Years ago, in my former, pre-dystopian life, I had a blog where I mostly wrote about the sometimes humorous, always chaotic, generally rewarding experience of parenting two children who were, at the time, very young. I was, in the colloquial term of that fancy-free, pre-Trump day and age, a “Daddy Blogger.”
Hi! Remember me? Been a while. So, yeah, the first post I’ve published since January really is going to be about a comic-book movie that was released back in April — not only because I’m sick of writing solely about politics (as evidenced by the fact that I haven’t published anything new here in months), but also because it apparently is the only thing about which I’ve been motivated enough to actually, you know, write something … and if this is what it takes to prime the pump and restore me to being a guy who actually writes things instead of a guy who just claims he’s a writer, then this is what I’m gonna go with.
Taking a break from politics to republish this piece on the one-year anniversary of Chris Cornell’s death. I still can’t believe he’s gone.
I got out of the Army in 1991, one week before Christmas. My brother’s gift to me that year was Soundgarden’s “Badmotorfinger.” I was a short-haired, 21-year-old, ex-military cop with my sights set on a career in law enforcement.
A year later, I was a long-haired, college-radio DJ whose daily attire consisted of beat-up combat boots, ripped jeans, flannel shirts and a leather biker jacket. I had discovered I could write, and I no longer wanted to be a cop for a living. Chris Cornell featured prominently on the soundtrack to my transformation.
