Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

 

                This is me, you pathetic little chicken shits, but you knew that already.
               
Hey cowards.  How does it feel to know that the only thing you know is to hide behind your bullshit, in the safety of your computer room, or your secret hiding place where nobody knows where you are, while you cause grief and loss for the masses?  How does it feel to know that you are rotting from the inside out from your hatred and lies?  I know you’re the ones who have screwed with me for decades – because what, you’re afraid of me???  I know you’re the ones who put that baseball cap in my apartment, and moved my stuff around just enough so that I knew it was moved.  I know you’re the ones who jammed my radio station.  I know you’re the ones who told Google to bury my old photography website, and who got YouTube to delete my videos, accounts, and censor my comments.  I know you're the ones who, of all things, snipped the little balls off my hairbrush - all of them, all at once - how juvenile and pathetic is THAT???  I know you’re the ones who send me my usual day to day bullshit that you would like me to believe is the natural order of things.  I know you’re the ones who saw to it that I didn’t get my insurance money, I know you sent that Peruvian girl – with or without her knowledge.  I know you’re the ones who have been making damn sure I don’t get what I earn, you’ve closed all the doors in the music business, because what, you’re afraid of seeing somebody who actually WORKED at something and made something of himself – right, you pathetic little cowards?  How does it feeeeeel, to know that you would never, in a million years, come out and face me, or any of the other decent people whose lives you screw from the safety of your little bunker?  Guess what, fucking pathetic little pieces of shit, I still sleep well every night, while you gotta do the fifth of vodka just so you can stand your disgusting selves.  I continue to look for that crack in your armor, the hole in the huge wall that you built to protect yourselves from people like me, and to keep us out of where we might actually make this a little better place to live.  If or when I do slip through where you didn’t see me, I’ll come after you, I’ll expose you for the worthless fucking parasitic goddam yellow bellied pieces of shit that you are.  If I go to my grave before that, well, rest assured that I still know what miserable little weasels you really are.  Paranoid and delusional, you say?  Go fuck yourselves.

P.S.  If you should grow a backbone someday (fat fucking chance), I offer you to some see me, I’ll be waitin’.

Goofy Grin, Rifle Arm, and Pathetic Little Men, Part III

 

                                                                            

It’s Little League baseball season in Hawaii, back around 1967, Kanewai Park.  There was this one kid on the “Senators”, he was a skinny kid with a goofy grin and a rifle arm – and I mean a rifle of an arm – no arc balls, no lobbing, those pitches came hissing at the plate – rising upwards a few inches from the backspin.  There were a few times when the opposing coaches had to drag a kid kicking and crying up to the batter’s box, because the kid was afraid of this wiry pitcher, who, by the way, never hit a batter- not once.  Well, the wiry kid’s parents moved, so the following year he had to play for the “White Sox”.  The coaches were two clowns who each had a kid on the team that apparently they wanted to make stars out of.  They had one on the pitcher’s mound, and the other on second base.  These kids had no arm, no gumption, no game, no talent, nothing.  The pitcher threw nothing but arc balls, which the other teams had no problem smacking all over the place.  The goofy grinned kid, well, he sat on the bench the whole time.  Oh yeah, there was also the termite on third base – who, on the rare occasion that he actually fielded a grounder, would toss the ball in the general direction of first base with all he had, where it would sometimes roll at the general vicinity of first base – other times it would end up closer to home plate.  And yes, the skinny, rifle armed kid with the goofy grin never saw one second of game time.

Fast forward to today, the city is Reno, Nevada, and it’s not baseball this time, it’s the music business – from which some of us have made a living for quite a few years.  The kid with the goofy grin is still as naïve as he was when he was 10, firing baseballs at the plate because that’s what he did – and not to show anybody up, or to threaten anybody’s manhood.  He makes music because that’s all he knows, and all he ever wanted to do.  He never sold out, and was never able to fit into western society as we know it.  I’ve been here almost a year and a half, and I have not been able to get a single entertainment director, a single owner or manager to return a phone call or email.  I’d be willing to bet that not a single one of them has even looked at my demo videos.  The acts that are working around town – in the casinos, they could easily be compared to the arc ball pitcher, and the second baseman who hit first base about two thirds of the time, and the third baseman who could not, under any circumstance, even come close to reaching the first baseman’s glove.  So far, in the many painful excursions to the handful of rooms where they hire solo acts, it’s been amateur night, street musician night, or the lounge lizard from hell.  One of the rooms just recently cut back from four nights a week of entertainment to three, and another is trying something different on one of the nights that normally featured the regular live entertainment.  For the record, there is a huge difference between bashing the “competition”, and reality.  If there were good acts here, I would be the first to say so, and I’d even shake their hand, but well, what I’ve heard literally hurts my ears, and makes my skin crawl.  The worst part of all this, though, is, as I said, the fact that not a single entertainment director or manager has answered the phone, returned a phone call, or returned an email in my countless efforts to make contact.  I don’t know if it’s a very tight knit Good Ol’ Boy network, or if there is something else behind this, but it’s gotten way past the point of absurd.  People who are smarter than me have said that they do not believe in coincidences – well, I agree with that for the most part, but, coincidence or not, this is way beyond reason or logic – it appears to me that there is, at the risk of sounding paranoid, something behind the endless avoidance, unanswered phone calls and emails.

I do have my new CD that has been sent to quite a few radio stations, including Sirius XM, and Pandora, but the reality is that there is a very slim chance that any of the program directors will ever get around to listening to it.

In case you would like to see Fid doing what he does, you can find him here:  http://thefidmusic.com/

It appears I must come up with another plan.  It’s a damn good thing that this is not a life or death situation, or I’d have been in the ground long before now, or at the very least, I’d be living under a bridge.  Being the town leper is not the most pleasant thing I’ve ever experienced – and holy hell, now that I think about it, five years of that is a bit much O_O .