School Shootings: A true look at our mad and irreparable world

Stopping them is still no easy task.


True story. There’s a waiting area for parents on sight when there is a school shooting. Can you imagine that? It’s like taking your kid to the doctor, but the doc may have a gun. You just have to wait.

A shooter in South Florida today walked into a high school and killed “many” students and injured at least 14 others. There wasn’t a reason or warning given prior, or one to be found after the horrible tragedy.

There never is a reason. The only explanation will be that the human species is capable of bad things, and we will be left wondering when it will happen again.

The superintendent for Parkland High School said there were cops positioned outside the school, but the shooter still managed to unleash chaos on the school. Many, including myself, have asked for stronger security at schools to prevent these attacks. Today, it didn’t work.

As a parent, all I can think about are the parents of the kids lost or injured. I imagine getting that phone call while I am out and about, or at home. I can imagine my heart clenching up and the need to call my wife and parents. I would be instructed to stay home and wait by the phone by police, because the shooter would still be at large.

Obviously, I would disobey those commands, and drive to the school. I’d park a few blocks away and get as close as I could on foot. Sooner or later, I would probably be restrained. Thinking about it makes me mad and sad at the same time, like a person trying to run through quicksand in his or her own mind.  Continue reading “School Shootings: A true look at our mad and irreparable world”

Five Things I know

Ford, aging, cold, and Kaczynski teasing.

Wake up, god damn it! A little Petey Greene for you this morning. If you don’t know who I’m talking about, track down the wonderful yet underrated Don Cheadle film, Talk to Me.

Now that I have your attention, let me provide a few thoughts that are rumbling around my head this not as cold Tuesday. There have been some favorable responses to the rants as of late, so perhaps I’ll drop a few more unfiltered takes here. Merciless prose bombs unfit for Midwestern house husbands and fulfilled yoga instructors.

Without any more bullshitting, here are five things I know:

5. Harrison Ford was a killer movie star once upon a time. He’s 75 years old these days, and while he hasn’t lost all of his swagger, there’s nothing like the timeless badass from Star Wars, Indiana Jones, and Blade Runner. I liked his recent reprisals of two of those legendary roles, but as I re-watch those older flicks, I have to admit the man had a star quality that few actors have these days. The man was Humphrey Bogart if he fought Nazis and cracked a whip while rocking a fedora. He even drove a fast ship.

A pure cinematic pleasure who didn’t have to put on 15 pounds of muscle or change his appearance to convince you he could take your woman and save the day all in the same night. Just watch The Fugitive, where he plays down the hunk appeal and goes chasing waterfalls while trying to prove his innocence. I think I’ll watch the Presidio and Witness next.  Continue reading “Five Things I know”

2017: The end of the year rant

2017 represented so many things that it’s hard to put it into words, but I’m going to try. Donald Trump took office, Hollywood’s elite took a blow, the Patriots won another Super Bowl, the NFL became less popular, a versatile fleet of film took over cinema, and the Astros won a World Series. Anybody hear much about the NBA? Me neither.

Now, this won’t be your grandfather’s yearly rundown. What I say will most likely offend Star Wars fanatics, political maniacs, and civil minds. But, if you hang with me and keep an open mind, you’ll understand where I stand in the end. So, without much order or pre-existing thought, let’s look back at 2017.


Thanks a lot, Hilary. The Democrats really screwed the pooch here. Clinton is a war criminal, liar, and deplorable idea for a President, so it was only fitting that a clueless billionaire got the keys to the office. Trump doesn’t have an iota of knowledge about running a country, and being that more than a few of his business ventures have failed, he may not be as sharp with money as some seem to think. He takes Twitter more seriously than foreign policy, and will probably end up getting us all killed. But hey, Barack Obama was so bad, right?

The Democrats should go get their shoe shine box and think about what they have done to our country. They have four years to come up with a better plan than albino calf Hilary. Continue reading “2017: The end of the year rant”

Leave my daughter, take the car: A few words about Gerard Grandzol

When a good parent meets evil, tragedy happens.

Sacrifice. That is the first thing that a good parent willingly accepts when their child enters this Earth. Selfishness becomes selflessness. Your life is no longer as important as the child’s future. Status quo for the people who cut the shit when they become parents.

Today is a sad day all around. 16 years ago, terrorists cut America to pieces with three planes, costing 3,000 innocent lives. Every 9/11 anniversary, a few fresh heartbreaking tales of heroism emerge like leaves trapped under a rock. Currently, Hurricane Irma is ripping through Florida, after Harvey did a number on Houston. Streets, houses, people, cars, and pets are under siege. You’ve heard about all of that, though, and while it’s all terribly sad, I want to talk to you about Gerard Grandzol.

