Grant Fieldgrove @grantfieldgrove - Tumblr Blog

Posts

#fullhouse #lorilaughlin #auntbecky #tgif #varsityblues #operationvarsityblues #ilovebotox #usc #college

Yes!

You can do that!

Put your mind to it. Push hard. Get it done.

You can.

You will.

Hey!

Do you want it?

Then go get it.

It’s not going to come to you.

Do whatever it takes.

I literally quit my deadend job and tried.

Your friends want you to fail.

It’s true.

It’s true and it sucks.

But the sooner you realize this, the better off you’ll be. You can set yourself on the course for success while leaving them behind.

That’s exactly what your friends don’t want, but you have the capability to make it happen.

I’m not trying to be negative, but I’ve learned this the hard way.

Let me back up a bit.

Ten years ago I was working a dead end job at a grocery store. I hated it. The pay was crap. The work was crap. Most of the customers were crap. But I had friends!

I was miserable. I had a temper, I was angry about everything. I was bitter that I worked this job I didn’t like when I knew I should be doing better. I was all over social media, posting about everything, even belittling people I didn’t even know by snapping pictures of them and posting them, then enjoying a laugh at their expense.

That’s bottom of the barrel, self-esteem wise.

I would fight with people who held different political beliefs than me, different opinions about religion, or even movies. I was the loud mouth Fred Flintstone type, but I always got laughs. At least some.

It didn’t take long after my son was born to realize that something wasn’t quite right with him. He was extremely delayed and obviously autistic. I blew it off and didn’t believe it, making excuses as to why he was so behind.

We had to enroll him in a special school at age 2. The bitterness grew.

One day I decided to buy an iPad. Just because.

I took it home, unboxed it, and sat on my floor to play with it. But instead of playing games, I started writing.

I literally started writing a novel out of nowhere. It was a hoot. I started carrying a little notebook around work, thinking of plot points. It was great, because when you carry a notebook and pen around while working, people assume you’re working really hard!

Before I knew it, I had a book. I didn’t know what the hell to do with it, but I had one.

I found out you can self-publish books on Amazon, so that’s exactly what I did. I gave it a once or twice over, figured out how to format it, and it was published. And wow, did it have a lot of typos. The story was good, though. Some people bought it and it actually got good reviews. Some friends even bought it, though I doubt many of them read it. But still, it felt good. So I started the second book and finished it in record time. This one was even funnier and I liked it a lot, although, once again, I skimped on the editing.

Shortly before the release of that book, I had a falling out with most of my friends. I had planned a big party in Las Vegas, everyone was going to attend, but it was just a disaster. We had a suite at the Aria, but none of my friends even stayed in the hotel. Not a problem, but they stayed way down the strip at Paris. Then got so drunk at the pool, not a single person showed up. So yeah, I was pissed. And the party wasn’t just for fun, it was a special occasion for my wife. And every one of them let me down. So that’s that. We left first thing in the morning, leaving them all in the dust.

Nothing was really the same after that.

All of this is just specific backstory that doesn’t pertain to you, but the basic elements could. The moral of the story remains the same.

Cut to ten years after I first sat down to write that novel. I now have 11 books, including the first ever murder mystery series for kids, which even, somehow, became the runner up for some award I already forgot the name of. Three of my books have been produced into audiobooks and two have advanced to the semi finals in an Amazon-sponsored fiction contest where out of 10,000, 400 advanced. I’ve gotten positive reviews from Kirkus, and a few other publications.

These are facts that I am proud of. I share these from time to time on social media, although I am still not comfortable with talking about myself.

But, now my friends don’t buy my books. Maybe one or two, not even my “Facebook friends” who were on board at the beginning. The last book published is my favorite. I’m so happy with it and proud of it. I literally tried to give away copies to people I know. I didn’t have a single taker.

I would promote the book being free on Kindle during a particular day or weekend, or whatever, and not a single person would respond to it. I tried to give away Audible audiobooks. Not a single taker.

It’s so bizarre.

Why?

I could understand if the books were garbage. There are a lot of genuinely bad books out there, especially since self publishing has gotten so popular and easy to do. But my books aren’t those books.

I started a small publishing services company, just as a side job to help people out. People who were lost like me when I first started.

My friends didn’t care.

Granted, it’s not very exciting, and with the emergence of “multi-level marketing,” starting a business isn’t that impressive, apparently. (Remind me to tell you about this amazing magical wrap thing! Kidding.)

One thing I forgot to mention earlier, is that I went without Facebook for about a year and a half. I hated it. I hated the fakeness of it. And I was bitter. Bitter that I was trying to better my life, to branch out from a dead end job and try to make something of myself, and I never got any good feedback from it.

My son is severely autistic, he’s ten now and still completely non-verbal. We don’t have a typical life. We have to adapt to whatever life throws at us, and that’s what I was trying to do. My son hated when I had to go to work. He didn’t understand why I had to leave, often in the middle of the night. So I tried to change things.

And still I got nothing. So, bye bye Facebook. Good riddance.

It was weird at first. I still had this urge to let everyone know what I was doing. Like, them knowing would someone validate me doing it. If your Facebook friends don’t know what you do, are you really even doing it?

While I’m typing this, my Facebook is back. But there is a reason. Over the summer, while I was doodling on my iPad, I had an idea. I could put these things on tshirts. I would totally wear them.

So I looked it into. I saw that the possibilities were seemingly endless. Why stop at tshirts when you can make leggings? Why stop at leggings when you can make backpacks?

It goes on like this.

So I went all in. And I mean, ALL IN!

I had quit my job at the supermarket a few months prior. I had enough money to survive for a while while I explored new paths. So I sunk everything into this little venture. I was going to make horror related clothes. The horror market is severely underused. There are, of course, some major players in the horror game, but they all had to start at the bottom, too. So I went for it. I made a website. I made an Instagram and a Facebook. And after a week of the site being up, I made a sale. And then another sale.

Turning a profit is tricky, though. I needed word of mouth. I needed friends.

