It’s been nearly six years (October 2, 2017) since Tom Petty died.
A few months before his passing, my son and I drove from Rhode Island to Philadelphia to catch Tom and the Heartbreakers on the final leg of their 40th Anniversary Tour.
On our way down to the show, we listened to every Heartbreakers album in sequence, amazed at the quantity of quality the band produced over their 40 years.
When Tom made his way to the microphone that night in front of a packed Wells Fargo arena — he seemed a little unsteady. His voice was thin and shaky when he addressed the audience, and I wondered if time had finally caught up to the rock icon.
That show was my sixth Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers concert. Like the previous five, I walked out of the arena blissfully. At 66 years old and on a fractured hip, Tom Petty remained true to his craft and the spirit of rock and roll. He and the band were brilliant.
For over 40 years, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers never cheated their audience with half-hearted performances or sub-par albums. They loved what they did, which showed in the studio and on stage.
That show in 2017 has me reminiscing on how and when I got hooked on the Heartbreakers.
The first Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers song I heard was Refuge in 1979 as a junior in high school. That song jolted with me the instant I heard it. My reaction to it bordered on chemical, and for three minutes and twenty-two seconds, I felt true clarity, like the music physically pushed shit aside in my head – so it was just me and the song.
I’m not sure why that song resonated so powerfully. Perhaps it was the convergence of Petty’s aggressive-edged delivery frenetically stirred by the tumult of adolescence and teenage angst.
I don’t know “the why,” but I remember “the when” like it happened yesterday.
I’m not sure how it began for my son. Maybe it was musical osmosis from exposure to A LOT OF Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers at an early age.
Perhaps my son connected with a specific song or album during adolescence and got hooked like I did.
Or maybe he saw Tom Petty as a musical bridge to span the sometimes-fractious waters between a father and son.
The most intriguing thing about this trip down memory lane is how Tom Petty evolved as an artist and the impact that had on me as a fan.
As much as I loved Refugee as a teenager, listening to that song as an adult was mainly a way of reconnecting with my youth. Sometimes, “reconnecting” is the extent of our relationship with an artist or song.
A more substantive relationship develops when the artist evolves – because that presents an opportunity to connect with them on a deeper level.
As Tom Petty matured, he became a master songwriter. His songs tapped into the complexities of human relationships with sparse and simple language. That’s what kept me tethered to him as an artist.
The way I connect with songs like Wildflowers and Square One is totally different than the nostalgic way I connect with Refugee or Here Comes My Girl – because I evolved as well (thankfully).
Tom’s evolution as an artist allowed his fans to grow with him — and most of us did.
And that’s why the relationship is impactful to so many people.
Does anyone else feel a wave of inadequacy when scrolling through their LinkedIn feed?
For me, it’s the professional equivalent of dragging my flabby ass into a Maxx Fitness Gym full of fitness junkies and muscle heads.
Are these people for real? Doesn’t anybody just work a crappy job to pay their bills anymore?
When did we become our jobs?
Are there really this many passionate professionals who love what they do – or are most of us just playing the game?
For me, it’s difficult not to feel like a fraud when I post about work because I am not my job.
My job is a taxing and challenging endeavor to endure. I work hard at it to keep a roof over my head and food on my table and grow my savings so that eventually I can get the fuck out.
LinkedIn is an advertising agency for the self – where we all try and keep up with the Joneses and match the energy of everyone that’s on the platform saying how proud they are to be part of a company or industry or technology and what a positive experience working for company x has been and how they can’t wait for the next exciting chapter in their career.
When you’re in the gym next to a guy like this, you immediately throw an extra 25-pound plate on the bar because you don’t want to look and feel like a failure.
If I had a dime for every “Penny in a pan” abortion survivor story, I’d have ten cents.
That said, how long before Penny in a Pan becomes the next Joe the Plumber presidential campaign sideshow?
How long before other farfetched family folklore and fables seep into the lexicon of Republican presidential candidates?
How long before we listen to Tim Scott on a debate stage relay an incredible Debby in a dumpster or Terry in the trash abortion survivor story?
How long before hundreds of “abortion survivors” pop up across America in a weird parade of zygote zombies and pro-life Presidential hopefuls?
What’s the “over-under” of these scenarios?
Just asking.
Meanwhile, political leaders (especially Republicans) refuse to confront genuine problems or propose solutions to issues affecting people, like the high cost of healthcare, housing, and education, the changing climate, gun violence, sky-rocketing anxiety and depression in children and young adults.
There’s such a deficit of decency in public service today.
Public service, where public servants look to make a difference in the lives of others, is on life support in America.
Public service today is a bunch of self-serving politicians constantly pushing cultural hot-button issues and fostering petty grievances to catapult themselves into positions of power, wealth, and authority.
Meanwhile, our world and our sense of safety erodes and crumbles around us.
No matter the strength of the evidence in the multiple indictments in which this man is named, he is assumed innocent until proven guilty.
So, let’s put aside the four criminal cases and 91 felony counts he faces and instead look at some of his actions as President.
As President, this man:
Knowingly lied to the public about the dangers of the COVID-19 virus.
Regularly praised anti-democratic and authoritarian leaders around the world.
Equated the moral character of neo-Nazis with the people protesting neo-Nazis.
Welcomed interference from foreign governments into American elections.
Refused to accept the results of a free and fair election even after sixty court cases, and his own attorney general stated the claims of election fraud were bullshit.