When I was scrolling through my Twitter timeline today, I read a painful story that is currently buying up real estate in my soul at the moment, so I have to talk about it.

Grandol, 38 years old and a Philadelphia native, was a fine citizen. He did a lot of good work in his community and when people heard his name, smiles and nods were abound. Isn’t that the way to be when you get into your late 30’s and 40’s? People hear your name and sing your praises, instead of wincing and walking away. Grandzol did the right thing often. Last Thursday, he did the right thing and it cost him his life.

He was taking his two year daughter and his dog on an outing to the park. Fun was to be had and good times collected for memory. When Grandzol returned to his home later that night, two men approached him and demanded his car. Grandzol, thinking wisely and going into protective mode, agreed to give up his ride-but wanted to get his kid out of the vehicle first. Then, one guy shot the man twice in the head right in front of his daughter.

This isn’t a movie. In real life, heroes die all the time.  Continue reading “Leave my daughter, take the car: A few words about Gerard Grandzol”

The Monday Rant 

Let’s punch Monday in the throat with a stream of consciousness.

Live from the Tesson Ferry medical clinic–

I’m tired. Let’s just start there. 

The wife is having surgery on her wrist-round 2 if you are counting in the waiting room-and I’m uploading coffee into the system as I type. No, a nurse isn’t holding a cup near my mouth, but I’ll check if that’s in the insurance plan. 
Since I don’t have wifi in the lounge and the April issue of Sports Illustrated doesn’t interest me, I’ll come here and rant. Off the cuff chat. Monday morning musings. The Wakeup Blues. 

It has been said that the more we talk shit out, the easier we sleep. Who knows if that is true, but let’s go ahead and tap into my stream of consciousness:

*Bethalto isn’t that bad. I mean, there’s a Schnucks grocery store with a Shop n’ save pharmacy and there isn’t a movie theater for miles, but it’s a quiet place to get away. It’s not like you can be driving down I-44 towards Webster in STL and get shot or anything. 

*I hate going to bed early, so I often don’t do it. You’re told what to do outside your house, so why obey the rules inside your four walls? Even when there is a reason to, like today. The wife tells me to get some sleep and I tell her not to worry. I watch Rocknrolla and Knight and Day instead. Bad idea. I’m very tired and they make these rooms at the clinic super bright. Like, do they not have respect for Italian vampires?

Sidebar: Hey Guy Ritchie, what happened to that Rocknrolla sequel you promised us back in 2008? The part before the end credits where the screen teased, “Coming soon, The Real Rocknrolla.” Well, nine years later, and you sir are a real fucking liar. The first film cost just 18 million to make. A sequel would have been a better investment than that King Arthur turd you shat out this past spring. Yeah, I did type SHAT. 

*Ready for a medium hot take: A radio show shouldn’t have more than three hosts. Then it turns into an overcrowded party where people talk over each other constantly and the listener gets confused about who is saying what. When people decide to turn their dial towards your stream, don’t take that shit for granted and pack the room full of voices. I don’t care who the hosts are, it’ll be a mess. 

*The NFL starts in two months. Kickoffs abound and fantasy leagues launch. Husbands and wives lose their spouses for undisclosed periods of time. Owners sit in suites and talk about building new stadiums they don’t need and possibly moving the team if they don’t get what they want. Money is earned. I mean, stupid money. So much cash. Football returns in two months and I couldn’t care less. Fuck you Roger Goodell. When I look up gutless scumbag whore in the dictionary, your picture pops up. 

*In eleven days, I move into my new house. So exciting and also not. Like getting a massage from someone who needs to clip their fingernails. My wife and her sister are already planning to fix the electric, which means possibly gutting the walls. Don’t get me wrong, a mean demolition is quite fun, but not in my house. A new home means one thing: projects. Fuck. Me.  

Side note: I’m writing this on my phone, and I’d like to tell my iPhone for the hundredth time that I do want to type “fuck” and not “duck”. 

*There are four hours of Kingdom left. That’s right folks. The MMA series has officially entered its Gettysburg movie status. Four hours. I can’t tell you how sad I am that this series is closing up its doors at Navy Street after the August finale. There are certain TV shows that you wish would have stopped a long time ago (Grey’s Anatomy, Bones, etc.), and this one simply isn’t one of them. Frank Grillo and Jonathan Tucker deserve Emmy awards. Matt Lauria and Kiele Sanchez are so great. The goal of this TV series was to dive into messy parking lot that is a fighter’s mental state. Imperfect people who trip over themselves in an imperfect world. Four more hours left people. 