So I got back on my personal Facebook page after a year and a half, and let everyone know what I had been up to while I was gone.

It landed with a thud.

Nobody cared.

In the time I was gone I had a kid’s book, and novel, and this clothing company all launch.

I got nothing.

I started booking comic cons and would post pictures.

Nothing.

I have a little booth downtown, with all my stuff displayed, where you can walk in, buy something, and help support me and my family, by buying small, staying local.

I’ve had one friend visit it.

One.

It’s been there for six months.

I posted a few pictures of horror-celebrities wearing or showing off something I created.

Nothing.

I drew posters for a few events, movie screenings, even a stage play. I posted them. The most recent one I posted got 6 likes.

I have 590 Facebook friends and 6 of them liked a poster I did for a Scream 2 screening.

I have a family member whose daughter wanted “something Michael Myers” for Christmas. I have tons of Myers stuff. Stuff I poured my heart and soul into. Stuff you can’t find anywhere else.

This person did not buy from me. She bought a generic Myers t-shirt from a major store and probably spent more than she would have with me.

Right now, through luck and hopefully hard work, my work is in the processing of being officially licensed. Which means, with a little more work and a whole lot more hustle, it could end up in stores like Hot Topic, etc.

And then what?

I don’t know. I like to daydream. And I would like someone to be proud of it, someone who doesn’t live with me.

But, there comes a time when you have to let that go. Your friends won’t be proud of you. They will belittle you. They will find something to nitpick about what you’re doing.

And it sucks.

Strangers will support you. Your friends will not.

The sooner you know this, the better. You can delete your personal Facebook, you can shrug your shoulders at all the people holding you back and making you feel bad about leaving your comfort zone and taking a risk.

There is no law that you must remain friends with the people you were once friends with. Cut em loose.

This is about you. It’s about your dreams. Your life. Not theirs.

If they don’t want to follow you on your journey or cheer you on, cut them loose. Release that anchor from around your neck and push full-speed ahead.

You’ll be amazed at what you can accomplish when you stop worrying about what so-called friends think and start realizing that no matter what you do, there will be someone who admires you and looks up to you, just as you’ve looked up to someone else when you started your self-fulfilling journey.

Be the person you would want to look up to.

You can do it.

Start today.

Two months ago I had to attend a wedding where all of these people would be, all these “friends.”

All I heard were complaints. Whoever we struck up a conversation with, complained.

Complain complain complain.

I understood what was wrong.

We didn’t complain. My wife and I, we only told positive stories.

Our complaining days are over. We’ve moved on. We seemed out the positives from our lives and choose to focus on that.

All this did was draw out more complaining from the wedding guests.

So tone deaf and these people we’ve left behind, they were complaining about students (the teachers we knew) that are very similar to our son.

Like, really?! This is our life. You go home at 3. We live with this. And we still don’t complain.

So far back these people are, I had to hear outdated and cringeworthy jokes, I had to hear casual sexual harassment, breasts referred to as fun bags, in front of the girl they were talking to, and the groom’s nieces. They still use the R word to describe anything, despite knowing my son is extreme special needs.

Once you realize that you don’t want to live in the world these people still inhabit, the sooner you can progress to where you want to be.

You’ll never be happier leaving them, and their outdated thinking, and their complaints, and everything else that makes you miserable to hear about, behind.

And you can do it.

You can do it right now!

Log out of Facebook and get to work.

Find people to look up to and follow them. Do your own thing. People will begin to follow you.

I’m not saying it will be easy. I’m just giving you a heads up of what’s to come.

You can sidestep it completely.

You just need to realize that your friends want you to fail.

Prove them wrong.

Don’t even tell them.

Start now.

Go.

Thick as Thieves (intro)

If you would have asked me when I was five years old if I thought that three days before my twenty-fifth birthday, I would be standing in a stranger’s house with a Glock 7 being shoved into the left side of my temple, I would probably have said no, assuming my five-year-old mind could comprehend such a question. Ask me that same question one decade later and I probably would have given it fifty-fifty odds. Ten lousy years and everything changed.

The man with the gun can see I’m thinking a little too intensely at the moment and pushes the compressor a wee-bit harder into the side of my ol’ brain cave. “Give me the code,” he keeps saying to me. “Give me the goddamn code.”

The corpse lying face down on the floor in front of me has a small trickle of blood worming its way south from the sizable hole where the back of the man’s skull was just minutes before, and into the confluence of the warm and sticky crimson river slowly inching its way towards my feet. And here I am with new shoes on.

The man with the gun sees the blood flowing near and takes two steps back, the Glock circling around my head and now being pointed at the base of my spine. He tells me to give him the code again but I ignore him. “This carpet is ruined,” I say to him. “A shame, really. This is quality stuff, here.” Silence from behind me. Recognizing quality carpet is a major plus in my line of work. I ask, “Do you feel how plush this is?” as I dig the tip of my foot into the soft fiber like I’m grinding out a cigarette. “This has gotta be a seven-sixteenth padding, the thickest padding you can get for a residential building.” Still no response. I’m trying to buy time but he doesn’t seem to care. I say, “This carpet is probably a Shaw. Probably upwards of sixty dollars a square yard. That’s not even counting the padding.” The clock is ticking. I say, “It’s got Stain Master on it, too.” I tell him you can tell by the way the blood isn’t soaking in too much. It’s still ruined though and he still doesn’t seem to care. Why would anyone buy white carpet, I ask myself. He’s still ignoring me. Still asking me for the code. I tell him Stain Master’s slogan is Beauty Meets Brains, then ask if he finds that at all ironic. He doesn’t say a word but I hear his leather glove scrunch as he grips the pistol’s handle tighter and slowly begins squeezing the trigger back. Last chance, he tells me, and the warmth of his breath wafts past me. He had pasta for lunch. I know this for reasons other than the trace of garlic, flour and Romano cheese his words leave behind. I take a deep swallow of air and hold it in my lungs.

