Home never leaves the bones.....I kinda wanna be anarchy.....R.I.P. Redleggers

For 33 years of my life, I have attempted to escape home.

Home, for those of your not familiar with me, is a boondocks aptly named Okeana. My mother fed me some bullshit growing up that it was the name of some Indian priestess. My mother, a woman from Columbus who hadn't heard of the fuckin' place until Pops built a house there....

My theory? Some farmer in the late 1800's had a tad bit too much white lightning and muttered some mish-mash that coined a town.

The point is, it is a backwoods. People still have rusted hulks of metal in the frontyard, tires as planters and a double-wide with a basement is viewed with envy. This is viewed as high-end decor.

I loathed the place. Subconsiously I think I joined the Army partly to high-tail it out of Ohio....and because I was a slacker college dropout.

Now I'm back. And for some damnable reason, I am reminiscent.

The country air, especially fall, feels cool against my neck. The wafting odor of Jethro burning leaves and tires actually invigorates my nostrils.

Speeding down Cincinnati-Brookville Road at 75 in a 55 zone is freeing....until I crack my radiator on the 12 point buck in the fucking road.

I've come to realize that home never left me. It seems a tad cliche, given all the odes to home that have been written by better hacks than myself throughout the years.

But it looms true.

Podunk bars in the middle of nowhere that actually have David Allen Coe's underground shit (you know what I'm talking about) on the jukebox.

It's laughable how ignorant that twit is, but it's just the vibe given by having it in the jukebox...the vibe of "This here's the country. If you don't like it, kiss our ass and leave."

A small-town diner that is only open till 2 pm, serving chili that is nothing but ground beef chunks in tomato paste.

An abundance of cows and the memory of "We're from Ross, couldn't be prouder! We have pigs and nuclear power!", referring to our former cash crop Fernald.

Okeana and Ross...built on uranium.

I attended a timid bonfire in a field the other night.....brisk evening, cold beer from the tailgate of a pickup.....some lush with a guitar who strummed nothing but drinking country and "ran over the hound while drunk on the tractor" country.

The bastard threw in a few heartbreak songs too, apropos of my situation with the former Mrs. Sprague.

It felt like home. Jarring, surprising, yet not.

Home never left me. For good or ill.

I kinda wanna be anarchy. Government and da man got me down. Campaign commercials are inundating the TV nowadays, and it is simply the same fucking shit....

"(Insert name here) lost Ohio 1 billion jobs."

"(Insert name here) hates veterans."

"(Insert name here) flogged Nancy Pelosi with a studded whip during an S&M party at Steve Driehaus's house. Driehaus's children were dressed like Ooompa-Loompas serving condoms and K-Y on trays to the degenerates."

You get the drift. It's tired and hackneyed.

We have shown as a people that, for the most part, we can take care of fucking shit up for ourselves. We don't need government to pave the road to hell for us.

Humans are quite capable alone.

Thing is, I would immediately become a hypocritical anarchist because, ironically, I collect a paycheck every two weeks from Warren County for being a 911 dispatcher.

Choice to be made....quite the job and become an advocate? Or talk out both sides of my mouth?

Or, just become numb to it like every other American?

Door #3, Monte? I need money, sadly.....can't feed my kids dog food when the dough runs out.

I chuckle, though, everytime I see Mike Wilson, Cincy Tea Party founder, on TV. It's weird seeing a guy that was your manager at Burger King and had quite the fondness for porn 17 years ago talk about Ohio deserving more.

It's surreal.

R.I.P. my dearest Redleggers. I truly didn't expect you to win the division, let alone Houdini in the NLDS. You gave me a reason to hold to my beloved sport of baseball until October and to buy four differing Reds hats this year.

And you gave me hope. Thanks for the memories and looking forward to next season.

Now, just make Jonny Gomes bat with a fucking boat paddle next year and he may damn well hit something. Bastard pulled on his helmet more times than he laid wood on the ball.

Or, just motivate him by threatening a career change to politics. That'd make me hit.

Spragoo

Happy 11th Birthday, Fight Club. Keep up the good work.