*Whenever I mention Grillo’s name around people, I get a certain look. An aggressive eye roll type move. Like they are expecting me to wax poetically about him again. And I think to myself-yeah, so what? Don’t be jealous that my favorite actor to watch is also a friend who I admire as a person and a performer. I bet half these eye roll people don’t even take the time to watch a Grillo movie or show. They just don’t. Try it out. See if I’m wrong. I’m not alone. There are Grillo addicts everywhere and for good reason. In a landscape stuffed with egos and false personalities, Frank is as authentic as they come. And he could kick your ass. And your dad’s ass. And your brother too. You get the point. 

*Annoying pack of jack-wagons #407: the ones who say they are done watching Cardinals baseball after a bad loss. Don’t kid yourself. A bad loss just makes you watch more. Watch harder. Closer. Become more addicted. These are the needy types too. The LaVar Balls of baseball fans. 

*Speaking of LeVar, maybe I can have Grillo knock that oversaturated athlete parent the fuck out. I mean hard too. Ball gives all dads at the little league game a bad name. Just shut it down dude. Let your kid play. 

*Let me ask a question. Why can only one website write about a player or topic? This is so common in sportswriting these days. I don’t get it. There’s enough room at the table for hundreds of websites, but if a website writes about a topic covered two days or two weeks after another site covers it, they are bad. Scorned. If the world got rid of all the sports oriented know-it-alls, it would be a better place. Here’s the thing: they are as full of shit as the next person. They don’t know it all. Not even close. They got their information from someone else and basically reformatted it for their own discretion. The realty is we are all staring into the looking glass pondering the next thought. You know who you are if you read this part. Give it up. 

*Hey, did you hear about that NBA trade? Oh cool. I couldn’t give a shit if I was paid to. Well, it depends on the money I guess. I get more arousal out of the back 9 of a golf game than I do an NBA contest or off-season gaming. 

*Can we get a good winter this year, because the mosquito bites that I’m getting this summer are brutal. They aren’t just taking a bite; these bastards are taking a pint. So selfish. And I know bugs play a part in our way of life. But I didn’t agree in the “Bugs Occupation Package: Volume 2017” for mosquitoes to bite the shit out of me. 

*As much as I liked doing the battlegrounds, I don’t need to do it again. Once you get in the mud for a couple hours and go to that extreme, a good run or workout suffices. Never say never, but I don’t think I need a repeat. 

*Favorite dinner food. Simple surf and turf. Give me a ten ounce strip streak cooked medium and shrimp or a slab of Atlantic salmon sautéed on a stove. Here’s another medium heated take: I’ll take steak and shrimp over brisket and pulled pork. BBQ is overrated. 

*When it comes to chicken wings, the skin must be crispy. If not, no thanks. There’s no place in this world for slimy skinned wings. 

*Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza. Ask any chef in Italy. It’s no good.  

*Game of Thrones starts in six days. Since I don’t have premium cable, no Thrones for me. 

*Here’s the shitty part about exercising: it makes you want to eat more. As you get older, the mantra is that you need to take care of yourself. I’ve been doing that since I was 17 years old, so it’s not headline news to me. But they don’t warn you about the food desires that rise up as you increase your activity. And sometimes a bowl of veggies won’t cut it. An example: last night at 11 p.m., I absolutely destroyed a bag of Cheez-it’s. Gone. Working out just increases the need for a larger food intake. Fuck you appetite. 

*To the people who drive 45 minutes or more to work in the morning or at night, I applaud you. That’s tough business. 

*This week will mark my first week as an Uber driver. I’m trying to make money and not work a shit job that makes me miserable, so I’m trying this. I’m not messing around, so I got gum, mints, water, and other small goods for my passengers. The better the reviews, the more customers come your way. Also, it’s a great chance to explore the city. Here goes nothing. 

*Full confession. I love to talk, but there are times where an extended period of silence is just golden. The need to fire away constantly is a drain. Shut up and listen. Or just appreciate the quiet. 

*Beautiful women of the world, don’t be so hard on yourself. I know it’s tough. You’re pretty enough. Yes, your makeup is subtle. The dress doesn’t look too tight. The hair is done up just right. Your breasts are perfect for your body type. Sure, yoga pants are acceptable outside of a gym. As judgemental as we are-and we all are-a little “you” is always needed. 

Side bar: The ass remains the most seductive part of a woman while the eyes cut us off at the knees. 

One last thing: protect your knees. As a guy who runs on hard concrete, I can assure you that making sure your knees receive care is of the utmost importance after the body turns 30. Aging isn’t always classy. 

Also, the only thing better than people watching is spotting other addictive people watchers.  

Okay, I’ll shut up now. Back to your regularly scheduled programming. 