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Maybe not. Maybe so. Either way, my name is Finnick Hollins and I’d like to tell you how I arrived at this particular situation.

#novel crime con men con artists father and son crime crime novel excerpt intro opening chapter guns fiction fiction comedy

The Lost & Found (chapter 1)

As he sat propped up on his bed, clutching his prescription bottle of Oxycontin in his brittle hand, Mark Briggs thought back to a time before his life had derailed. At this moment, the intense pain inflicting his body and soul came from more than the terminal cancer eating away at him like an enzyme. His girlfriend of the past three years, Samantha McDormand, had just broken up with him. Her reasoning seemed selfish and cruel to him. She had told him, simply, that she could not stand by and watch him wither away to nothing and die. The memory currently running through the hippocampus of his brain recalls a moment frozen in time; him sitting in his car at the passenger drop off at Eppley Airfield in Omaha. His mother in the front seat, father in the back. Him being in too much of a hurry to even help them retrieve their luggage from the trunk or walk them to their terminal. He had a date that night and, at that moment, he was eager to ditch his parents and return home. Once unloaded, he gave his parents a listless wave out the window and half-heartedly requested they bring him back a t-shirt from...wherever. Honestly, at the time, he couldn't even remember to which island they were going. They told him they loved him and would see him in two weeks. Mark had responded with some vague retort then speedily left the airport. He loved his parents and was elated with their felicity, but he just had other things on his mind at the time of their departure; a gorgeous little redheaded spitfire named Samantha whom he had met the previous weekend. Mark's parents had been engaged for over two years before they had enough money for a nice wedding. When all was said and done, they had nothing left over for a honeymoon. They returned to their apartment after the festivities and spent December 29th, 1978, their wedding night, watching the series' finale of Rhoda on CBS. Eleven months later, in November of 1979, their only child, Mark Alan Briggs, was born. It took over thirty years but Mark's parents finally had the time and means to take the honeymoon of which they had always dreamed. After Mark dropped them off at the airport, they boarded their flight transporting them to Los Angeles where they would hop on another plane that would spirit them away to Hawaii for twelve days in paradise; far away from the biting cold of Nebraska's winter. Mark had just stepped out of the shower with Samantha when he received the call informing him his parents' tour-guided helicopter went down in the mountains of Oahu, leaving no survivors. He recalls his vision blurring and slowing kaleidoscoping back into focus as Samantha continually shook his shoulder attempting to reacquire his attention. Shortly after he had spread all that was left of his parents into the breeze over Lake Zorinsky, where he and his father had spent many summer days fishing, Mark received a substantial sum of money as a settlement from the tour guide's insurance company. He didn't care, though. The money meant nothing to him. He wanted his family back, or at the very least, another chance to give them a proper farewell instead of the rushed, apathetic wave he offered up as they wheeled their luggage into the airport and out of his life forever. The clichéd hope of all recently abandoned, he thought. He moped around his house for almost a month. He was fired from his job and his only means of support was the monetary gain that came with his parents' demise. He left his apartment and moved into his parents' house, which was bought and paid for and left to him. Samantha took up most of the domestic duties around the house and had all but moved in. One night, while lying in bed together, in an attempt to cheer him up, Samantha reached her hand into the front of Mark's pajama pants in the hopes of getting something started. She began juggling his testicles with her fingers and then suddenly stopped. He turned to look at her, to give her a smile, and discovered the cold look of arrant concern that formed upon her face. "Babe, what's this?" she inquired in a dire timbre, her hand rubbing the lump on his right testicle. Now, nearly two years after his parents left him, he sits in the bed he has all but been condemned to die in. He released a heavy sigh and popped the cap from his pills. He tipped the bottle slightly to peek inside and make sure there was enough in there to get the job done. In actuality, he had no idea how much Oxy it would take to kill him and release him from his misery, but he still had to try. He slowly poured the pills into the palm of his left hand and dropped the bottle beside him on the bed. He extended his right arm towards his night stand and wrapped his cold hand around a bottle of water his nurse had left for him, the cap loose. So this is how it ends, he thought. A nobody. A thirty-three year old man with no family, no girl. A broken down shell of a human being with one testicle and metastasized cancer rapidly draining the life from him. At least he had beaten his expected timeframe. His doctor had given him six months, he was now heading into his seventeenth. He felt it was a grim and rather meaningless accomplishment, but an accomplishment nonetheless. His mortality clock was ticking, though and he knew it. Up until then, the pain had been bearable with proper medication and rest, but with Samantha's absence it didn't seem to matter anymore. He guessed he didn't have more than a month left on this planet, probably not even enough to get him to Christmas, and decided it was better to go out on his own terms than to leave it up that cruel mistress called fate. He emptied his medication-filled palm into his mouth and took a deep guzzle of water, ultimately swishing the pills around in this mouth for a few seconds before deciding to take the plunge. The tablets made their pernicious jaunt down his throat before colonizing in his gut. From there they began to slowly secrete their chemicals throughout Mark's anatomy to subdue the descending paths to his brain and block the transmission of pain. He picked up the remote control, aimed it at his stereo and hit the play button. From the speakers came a song about Santa Monica. About swimming out past the breakers and watching the world die. He reached for his iPhone, opened up the notebook app and typed a few words then placed the phone squarely on his chest. Over the music he vaguely heard the sound of someone knocking on a door, somewhere far off, perhaps in another world, but he ignored it and focused solely on the pleasant euphony the music was providing. When his eyelids became heavy and started to descend, he had a smile on his face and a picturesque view of a luminous, glimmering blue ocean filling his imagination; something he had only seen on television and in the movies. And in his dreams.

Okay friends, here's the deal: you have four days left to order my #new #book The Lost and Found and the rereleases of my first three and get #free shipping on #amazon in time for #christmas! People seem to like these things so I guess they would make a pretty decent #gift for some #nerds who like to #read. If you know where I live or happen to be in the same town as me, I'll even sign 'em for ya. Oh, and if you order now, a portion of the proceeds will go to the #acs for #cancer #research and #awareness and a portion to the #goldenhatfoundation for #autism. It's a win/win! :-)

#autism #cancer #gift #read #free #nerds #acs #amazon #book #goldenhatfoundation #new #research #christmas #awareness

A Scene from Chapter 8 of Stroke of Genius!

