Hits

I don’t post here for views.  I post here because I have a small part of my brain that is a loud mouthed arrogant jerk who enjoys having a forum for yelling at the universe that almost no one alive is aware of but still runs the risk of being seen by anyone.  Imagine the old curmudgeon who yells “get off my lawn” from inside his house where no one on his lawn could ever hear him suddenly deciding to crack a window a few milometers.  That’s me, and this blog is the window.  This metaphor is awful and I don’t even know what I’m going for here.  What the hell was I going to talk about anyway?

I got a bunch of hits over the last two days.  The overwhelming majority are from the Neil Peart obituary I copied yesterday.  I don’t care about page views.  I don’t care about site visitors.  This isn’t a business, this is a repository for brain droppings.  I’m glad I could bring that article to people though.  I think back to junior high and high school when many of my friendships were based solely on Rush fandom.  In those days people gave us shit for it.  Rush was pretty much the definition of un-cool, and we were un-cool too.  Something weird has happened in the 21st century though.  Un-cool things started becoming cool.  Not me, obviously, (did you read that first paragraph?) but un-cool things I love are now the coolest things ever.  Rush got caught up in that.  Suddenly it’s cool to love Rush.  Granted, maybe not as much as I love Rush, but you get the idea.

WordPress.com gives you a little stats page and it includes the countries your hits have come from.  Usually mine are all from the US.  Actually, mine are all from two, maybe three locations within New England, but as far as wordpress is concerned they are all US.  Today I have hits from the US, Canada, Costa Rica, India, Portugal, Philippines, UK, Japan, and Australia.  All from people who wanted to read Neil Peart’s obituary.  I find that heartwarming.  You folks love Rush?  I love Rush too.  We can all be un-cool together.  I hope you’re all dealing with this well.  I am a little embarrassed by how hard this has hit me.  I wish I were tougher than I am.  I’m not though.  I am feeling like I lost an old friend.  Someone who was very important to me even though he only popped around for a short time every few years.  It boils down to two things, I think.  I feel sad and I feel old.

I’ve listened to a lot of music over the last few days.  I have some 5.1 mixes of some of their albums, even one or two on blue ray discs.  They sound amazing.  They sound perfect.  I haven’t been listening to those though.  I’ve been listening to vinyl, mostly.  It feels more real.  It feels more connected somehow, more authentic.  I don’t know.  I’ve watched some interviews, mostly older ones.  I haven’t picked up any of his books though.  I will, soon.  I had an audible credit that was burning a hole in my pocket and I used it on an audiobook copy of Ghost Rider.  That seemed like the best choice.  I’ve read it before, and once I finish the book I’ve been listening to over the past few weeks I will “read” it again.

I have so much other stuff to do.  We are hoping to take a little trip later in the year and I have to get myself physically able to go for long walks.  My back and my legs are so screwed up right now.  I just need to practice walking.  There’s a treadmill at a gym near my house that has my name on it.  I just have to get myself there.  I also have a gig in a couple of weeks and I have to practice guitar a ton to make sure I don’t disintegrate the way I did back in November.  I need to practice walking every day and I need to practice playing every day.  I need to.  I just do.  I don’t know how on Earth I am going to do it, but I need to.

I also need to keep talking through this Neil Peart stuff.  It makes me feel better, somehow.  Also, if people are going to come here maybe knowing that there’s a red haired doofus in Massachusetts who is feeling fucked up about the passing of someone he never actually met might make someone else out there feel better for a millisecond or two.  Who the hell knows.  Whatever.  I don’t care.

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