time and credence given to the word than the actual word itself. It wasn’t wanton (wonton?) discrimination. Jeremy Lin wasn’t denied the right to vote or told to use the Yellows Only bathroom. It was just a stupid word. Laugh it off and move on. Just laugh because it’s all so absurd, especially in this day and age. Laugh, and it loses its power. Laugh, not because you approve, but because it’s so stupidly wrong that anyone who attempts to hurt you with such words looks utterly stupid and wrong. Laugh, and make it “Chinks in the Armhair.” Laugh, and it loses its power. Laugh, and we become bulletproof. Laugh, and we eliminate chinks in the armor.
www.moregoodcampaign.com
Humble little campaign we’ve started by stealing money from church. If you know any high schoolers please spread the word!
Also, if you know any high schoolers, please tell them to stop txting during movies and GET OFF MY LAWN.
“chink in the armhair” by ESPN
![This is me. Well, no, those are my feet, but you get the picture. This was me five years ago at the southern edge of the Grand Canyon. I was driving cross country with a friend from LA to MD after quitting what I had foolishly considered a dream job as a youth pastor. I was 24 years old and recently engaged. I had a useless bachelor’s degree in sociology and the only marketable skill I had was making delicious cold cut sandwiches and bullshitting.
I was penniless, blowing my $2,200/mo paycheck on a $1200 apartment in Anaheim, $450/mo in car payments and a mountain of school loans. I was unemployed, moving back in with my parents, and applying to fine food establishments like Joe’s Crabshack and the Cheesecake Factory. Thank god for Cheesecake Factory. My goal was to make $200 a day by working both lunch and dinner shifts. I never made that much, ever.
I had no idea what I wanted to do. I thought I wanted to teach, but couldn’t afford to take time off for another degree. The wedding date was already set. I was a reluctant commodity at my local temp agency who sent me through half a dozen cubicle spaces in a span of 8 weeks. Somehow I wound up at a great consulting firm that’s provided more than enough these last four and a half years.
The strange thing about that time 5 years ago? I was never scared. I wasn’t stressed. I can’t explain it now and I couldn’t explain it then. I just knew things would work out. Because when you find yourself on the edge, you jump and hustle your way back up. You’re good enough, you’re smart enough, and doggone it, people like you. I’ve learned that whether I’m serving strawberry lemonade at Cheesecake Factory or evaluating hospitals with the former Under Secretary of the VA, it’s hustle and kindness that get me through (contrary to the notion popularized by the movie, hustle and flow are pretty useless outside of the music and prostitution industries).
There’s no reason to be intimidated. Whether the pursuit is creative or corporate, grind it out. Do work. Hustle and I’ll be just fine. Be a decent human being in the process and sky’s the limit (Sky’s the Limit is an example of a song that has both hustle and flow). I’m on the edge again and I’m ready to jump to another bottom. I’ve got more to lose this time and the fall feels steeper, but I’m not scared. There’s more fear dangling on the edge than there is looking up from the bottom. I don’t fear the bottom. I used to [barely] live off $2,200 a month in Orange County. I used to live with my parents and serve cheesecake to 15 year olds before homecoming. I once bought an engagement ring on a credit card with a 5 year payment plan. I can still hustle. I can still work. I can still create.
Just jump.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lz5qnic8nH1qz9dszo1_500.jpg)
This is me. Well, no, those are my feet, but you get the picture. This was me five years ago at the southern edge of the Grand Canyon. I was driving cross country with a friend from LA to MD after quitting what I had foolishly considered a dream job as a youth pastor. I was 24 years old and recently engaged. I had a useless bachelor’s degree in sociology and the only marketable skill I had was making delicious cold cut sandwiches and bullshitting.
I was penniless, blowing my $2,200/mo paycheck on a $1200 apartment in Anaheim, $450/mo in car payments and a mountain of school loans. I was unemployed, moving back in with my parents, and applying to fine food establishments like Joe’s Crabshack and the Cheesecake Factory. Thank god for Cheesecake Factory. My goal was to make $200 a day by working both lunch and dinner shifts. I never made that much, ever.
