WHAT GETS ME HIGH...WHAT GETS ME BY...

This blog is very hard to label. One day I use it as an outlet to vent. Another day I hear some cool entertainment ‘buzz’ and I want to share it right away. Kind of makes me feel like Perez…only straight…and thin…and not f*cking retarded.


There have been times that I can’t hold back my feelings about the BS hero worship that infects this American nation. (for more on that please read my post on why I hate Jessica Simpson)



There are times that this blog is written by my producer and “Engineer Extraordinaire,” Josh. Sometimes we use this blog together…either to hype an up-coming radio show (and there will be more white guys at Tyler Perry movies than Hipp Nights broadcasts during the Cardinal’s season) and sometimes this blog becomes a recap of what you missed if you chose to embrace your Saturday night.



So…what am I using it for today?


I have a story to tell.


Two stories, actually.


They could be told in very poetic, drawn out ways…or I could just get straight to it.


Let’s see how well I do at just getting right to the point.


Lately I have been feeling very different. Some days I feel like me. Joe Hipperson. Other days I feel like everything I’ve accomplished in life doesn’t matter. Because, in the end—you are only the reaction that you give to those shoveling it on you. Think about it…It could be love, hate, disrespect…there are people out there that will lack the ability to open their mind to accept anything that doesn’t come from their own backward-ass chasm of a brain. Don’t let them win. Hell, they don’t even have the 2 cells needed to figure out that you are “winning by choosing to live well and not let their ignorance bother you.”



So my point is this: I f*cked up and let a couple of actions towards me get the best of me. The ignorance and disrespect shown to me caused me to react in a negative way. Soooooooooo I moped around and tried to shun myself away from anything that might make me happy.


Son of a bitch…I can’t get to the point, can I?!



Damn.



Okay…so, I was depressed.



I can really set the mood, can’t I? I was so depressed that I went out of my way to listen to Simon & Garfunkel…by candlelight. Christ.



A couple nights ago I was walking my Maltese, KC. It was a little after 11PM and the house was quiet. I did my regular ‘round the block with her and made it back to the darkened plastic house in Imperial.



I Opened the door and was about to walk down stairs to take a shower…when I heard a giggle.



Like an idiot, I looked at the dog.



Like she had just giggled at me.



After a second of feeling stupid I looked up the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye…there were the eyes of 4 year old Shawn Patrick…hiding under a blanket. I pretended that I didn’t see him and started walking up the steps. I got to the very top and said, “Shawn? Did you turn into a blanket?”



He laughed and shot up. He looked at me, very seriously, and said, “I was pretending, Dad. I’m not really a blanket. I was trying to fall asleep but my covers were messed up.”



“Shawn, it’s past eleven. It’s way past your bed time.” Shawn looked at me and held three fingers up.



“Okay, Dad. I can have these minutes? Just these minutes?”



“Okay, Shawn. I’m going to take a shower and then get my jammies on. Will you be in bed when I’m done?”



“Deal, Daddy!” So I went downstairs and jumped into the shower. Not one minute had gone by and I heard the sound of KC running around upstairs and Shawn chasing her…laughing.



After a speed shower I took a minute for depression…looking into the mirror and noticing that every wrinkle on my face equaled about 10 hairs off the top of my head.



Son of a bitch.



I went upstairs, saw that it was almost midnight—got REALLY excited that I was only going to get 5 hours of sleep—and started to look around for Shawn. He wasn’t there. Is it possible that he actually went into his bed after his “these minutes” were up? I checked his room. Nothing. I went into my room, expecting to see him lying in my spot, but all I got was the sawing of logs from Mrs. Hipperson…who was also hogging the covers. I heard a whisper.



“Daddy!” I spun around and saw Shawn at the end of the hallway. How did I miss him? What did he have in his hand? In a singsong type of voice he said, “I’ve got your special pillow!”



“Shawn, we’ve got to go to sleep…if Mom wakes up we’re dead!”



“Okay, Dad, but we just need to make your special pillow cold.”



The following 5 minutes were spent with me lifting Shawn up, while he was holding my “special” pillow, so that he could open the freezer—and insert said pillow. After the 5 minutes in the freezer, Shawn and I walked into my bedroom. He asked, “Is it okay that I sleep in Daddy’s bed? I’ll be good. Just don’t snore, Dad, and I can sleep in your bed.”



I got him tucked in. I clung to the 2 inches of bed that I had for myself and then I felt him hug me. He whispered, “I really love you, Dad.”



Here’s my other little story.



The other night I noticed that it was getting near 9:00 PM. The bedtime for my sons is 8:30. When Dad (me) is the enforcer of bedtime it means that the kids and I are usually on our second bag of popcorn by 8:30.



This night was different. My wife had put them to bed and I was on second patrol. I was the closer. I had already gone into Shawn’s room and sung him his new, favorite bedtime song, “Ring of Fire.” Yeah, I try to channel The Man In Black.



So, I had wrapped up my song and kissed Shawn goodnight when I noticed that I could hear people talking in Avery’s room.



Avery, being only 10, I doubt has developed multiple personalities…and I knew I hadn’t let anyone in the house. So, I opened the door and say Avery, lying in bed, and listening to his stereo.



Usually he has “American Idiot,” by Green Day or “LOVE,” by The Beatles in his cd player. Instead…well…it was me. Not my old band, Vallium, which he has listened to by the way—but I didn’t force him to—just in case some bastard out there thinks I’m force feeding my kids music their Dad made in a ‘wanna-be’ punk band from the ‘90’s.



No, he was listening to my talk radio show, HIPP NIGHTS.



I sometimes burn shows to CD so I can listen back to them. You know, just to hear how an interview went, or to agonize at just how much of a jackass I sound like on the air. He had taken a CD from a previous show and put it in his stereo so he could listen to it while he fell asleep.



A million emotions flooded me within seconds. I wanted to say hundreds of different phrases—all cliché and all lame. Instead I looked at him and he looked at me. We both gave each other a nod of the head…and I knew, at that moment, I was looking into the eyes of—what will one day be—a hell of a guy. He’s a brilliant child, don’t get me wrong…but, at that moment, it was almost like I could see my (future) grown-up son as a man…staring back at me and giving me an unspoken signal. A nod of the head. A way to say everything you need to without eating up time.



So as I look ahead at the astronomical number of radio shows that I WON’T HAVE over the Cardinal baseball season…I don’t hit any panic buttons.



Sure, I’d like to be on more. Hell, I’d like to be on every day. But my happiness or my success isn’t judged by it.



I won’t let anyone—anyone judge me. Not while I’m here. After I die? Sure thing. Judge your ass off. Until that day comes to pass you can count on me enjoying a life where I don’t give a rat’s ass what zip code I live in or how much money my spouse makes.



To all of those superficial people that actually have the balls to think things like that matter—I say this: I’m richer than you’ll ever be…and as long as I’m with Lashawna, Avery & Shawn—I’m in a home better than whatever your fancy ass zip code provides.