(Archie and Elise are sent to Las Vegas to investigate the case of a young man who, seemingly, died while masturbating. Even checking into their hotel room proves to be quite the hassle. This scene takes place directly after learning their room has been double booked and they are forced to take a downgrade. Enjoy.)

Stupid Myra Hotel!

At first glance, the room appeared rather nice; two nice big bedrooms and a common room with a decent television, sofa, small kitchen table and kitchenette. The bathrooms were also impressive with a large tub, a steam shower, two sinks and a toilet featuring a warm seat and a bidet. It was almost tempting enough to make me try out a used toilet seat.

Almost.

If the room had stayed that impressive I would have been happy and able to put our previous setbacks out of my mind. No luck though, of course. I opened my suitcase and removed my pre packed Rockstars. Then I took out my fresh can of Lysol to spray everything down. I was going to give the inside of the fridge a good once over so I could put the drinks in there when I discovered that it was not cold. Nope. Not cold at all. What it was, though, was fucking broken! I called the front desk. Apparently, someone would be up to fix it.

I wasn't holding my breath.

Second, I plug my iPod into the dock near the TV. Does it work? Of course not. I called the front desk again. Someone would be up shortly. MmHmm.

I was getting aggravated and was mildly pleased to see Elise getting rather pissed off herself. She decided she would take a bath to try and calm down and relax a bit. I told her I would be sitting here in an anger filled stupor.

Less than two minutes later I hear a loud GOD DAMN IT echo through the bathroom and rattle my soul. I quickly shot up and headed into Elise's bathroom. My first step onto the tile soaked my sock. The ground was covered in water. Apparently, Elise had the nerve to turn the jets on in the bathtub. Instead of shooting air and bubbles into the tub, this particular unit shot water out of the base and onto the floor. Elise was livid. So pissed, in fact, that she didn't even mention me standing there while she was naked.

"Get dressed, Archie!" she barked at me. "You, my good man, are taking me out for dinner and drinks. Lots and lots of drinks."

"You know she's dead?" I ask.

"What?! What the hell are you talking about?!"

"Mayra... Urkel's girlfriend from Family Matters. She died a long time ago from cancer while the show-"

"GET DRESSED!!!"

Yikes! I stepped back a few feet and told her I would go get ready. She got out and started getting dressed while I went back to my suitcase and unpacked my sheets. I stripped the linen from the bed and began replacing them with mine after I drenched the mattress in Lysol. Elise caught me.

"What the hell are you doing?"

(The mouth on her lately, I swear.)

"I'm putting sheets on my bed."

"Well, this is a new one. I don't recall you doing this at the beach. You were terrified of a motel but not the sheets. We come to a five-star hotel and now the sheets disgust you?"

"The motel was at the beach. A nice family vacation spot. These sheets are located in this aids-pool called Las Vegas, with their hookers and their crabs and their greaseball, juiced-up douchebags in Tapout and Affliction shirts. There is no way I'm lying on these disgusting sheets. Jesus himself could descend from heaven and wash them with his magical bible powers and they still wouldn't be clean enough for me to sleep on. No way, no how. Now get dressed."

"What are you going to do about the scary, scary toilet? Are you afraid of that, too? Did you bring your own toilet seat in your bag there?"

"Very funny. Don't be silly. I don't use the toilet at all while on vacations. At least not sitting. Strictly number one."

"Right, you had to sit on the toilet at the beach, we were gone for over a week."

"Nope. My body knows what’s up. Didn't have a single poop the entire time we were gone. No sweat."

"Wow." I could tell she was totally shocked and mildly disgusted, but I was proud of myself. "That’s just...Wow."

I could tell she still didn't understand, but whatever. She said fine, she would get dressed, then returned to her room. Forty-five minutes later she emerged wearing tight white jeans and a tight red top.

"That's what you’re wearing?" I ask.

"Yes, rude! What the hell is wrong with it?"

"Oh nothing, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Yeah, well, it's just...you kinda, a little, look like a giant used tampon."

She turned around rather quickly and stormed off back into her room, slamming the door behind her.

"That's for making fun of my poopies!" I yelled to her. I snickered, rather proud of myself, if I do say.

Fifteen minutes later we were exiting our shitty hotel, Elise wearing a black top now, and were on our way to somewhere with a little more inspiration in its design.

We had a much needed fun night out. I'm not a big drinker, it's not something I really enjoy or look forward to, but seeing as we were in Vegas I decided I would let Elise pick our evening's entertainment. Between the kids, me and the job, her nights of partying had all but come to an end (unless you count that stupid date,) and she decided our first stop would be the next door's hotel bar. Followed by another hotel's bar. I ordered a Medina and told the bartender to make it funky and cold. He stared blankly at me, un-amused and ready to rip my throat out. I changed my order promptly. I ended up having one vodka-Redbull at each stop, trying to take it easy. Elise had three drinks to every one of mine. Our final stop on our casino crawl was the MGM Grand across the street. As we were walking up to it from the outside, above us on a massive screen as bright as the noon hour's desert sun, was my main man, Tom Jones.

Buy the Archie series in paperback and digital format by clicking this link. : )

A portion of this weeks sales goes to The Golden Hat Foundation for Autism in honor of my wonderful son and to The American Cancer Society in honor of Adam Yauch, who had a tremendous impact on my life.