I had no idea what I wanted to do. I thought I wanted to teach, but couldn’t afford to take time off for another degree. The wedding date was already set. I was a reluctant commodity at my local temp agency who sent me through half a dozen cubicle spaces in a span of 8 weeks. Somehow I wound up at a great consulting firm that’s provided more than enough these last four and a half years.
The strange thing about that time 5 years ago? I was never scared. I wasn’t stressed. I can’t explain it now and I couldn’t explain it then. I just knew things would work out. Because when you find yourself on the edge, you jump and hustle your way back up. You’re good enough, you’re smart enough, and doggone it, people like you. I’ve learned that whether I’m serving strawberry lemonade at Cheesecake Factory or evaluating hospitals with the former Under Secretary of the VA, it’s hustle and kindness that get me through (contrary to the notion popularized by the movie, hustle and flow are pretty useless outside of the music and prostitution industries).
There’s no reason to be intimidated. Whether the pursuit is creative or corporate, grind it out. Do work. Hustle and I’ll be just fine. Be a decent human being in the process and sky’s the limit (Sky’s the Limit is an example of a song that has both hustle and flow). I’m on the edge again and I’m ready to jump to another bottom. I’ve got more to lose this time and the fall feels steeper, but I’m not scared. There’s more fear dangling on the edge than there is looking up from the bottom. I don’t fear the bottom. I used to [barely] live off $2,200 a month in Orange County. I used to live with my parents and serve cheesecake to 15 year olds before homecoming. I once bought an engagement ring on a credit card with a 5 year payment plan. I can still hustle. I can still work. I can still create.
Just jump.
via jaymug
when wife hands you lemons, make lemonade.
UKELELE BULLDOG (Taken with instagram)
My buddy, Pete, posts these gems every day and I’m kinda pissed they haven’t gone viral yet.
Brad Paisley (w/ Band Perry and Mad Magazine Boy), Mandalay Bay Events Center, 1/28/12
I’ve always felt a great concert shouldn’t have peaks and valleys, only a constant climb towards life-affirming, transcendent, awesome ass shit. I’ve never seen this concept executed more perfectly than Brad Paisley Saturday night at the Mandalay Bay Events Center in Las Vegas.
Brad Paisley is the only person who’s ever made me want to quit playing guitar. He plays at a hopelessly fantastic level. Every minute of last night was a bonafide highlight and it was actually the most high tech show I’ve ever seen. At one point the place went absolutely bonkers when it appeared Carrie Underwood was sashaying onstage for “Remind Me.” It was a 3-D holographic image of Carrie but it got the job done (read: SO HOT). No one could tell it was fake, she even started clapping on cue at the end of Brad’s solo.
If there’s one thing country music is about, it’s reality. It’s not about art or struggle or some deeper metaphor to excavate, country music is about reality. Brad said as much last night and it’s exemplified in his songs - plainspoken, self-deprecating, and simply, beautifully honest. I love that. He introduced his band by way of a star trek/wars -themed animation set in motion by a code red! interruption from William Shatner calling for warp speed. Brad breaks into Nervous Breakdown and the animation takes care of the whole “introducing the band” part. It’s just silly. It’s perfect. Brad signs autographs and gives away acoustic guitars after using them for the intro (This is Country Music). He walks out to a platform in the back and sings Letter to Me and Mud on the Tires for the cheap seats. He opens the show with a silhouette of himself beamed in purple lasers. It’s just silly and it’s perfect. DId I mention he took time out to hand his mic to a guy on the floor so dude could propose to his girlfriend? She said yes and Brad breaks into an epic version of She’s Everything with a 3 minute solo on his strat that would make Eric Johnson cream his pants. It’s just silly and it’s perfect. American Saturday Night was perfect for Vegas on a Saturday night and Welcome to the Future had a pretty incredible videoscape of america-humanity-pacman. I’m still in sensory overload 24 hours later. Incredible show by an incredible musician.
I love Brad Paisley.
[video]