Welcome to Walmart: Get your shit and stay a while

A day in the life of a shopper at Walmart.

Whenever I walk into Walmart, I think about grumpy Walter from Jeff Dunham’s crew of misfit toys. Walter likes to imitate a Walmart greeter and add a personal touch of go fuck yourself grit to it: “Welcome to Walmart-get your shit and get out.” When I walk in, I know it can be quite the opposite. It’s more like get your shit and stay a while as you buy tons of crap you do not need.

Have you ever walked in wanting to buy a few things and end up spending 65 dollars on an Emilio brown lunch bag assortment of shit? Things you didn’t even know your house required, but there you are walking out and working the forearm muscles with six bags in each hand, turning your fingertips ghost white. It’s really a not so fun experience.

Walmart is a theme park that is disclosed as a shopping location and I believe that the entire human race is represented in one building.  Continue reading “Welcome to Walmart: Get your shit and stay a while”

Breaking News: My retirement from writing

Writing and I are getting a divorce. Pour a drink, pull up a chair, and play the Michael Bolton music. There may be some man tear dust in the air here soon.

An old man once told me. Get out before you stink up the profession. Never mind the fact that he was drinking warm red bull and picking up a half eaten sandwich at Union Station, Perhaps, profound thoughts occur at your lowest point. Maybe he was really hungry and didn’t want to pity any fools. Either way, as old man advice will do, it hangs with you through the years.

The time has come for me to hang up the writing gloves and do something else.


What else? Badminton tournaments are an option. I’m not just talking about a middle school P.E. class battle between a punk kid and the overweight female gym teacher who doesn’t shave. I am talking about the biggest and baddest players on the earth. Natural geographic carnage. I’d seek these people out.

I could go to Francis Park and whisper sweet nothings into the statue by the fountain. Is there a fountain in Francis Park? Let’s table that one.

I could work at Dairy Queen for obvious reasons.

I could go out and get a real job.

Worldwide coffee shop philanderer could work. Go around the world, beg for coffee, get really worked up, and come home to recount my tales.

The radio business is soaking up some time so I could just talk more there. Being the voice that literally wakes up St. Louis takes time so I could work on that.

Writing is hard shit, bro. It’s homework for life. An everlasting chore. A need to impose a will that most find annoying. Delivering white hot passionate takes about the Cardinals only gets you 20 parody accounts and hate DM’s. What’s the worth?

Why write about who to find in the free agent trade market when a hundred other sets of hands are writing the same thing? It isn’t like Baseball Reference is special to just a few writers. WAR, OPS+, DRS. How about GTFOOH? Get the fuck out of here. Try that out. Oh, wait. You can’t say fuck. Family site. Too bad. Let Quentin Tarantino work it into his last film.

I could finally finish one of my seventeen screenplays. Wait, that’s writing. Scratched.

I could travel around and interview the safe zone dwellers who were struck down by the Donald Trump election triumph. We could discuss their future in dark caves in remote locations where all they can eat is ramen noodle and spam. Talk about Huff Post Podcast worthy.

I could be a better husband and father. Stop telling Vinny hold on or give me a minute while I finish an article. The minute really is an hour anyway. No, this won’t happen.

I now understand when people say enough is enough or a passion dies a thousand deaths in the right time of November with the temperature under 40 degrees. Sometimes, a thing just can’t last.

I could blame it on Tate Donovan. What a prick.

Hilary Clinton deleted my urge to inform.

Gordan Ramsay told me I had fat fingers.

The keyboard thinks I’m ugly and filed a lawsuit against my hands.

Tom Cruise didn’t run enough in my articles.

Hollywood wants to reboot my writing so I have to stop.

Bruno(the #1 Twitter handle for Cardinals knowledge, not the actor or musician) made me do it. (Imagining the sound of his high pitched voice telling me how bad I am makes my stomach hurt).

Daniel Winnett was no longer optimistic about my writing’s future.

John Mozeliak finished second in negotiating for my writing to continue.

Real Housewives wouldn’t whine about it.

The Bachelor didn’t give my writing a rose.

My writing went to the same restaurant that Tony Soprano went to before the fade to black and Journey song.

It went to the same doomed construction site that Stringer Bell went to.

It met Negan and that barbed wire baseball bat.

Let’s just say I have had enough and will retire from writing at the tender age of 34.

It started with 3,000 word email/rants to a group of friends.

It ends with KSDK, St. Louis Game Time, and Inside STL ramblings that look semi professional.

This is the end. Thanks for reading if you did. If not, thanks for leading to this decision.






By the way, this is all bullshit. There’s no way in hell that I’m stopping.

November FOOLS! Yes, that’s a new thing. Happy Thanksgiving!