The world lost one of the good ones, yesterday. RIP MCA

My first real memory of the Beastie Boys was from the early summer of 1987. I was seven years old, a few months away from eight, and the airwaves were being bombarded by a group of three young and wild jewish boys from New York. Their style was fresh and their song was like a shotgun blast to your face. It was everywhere, from the radio to the television, and I wanted in. Understandable, from a parent's point of view, perhaps these weren't the best role models for an impressionable boy of seven, but there was little they could do. The world was now fighting for its right to party. The Beastie Boys had taken over. I'm pretty sure my parents were hoping the fad would soon die out. It didn't. That summer, my friend from down the street's older brother had scored the audio cassette of License to Ill and brought it over. My friends and I gathered around my parents stereo and had a listen. I was overjoyed. My parents were not. I begged for a copy of the tape, but my parents said no. I wouldn't stand for that answer. By the time my friends had left, I had persuaded my parents to, at least, let me have a copy of Fight for Your Right. I grabbed my friend's brother and told him to come back. I was allowed to have a copy. We made a recording of the song and then I got another blank tape from the cabinet and told him to make the whole thing, now. We sat in the corner, giggling at our utter disregard for parental demands, and made a copy of the entire album. The single was allowed to be sitting around, the full album lived under my mattress. Sorry mom. Sorry dad. The Beasties had already taken hold of me. Licensed to Ill fun fact: Hold the album cover up to a mirror and look at the plane's numbers. The fad did, eventually, appear to die down. Not to me, though. Their next album was unlike anything I had ever heard before; a cut and paste masterpiece titled Paul's Boutique, which is not only, I believe to be, the greatest hip-hop album ever recorded, it is always the answer whenever I am asked what my all-time favorite album is. At the time of its release, it was considered a flop. I was in junior high when Check Your Head came out. By now, my parents had all but given up. I had multiple posters all over my room, the cd playing endlessly throughout. I would walk down to my best friend John's house and listen with him, in his room that nearly mirrored mine with the posters. We would enjoy the music and discuss. We even had the Skills to Pay the Bills VHS cassette. It was well used. Shit was taken to a whole new level when Ill Communication came out at the end of my freshman year of high school. I was none-too-happy when I had to travel to stupid Ojai the day before its release, and then to stupid UCLA on release day to do...something or other, with my parents and cousin. (This right here, shows you how big the Beasties were in my life.) I don't remember what I was doing down there, and I don't care. What I do remember is finding a record store down in the heart of Westwood and bolting off to see if they had the album. They did. I spent every penny I had on it. To this day, one of the best purchases I've ever made. Sabotage had already blew me away and I knew the album would be good...but not this good. It had it all. You like rap? It had it. You like punk rock? It had that, too. Good, ol' fashion rock n roll? Check. In fact, branding the Beasties with one specific genre is all but impossible. They were their own genre, paving the way for all who would come along and being a huge influence on the world of music. They were true innovators. I couldn't get enough. Ill Communication was all I listened during the summer of 1994 and well into my sophomore year of high school. I remember carrying around my Sony DiscMan at all times, just so I would never be without my Beasties. Don't even try to talk to me on the bus because I certainly wasn't listening to you. I was busy. I even had the Sabotage VHS compilation in my backpack, for some reason. One day after school, I remember getting bored and taking a walk to World Records near my house. Of course, I went to the B's and thumbed through various albums. Ya never knew, they could have released something without my knowledge, especially since I had picked up a copy of Some Old Bullshit a few months prior. I wasn't disappointed. They had an import single of Root Down. I snatched it up and that's when I became obsessed with the imports. I talked one of the employees there, a soft-spoken, heavy set fellow who seemed to know his shit. He said there were several imports available and he could get them. My only problem; I was broke. He agreed to order one for me, allowing me to pay when it arrived. I would have the money, I assured him, by any means necessary. Sorry dad. With a twenty missing every week or so from my dad's wallet, I began to build my Import Empire. When I got my driver's license, the first cd I put in was the Root Down EP. I wanted to be heard listening to shit no one else had. I wanted rare cuts, remixes and live recordings. Pretty soon, my official, licensed Beastie Boys shirts weren't good enough for me. Sure, I pretty much lived in their ringer tees of the Atwater Basketball Assc. and the Beastie Boys Van with ALOHA MR. HAND written across the back, but anyone could have those shirts. I needed more. I decided to take some of my rare album covers to a screen printing shop on California Ave. right next to the Sub Station sandwich shop. Apparently, this store didn't much care about such trivial things as copyrights, and gladly printed my own, one-of-a-kind t-shirts, which I proudly wore to school. The first one I wore, I remember, featured the album cover for Ma, What Are They Givin' Me? It caught the attention of a young man in my photography class and we sparked up a conversation. It seemed he was a huge fan as well. I hung out with him after school and was amazed to see his Beastie's collection. He had albums and tracks I did not have, and I had some he didn't have. We made tape recordings for each other. I wish I could remember his name, but it escapes me at the moment; another sure fire sign that I wasn't that interested in the friendship, just his Beastie shit. Fun fact: I wore my Aloha Mr. Hand shirt to my high school graduation and to Grad Nite at Disneyland. 1998 was another non-stop Summer of the Beasties. Intergalactic had dropped and knocked me flat on my ass. They had evolved again. On album release day, I sat patiently outside Target, waiting for them to open. There was one girl there, also waiting patiently. The cds weren't even out of the box yet when we stormed the electronics section. We each got the freshest copies available. The album was played nonstop. When it was announced the Beasties would be playing at The Great Western Forum, I was over the moon. I had never seen them live before, believe it or not. My mom recognized the importance of this to me and actually handed me her Robinson-May credit card and told me to go get some tickets. A friend and I pulled an all nighter. We sat at home staring at our watches, got antzy and sat outside the mall, watching the sun rise. There was a problem, though. There were a few other people outside, waiting for tickets to whatever bullshit they were in to, and there were three entrances into the store, and only two of us. Which entrance would be opened first?! I'll give you a hint. It was NOT one of the two entrances we had covered. Once inside, we bolted upstairs to the Ticketmaster and stood there, rather impatiently, while some fat bastard at the counter debated what 49ers tickets to buy. The clock was ticking. How did this tub of shit beat us up here? I was furious. I was rude. He was wasting valuable time with his indecisiveness. At one point, I spoke up and said "Hey, step aside if you can't make up your fucking mind!" It didn't work. By the time it was our turn, the floor section had sold out and we were stuck with upper concourse. Oh well. We had tickets. I bought a handful of tickets, accepting the consequences from my mom, and me and a group of friends, including John from down the street and his friend Trevor, headed to the Forum. I have such fond memories of that day. Every event seems burned into my brain, from getting lost in Compton, to tailgating, conversing with a cop who warned us that a right turn out of the Forum would get us shot, to seeing the Target girl in the parking lot. And the show. My god, the show. No one could have left that place with anything but a smile on their faces. Money Mark opened and the Beasties tore the place down. In 1999, when The Sounds of Science compilation came out, the internet was a new and wonderful place. I remember they had a promotion where you could make your own compilation, choosing from hundreds of tracks and they would put it on a disk and send it to you. This was amazing. I took full advantage, picking the most obscure of tracks and remixes, including another copy of Honkey Rink. The Beasties never stopped evolving. They went from bratty kids to intelligent, caring humanitarians who never shied away from standing up for what they believe in; from MCA's Free Tibet movement, simply speaking up about the several incidences of rape at the latest Woodstock attempt, ( a speech which actually got them lead off the stage prematurely while accepting an award. A move I have never understood. ) to changing some past lyrics that they now found offensive. My friend Trevor said yesterday, that the Beasties were the soundtrack to his life, and I couldn't agree more with him. Play me any Beastie Boys song and I will have a memory fire-up in my brain, whether it be the summer my parents were gone and the house was all mine, powder-puff cheerleading practice or the time I got beaten up at Quailwood Park as I stepped off the bus for no reason what-so-ever, and I refused to fight back. Violence is never the answer. I had learned that. I had tickets to their show at The Hollywood Bowl a few years ago. Julie had bought them for me for my birthday but the show was cancelled and MCA recorded a video message, with Adrock by his side, informing us of his cancer. He said it was treatable and hopefully he would be okay. He even apologized to the fans for getting it. But, I didn't care about the concert being cancelled. I only cared about his recovery. I wanted him to take as much time as he needed and get better. I could deal with a missed show, I couldn't deal with a dying Adam Yauch. I foolishly believed everything would be okay, especially when Hot Sauce Committee part 2 dropped early last year. But then he no-showed at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I pretended that maybe they weren't interested in performing and pushed it from my mind. The world lost a good man yesterday, and it is a shame. In a world ripe with celebrity train wrecks we have to lose someone of such kindness and heart. I got the news from my wife while i was driving on the 99 South freeway towards LA and had to pull off. I was devastated. I still am. I didn't even know what to do, so I texted my mom. She told me she knew how I felt because she, too, was devastated when John Lennon and George Harrison passed away. She told me that you develop such an emotional connection to certain people you forget you don't really know them, and when they die, it's like losing a friend. That is exactly what I feel like, right now. I am absolutely heartbroken. This has been the hardest thing that I have ever written. I'm sitting here alone in my office, proudly wearing a B-Boys shirt with Check Your Head playing in the background, a complete and total wreck. I've listened to their stuff for the majority of my life, they were featured heavily in my wedding, and I will continue listening. But, this is hard pill to swallow. Yesterday morning, I awoke with Skills to Pay the Bills stuck in my head; Something I found rather odd at the time, especially since I haven't even heard the song in probably a year. It makes sense to me, now.