Sat idly in the Oval Office for nearly 3 hours as his supporters attacked the capital building and assaulted police officers.
Even if you believe this man is innocent of the 91 felony charges, he is demonstrably guilty of being a shitty human being.
I’m unsure why millions of Americans refuse to look at this man’s lack of ethics and morality and continue to support him, but my gut says it’s human behavior.
Admitting Trump is a shitty human means admitting you knowingly voted for a shitty human, which reflects poorly on you. So, to avoid the embarrassment of your vote and inability to judge a person’s character, you turn a blind eye to all that orange shittieness and hop on the “What About Hunter Biden” bandwagon.
A president or presidential candidate’s lack of character threatens the republic only when voters are unable or unwilling to judge that character.
Until Republicans discover their character and admit politics blinded them to Trump’s lack of morality and that they were conned, America will continue to teeter on the abyss.
What happens to the partnership between the Evangelical Church and the Republican party when compassionate conservatism gets replaced with MAGA mania?
How do Evangelical ministers square the teachings of Christ with their MAGA-infected flock?
What happens when ultra-MAGA Evangelicals sit fidgety in church pews and listen to sermons contradictory to the messages spewed by their political Messiah on the campaign trail?
It won’t be long before we see a sectarian split within the Evangelical church and radical versions of Evangelicalism start popping up across the country, like crack houses in the 80s.
These radical Evangelical churches will teach a MAGA-tinged Christianity, where Christ, a muscular blue-eyed-blond-messiah, wields his razor-edged cross to slice and dice woke liberals, immigrants, homosexuals, and atheists, to reestablish truth, order, and the American way.
Break-away Evangelical churches are how MAGA survives and (thrives). These churches will become radicalization factories in America like Wahhabi mosques in Saudi Arabia.
MAGA politicians are no different than any other. They understand religion is a tool for controlling and mobilizing masses – Churches plant seeds dipped in fear and bigotry to grow compliant human saplings so that future outcomes that align with religious ideology can take hold in society.
“The meek shall inherit the earth” will be replaced by a mite-is-right mentality—where the rationalization and justification of cruelty to achieve a particular end is the norm.
The transformation of the Evangelical church will correlate and coincide with criminal charges against former president Trump and his impending legal jeopardy.
Let’s keep our eyes peeled for an upstart-fire-brand Evangelical minister looking to make a name for himself by taking advantage of political chaos.
Donald Trump will be the new radical Evangelical church’s prophet of revenge and retribution.
I hope none of this comes to fruition, but I would not be surprised if it did.
I’m more than a bit dismayed that I still wallow in work worry.
At 60 years old, I thought that shit would have dissipated by now, but it hasn’t.
I still lie awake at night and stress out about work.
And lately, worry is partnered (weirdly enough) with a growing and sustained apathy, where even though I’m frenzied and panicked about my job, I struggle to find the motivation needed to push through the mile-high mountain of inane yet necessary Zoom meetings, team stand-ups, One-on-ones with my managers, deliverable deadlines, and new processes, procedures, and tools.
You know you’ve reached a saturation point when you can’t summon the energy needed to organize your thoughts and quell your work worry.
And I’m beginning to think that’s where I am – at the intersection of panic and apathy.
If I never hear another “let’s jump on a call” or “find some time on my calendar,” I’ll be OK because honestly, after 35 years, work has become an exhaustingly joyless and life-draining endeavor – a toxic and twisted nest of feigned interest and stress made worse by the fact that our daily lives are unfolding against a devastatingly bleak backdrop of worldwide calamity; from our crumbling democracy to the rise of authoritarianism to the climate catastrophe, humanity is in shambles – making it damn-near impossible to focus on two-week Agile sprints and software deliverable deadlines.
At least, for me, it does.
And so, I’m itchy to retire. I want to step off the “dread mill,” put my work worry aside, and use the surplus of time and onset of calm to focus on things that matter – family, personal relationships, health and relaxation, and preparing for the apocalypse.
And actually, it’s beginning to feel like retirement might be close at hand — I mean, after 35 years, the next step, the one where my wife and I get to relax and smell the roses, should be just around the corner.
Right?
I consider myself one of the lucky ones. Barring a catastrophic financial meltdown, I hope to retire while I still have some tread on my soul. But for millions of Americans, the high cost of healthcare, housing, food, gas (and just about everything else) makes retirement a pipe dream.
If I had to continue the rest of my days writing bland and drier-than-dessert-dirt descriptions of software features, I don’t know what I’d do.
I did it for 35 years.
I’m ready to stop.
To keep at it when I no longer care would damage my emotional well-being.
Humans are strange; we keep doing what we do, even when we’re dead tired, exhausted, and deflated by it. Even when it brings us no joy and turns us into stressed-out, fidgety, and fragile work zombies, we keep on with it. Maybe because we have to. Maybe because we have no choice – we work or get swallowed up and spit out.
And fear prevents us from stopping (even for a minute), stepping back, and considering another path.
The system that we’re part of has turned millions of Americans into robots. Programmed and cultivated by the carrot-and-stick, the pot-of-gold-at-the-end-of-the-rainbow message of capitalism.
And so, we move ahead, expressionless, one foot in front of the other, until that final day when we stop and fall over into our shiny and perfectly polished coffins.
That’s no way to live, and not a good way to die either.
bendingtheneedle 