When you imagine what a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert might be like, with its down-home charm and its even down-homelier fans, you might be tempted to fill your mental picture with a barnful of vicious, judgmental stereotypes. That’s simply wrong, and I’m here to tell you that– Well, that your assumptions are absolutely correct, all of them, and you can bet your commemorative Robert E. Lee plates on this.
From the word go, things just fell into place. We’re talking two Confederate flags in the parking lot alone, flapping proudly under the afternoon sun, and this was before I even stepped off the car. The vehicle in question was a shiny new Dodge Ram, which Deadpan had generously offered to ferry the crew deep into red county, and seconds after disembarking, a fellow with a thick drawl wandered over, marveling at the make and model. Truly, the truck was like a hick lodestone.
You may wonder about proper attire at such an event, and the answer is yes. In instances where shirts were actually worn, they took the form of fan apparel, Confederate flags, and even a recreation of the General Lee, complete with Confederate flag head wrap. And there was a comforting consistency to it all because the concert itself applied a similar aesthetic to its graphical wizardry. Lynyrd Skynyrd had managed to yoke the Adobe software suite to a hypnotic stream of antebellum flags, spinning guns, and even a blackface cartoon clip, in what I presume was a deep, nuanced meditation on race relations in the entertainment industry. At this point the Professor reminded me to be thankful that Vietnam was over, since I was likely the only Asian dude in a three-mile radius. Then, fade to “Freebird.”
Jesus! Or “Rock N Roll Jesus,” specifically, because Kid Rock then took the stage and all was set right. He’s a consummate showman, first and foremost, and whereas Skynyrd proffered a genuine strain of redneck, the brand of redneck Kid Rock sold was the calculated kind. His band actually had black people in it, a veritable concession given the audience, yet he also performed a song list that resonated with the diehard Skyn Heads–is that inappropriate?–and when the first strains of “Cowboy” swept through the amphitheater, the crowd lost its mind. There was an authenticity to the moment. I could see the appeal. I’m glad I went. I’m also glad I didn’t die there.
A far more riveting headline–God, Guns, and the Time-Space Continuum–awaits us in Thursday’s post, but tonight will be a lot mellower, since at this hour I’m basically being powered by some rum-heavy mojito. This month was packed and, with one particularly hectic chapter concluding earlier this evening, it’s mostly behind me now. And as I drove back home, midnight right around the corner, prodigious drops of rain pounding the windshield, it clearly felt like the slate was being cleaned: new day minutes away and the horizon before me thoroughly washed, like a primordial reset.
But then I realized that nothing’s truly ended per se. It’s not like I can nap for the rest of the quarter. Tomorrow will probably be just as busy, albeit a different kind of busyness, and this realization was comforting because it means I didn’t plan that far in advance. Certainly I appreciate plans. Really I gravitate toward the short-term variety, though, and seldom do I think more than a few weeks out. This is how people normally function, right? You won’t find any five-year plans here. In fact, my five-year plan is to never have a five-year plan.
Three days left in the month. I’m tired, yet I’m also renewed. It feels like the capacity to get stuff done has increased, and that’s got to count for something. What’s going to happen in August? Who knows? But here I am–one dash and a dot away from the next step.
I suppose it’s uncouth to think about one blog while you’re updating another, but that is precisely what I’m doing now, bad manners all dialed up to 11, for a very good reason. I’m not thinking about FlickFool, mind you, our 50-word movie review site I updated approximately 50 times before disappearing completely. It’s a dismal state of affairs in that part of town, really. I renewed the domain name a few weeks ago, which apparently doesn’t forward correctly anymore, and truth be told it felt a little bit like online alimony. Terrible, I know.
Nor am I thinking about any spiritual successors to the site you’re browsing right this moment. A Firsthandrants.com could be possible, I guess, but the more premium quality rants would probably sound to you like a solid string of filthy swear words, you Philistine. No, I’m thinking about the company blog, where I’ll be contributing about once a week in short order, and it’s a venue that is basically the polar opposite of all you see before you.
For one thing, I continue to be mortified whenever Secondhand Rants wends its way into real-world conversation. Obviously it’s public. At the same time, though, it’s not intended to attract attention, since I’m writing here primarily for myself. I’d feel dumber if I didn’t. It’s, like, by all means you can read it. I simply don’t want to know you read it. A company blog, on the other hand, thrives on attention. It’s why it’s there, after all. No profanity will be allowed, I’ve confirmed, much to my dismay. I imagine excessive italics won’t be tolerated either.
The appeal here lies in the potential for growth. A professor once offered the following diagnosis of my writing: postmodern, sometimes charming, grammar is mostly there, but I need to learn to be relevant. Relevancy. Relating. To write for other people. This is the puzzle I’m trying to crack. For my first post, perhaps I’ll tell a few jokes, talk about what I ate for lunch, and then offer incisive commentary on the local weather, all under my new pseudonym: the Loan Ranger. Yes.