I hope you died peacefully, Adam, and at peace with the world you helped make a better place. And, just so you know, I am proud to share your music with my son. Thank you for becoming a true role model. You will be missed. -Grant Fieldgrove

#RIPMCA

#ripmca #mca #rip #beastie boys #b-boys #adam yauch #adam #yauch #mike d #adrock #license to ill #ill communication #paul's boutique #check your head #05/04/2012 #cancer #fuckcancer #rip mca #rip adam yauch

It's (finally) a good time to be a nerd!

I'm not exactly sure when or where, but a funny thing has happened in the past few years. It seems that Nerd has become Cool. True, I wish it would have happened a bit earlier as it may have made my junior high and early high school years a little better and more friend-filled, but still, its happened. Comic books and superheroes have not only become socially acceptable now, but are gaining a tremendous new fan base. With the opening of The Avengers this week (a movie I NEVER thought I would see made) and the release of the newest Dark Knight Rises trailer, I decided to take a look back at this strange little occurrence that seems to have taken place. One of my earliest childhood memories is of me and my best friend, running up and down the aisles of the local supermarket while our moms grocery shopped. I know this doesn't seem like a very important memory, but there is one detail I have yet to fill you in on. While running up and down said aisles, we were wearing nothing but our Superman and Batman under-roos, matching t-shirts and, the coup-de-grace, homemade capes. Yeah. Be jealous. Two little boys running through the aisles, saving the world. Superheroes, Star Wars and horror movies were the only things I seemed to be interested in while growing up. I was an odd child. I remember watching Superman: The Motion Picture, Star Wars and Michael Jackson's Thriller on VHS over and over and over until the point my young little mind had them all memorized. I would watch recorded versions of the old live-action Spiderman series starring Nicholas Hammond as Peter Parker, The Incredible Hulk with Bill Bixby and Lou Ferigno, Wonder Woman with Lynda Carter and The Greatest American Hero with William Katt and Robert Culp. Soon after, I was introduced to the wonderful world of Freddy Krueger via a tape my mom, for one reason or another, allowed me to rent when I was a mere five years old (My mom has told me a story on several occasions about how when I was two and a half, my parents were going to watch The Howling and asked if I would like to watch it. I said yes. They made sure to stress the fact that it was just a movie, not real. Would I still be okay? Yeah mom. I watched the whole thing and slept soundlessly throughout the night. Again, thank you mom and dad.) Freddy had it all. Sure, he was a child molesting kid murderer, but meh, did you check out that glove? Right?! When other kids went to the school Halloween party dressed in family-friendly costumes, I showed up with a scared face, fedora and a home-made razor glove made from Popsicle sticks. That's right! My weekend nights were now spent watching Freddy, Jason, and whatever other amazing horror flicks I could get my tiny little hands on, and as I got older, not only was I excited for more entries, I also used them as my source of female nudity. I was a kid, shutup. Anyway, as usual, I have gotten far off track. My point is, I was a nerd. Big time. I began reading comic books in my spare time. I started with what I knew; Batman, Superman and The Incredible Hulk. The Hulk led to Iron Man, which led to Thor, which led to Captain America which led to Ant Man, Wasp, Hawkeye and, of course, The Avengers, my favorite team. When asking any other kid my age who their favorite team was, you would get answers like; The Los Angeles Raiders, or The Chicago Cubs. When asking Grant, you'd get The Avengers! This was my reality. Who's your hero? Ozzie Smith? Bo Jackson? Nope, Batman! Superman! Tony Stark, if he would just PLEASE ditch that drinking habit from Demon in a Bottle. The Punisher! The 80's were a great time to be a kid. In fact, in 1987, a little known comic book was adapted into a Saturday Morning Cartoon and exploded. True, the show had only the basic premise of the original comic book, but still, it was quite a phenomenon. Shortly after its premier, it was Ninja Turtle Mania. I remember sitting in my room at the art desk my parents bought me, trying to perfect my Ninja Turtle art, so I could show it off that night at the Cub Scout meeting or the following day at school. It had taken over and I was finally on the same page with a lot of the children. It was a nice feeling. As the 80's were coming to a close, another funny thing happened. After suffering through the monumental disasters which were a god-awful Captain America movie and a, somehow, even worse Punisher movie starring Dolph Lundgren (where the only action was him shooting up an empty room and riding his stupid motorcycle down in the sewer, completely disregarding the plot hole my stupid, nine-year old brain spotted, as to how in the world he got a goddamn motorcycle down into the goddamn sewer and then back up to the goddamn street then back into the goddamn sewer, but nevermind. If that was the movie's only fault, it would have been a miracle,) there was news of a Batman movie. I didn't know anything about it but I spotted the large, bright yellow logo on a poster outside of the AMC Stockdale Six theater one day while with my parents. Interesting. It couldn't be as bad as the last two heartbreakers I watched. Could it? Nah. Then I found out Michael Keaton was Batman. Mr. Mom himself as the Dark Knight. Things weren't boding well, dear readers. But soon a trailer hit. Then the movie. It was massive. Lines around the corner, kids wearing Batman logos on every conceivable article of clothing; Batman Mania had taken over. The movie was great. The Joker was a little more Caesar Romero than the 'Jokes' I had known to love in the comics, but that was okay, it was still a damn entertaining film; one I revisited several times. When The Simpsons began in 1989, a few months after Batman hit, I was in Nerd-vana. An edgy new show I loved, one of my favorite characters finally getting some respect and the news that Jim Henson would be releasing a live-action Ninja Turtle movies early next year. Things were going well for me and my nerdy little lifestyle. The 90's started off strong with two Ninja Turtles movies back-to-back, Dick Tracy and a Batman sequel, but things quickly began to downturn. Studios began, once again, only caring about the all-mighty dollar. Quality lowered while quantity was raised. The third Turtles movie sucked. Badly. Tim Burton left the Batman franchise and Warner Bros. passed the directing duties on to a guy who had made a few decent flicks in the past, but who obviously had no idea Batman was a comic book long before it was a terrible 1960's television show. Gone was the darkness of Gotham, replaced with bright, neon lights, rotating, kitchy camera angles and bat nipples. I loathed Batman Forever. Absolutely despised it. The 90's were turning out to be a bust. For every Crow, there would be a dozen Spawns, Phantoms and Shawdows. Studios were digging deep for any potential franchise they could get their hands on and, in turn, destroying them. The 90's became all about the Disaster Pics. The loud explosions and big effects. My superhero movie days seemed over. Sad indeed, when the best comic movie I get is Casper. I returned to comics. I began, once again, hanging out at Inner Sanctum on Ming Ave. with all the other heartbroken nerds. I would wear my Stark Industries t-shirt, my Beware of Gamma Rays t-shirt, but no one would get it. They just assumed it was some nerdy crap that they were too cool to be bothered with. By the time Joel Schumacher officially ruined my beloved Batman franchise with Batman and Robin and George Lucas was gearing up to rip my heart out, I had all but given up. I read my comics quietly and in private. No one really even knew. The Punisher #1 my dad bought me for fifty dollars for my twelve birthday was framed and hanging on my wall, (it currently resides in a new frame in my office, now) Superman had been killed by Doomsday and I seemed to be the only one at school who cared. Even the hardcore nerds didn't seem to notice. They were too interested in playing Magic: The Gathering under the trees at lunch. Oh well. I continued to read. I continued to go see all the new movies as they came out, each one worse than the last. The decade ended with a thud. Nothing went right for us nerds. Even the comic book stories seemed a little weak, with reimaginings and character changes. But whatever. I stayed loyal. When news of a new Spiderman movie hit, the internet was front and center. This Spiderman was like no other live action Spiderman I had ever seen before. I caught myself getting excited, but again, tried to curb my enthusiasm. It was a good thing I did, too, because Spiderman was a dud. Sorry fans, but it was. Despite all the rave reviews, Spidey did not deliver. Mary Jane gets in trouble, CGI Spiderman swoops in a saves her. Mary Jane gets in trouble again, Spiderman swoops in to save her. Over and over. No thanks. But fans ate it up, for some reason. And it was 1990 all over again. Studios dusting off any bottom-of-the-barrel superheroes they could get their hands on and rushing out lackluster products. Daredevil, Elektra, Fantastic Four...all awful! Even the much hyperboled Spiderman 2 was barely worth watching. And Hulk...don't get me started. Catwoman, however, proved to be entertaining, but for all the wrong reasons. The Batman reboot was set to open the June after Elektra and F4. I wasn't looking forward to it. Not at all. While I was a fan of director Christopher Nolan's previous film Memento, I viewed this new Batman as a chance to cash in on another established name. After learning it was another origin story, I cared even less. We already had a good Batman origin starring Mr. Mom. My hopes were not high, but being the loyal sucker I am, I dragged my then-girlfriend, now-wife to the Sunday afternoon showing, expectations all but in the gutter. It didn't take long to figure out something was different this time around. Gone were the cheesy jokes, the unremarkable cast and the lack of consideration of the source material. I was watching a Batman I was familiar with. It didn't take long to win me over. By the time Bruce Wayne began his icy training with Ducard I was sold. This was the real deal. Then, finally, it seemed to be Iron Man's time for a movie. Now, Iron Man was always, kind of a, let's say, B-List superhero. He never really garnered a huge fan fair. Aside from Ghost Face Killa being a fan, most people would have no idea what you were talking about if you mentioned Tony Stark to them. I hoped for the best, but prepared for the worst. The trailer looked promising, the casting appeared to be pretty good, but I still had that tinge of worry that he wouldn't be given the proper respect, especially since he wasn't one of the Major Marvel Players. I bought my tickets in advance. The morning of opening day I get a message from my buddy Adam who hit the midnight showing, informing me that it was good. Spiderman 2 good. This was kind of conflicting since I didn't much care for Spiderman 2, but, was kind of reassuring since, even though not caring for it, it was one of the better superhero movies in a while. My anticipation grew. I blew off my Relay for Life responsibilities and dragged my pregnant wife who didn't seem to share my enthusiasm. I was blown away. Nick Fury even showed up at the end talking about, to much confusion to the audience, the Avengers Initiative. No way. Could it be true? Nah. The Batman Begins sequel was hitting that same summer. For some reason I had had ill-feelings about the casting of Heath Ledger as the Joker. That was dumb of me. Comic book movies were back. Comic books were back. Being a nerd and enjoying such nerdy, trivial things was no longer looked down upon. A new Incredible Hulk movie was made and, thankfully, was better than Ang Lee's nightmare version. Tony Stark made a cameo. Wait a minute. Could it...Could they really be...Nah. Iron Man 2 was a hit. The entire movie was like a setup for The Avengers. The next summer followed with Thor and Captain America. And now, nearly thirty years after I started reading about them, The Avengers are set to hit the big screen, and from what I hear, it was worth the wait. Talk about something I never thought I would see. Just getting all the rights to the characters seemed like a big enough struggle, but to put them all together and not have a giant cluster-filled mess? Seemed almost impossible. But here we are. And if that wasn't enough, another Batman trailer is set to play before it that will blow your hair back. So, nerds, I am pleading to you, now. Do not be the kind of people who hate things they once loved just because they have become mainstream. This is it. There is no better time than right now to be a nerd. Be proud of your nerdiness. We stayed strong and we didn't change to conform to society. We were happy with ourselves even when others looked down upon us. Don't ruin that by starting bitter internet rivalries about Marvel being better than DC or Batman being better than The Avengers. Who cares?! We live in a world where, this summer, we get both...and an Alien prequel! (I should also mention, my wife is now a fan.) I see no reasons to complain. Be happy with who you are.

Grant Fieldgrove is the author of Darkness Once More, A Touch of Danger and Stroke of Genius. He lives in Bakersfield, CA.

April is Autism Awareness Month...Not Made-Up, Selfish Facebook Cause Month.

Has anyone else noticed how out of control this Awareness Month stuff has gotten? I understand that The People In Charge need to cram as many causes they can into their agenda to gain more votes, and that's understandable, but now, thanks to this awful expansion of social media sites, we have normal, everyday nobodies making up their own Cause Months. Back it up. That's not fair. What these imbeciles don't realize is the damage they are doing to real causes by flooding the market with a mass surplus of ridiculous phony causes that best fit them, when in actuality, in a perfect world, there would be no "causes" to be aware of. To make matters worse, these people do no research into anything important and just decide to make something up, maybe make a few pictures which are NEVER proof-read and post them all over Facebook.

Look, April is Autism Awareness Month. I know this for a fact because I have a child with Autism. If my child was fine and autism didn't exist, I really wouldn't waste my time starting a month that suited me just so I could be greedy, selfish and inconsiderate. Again, April is Autism Awareness Month...it is NOT OIL FIELD WORKERS APPRECIATION MONTH, like I saw plastered across the idiot's playground Facebook a few weeks ago, being spread like a wildfire while very few people were passing along my Autism picture. Along with this new appreciation month that just started, below it read "If you don't appreciate oil field workers, try pushing your car to work." Boo Hoo Hoo to the oil field workers. Really? Try pushing my car to work?

Let's see. Working in an oil field is your JOB! It is your choice. It is not a disease. It is a job you chose to accept and you are paid well for it, plain and simple. You don't like it, quit. Children with autism can't quit it just because they're not appreciated. No one is appreciated at their job; that is why it is called a JOB and not HAPPY-FUN TIME! Try pushing my car to work? If that's the case, then where does the appreciation stop?

If you don't appreciate car-factory workers, try walking to the oil fields!

If you don't appreciate the kid making your food at Burger King, try making your own goddamn meal everyday.

But wait, if you don't appreciate the guy that works at the grocery store who sells you food, try growing and making your own food!

Hold on though, because if you don't appreciate the farmers or the factories that produce seeds to plant.... You see, it's a never ending cycle. It's a society. Everyone has their place here and everyone does their job to the benefit of everyone else. We are all reliant. So, while I certainly appreciate having oil and respect those guys for their work, I really don't think it is necessary for a month dedicated to them.

Please, take the time and realize what people with true needs and causes go through on a daily basis. They have these awareness months to BRING AWARENESS to people who turn a blind eye or who don't pay enough attention to care.

Autism is full time. There is no taking a break when the whistle blows or going out for drinks at the end of an Autism Shift. Plain and simple.

Thank you

Grant Fieldgrove is the author of three novels, Darkness Once More, A Touch of Danger and Stroke of Genius. He lives in Bakersfield, CA.