Monday, November 30, 2009

The 3 Little Pigs played out in 2009...

I’m so lost! Every television news channels, newspaper and talk radio show keeps saying, “This is the worst recession since the Great Depression! Unemployment has reached 20% in parts of South Carolina and the Stock Market rocks so much it should be renamed California or become a future member of Cleveland’s Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame.”



How can we be in a recession when New Moon has raked in over $400 million in two weeks?



How can we be in a recession when home spun art galleries in mountain towns so tiny they aren’t found on a road map are trying to push their collections out the door at Big City famously known Wentworth Gallery prices?



How can we be in a recession when Lowes Home Improvement is selling inflatable yard art for eighty bucks and above?



Where is the recession when restaurants have two hour long waiting lists?



If this is the worst it’s been in sixty years, please tell me how a bowling alley in Uptown Charlotte can charge $45 an hour for a dimly lit neon tainted blue light enhanced lane plus shoe rentals.



Who’s crying wolf? If these aren’t the worst of times isn’t the end result of the game going to be total numbness toward reality?



I know! Things are things so bad that selling just one item at an astronomical price is all that’s required to pay this month’s rent? Sell two and we’ve entered a new decade with the left foot in front of the other. Why work twice as hard if showing up for half the job is all that’s required?



Where are we in the recession game?



Gas prices are hanging around $2.50 which used to be a panic button. I remember feeling tremendous amounts of fear the first time it crossed the two buck bucket. The lines were long and stations couldn’t keep enough fuel in their veins because getting gas for a $1.99 a gallon seemed like the smart thing. Today…it’s just another day.

Kind of like Christmas shopping—I got 50% off a discontinued completely returned item. Meaning I bought another person’s trash. I got what others didn’t want. Its nothing new to me…growing up on Ryan Ave in Billings, Montana set me up to never expect or be jealous of what other’s collect.



The recession is reason to party for hobo’s and the homeless—suddenly there are more that can relate with their daily plight. I don’t mean it in a negative way! It's a lesson in life. Like my sister Susan said, “When you’ve been to hell you don’t want to go back, so you spend the rest of your life teaching people how to keep it going when the heart begs you to slow down or stop.”



Although we can’t physically see it, more American’s are beginning to relate with the distant freight train whistles heard when my mother’s parents fought to survive in the depths of a cold winter nights buried below eight foot snow drifts in Gillette, Wyoming. You can see a photo of my Grandmother and know she took on a hard life and won.



Today…I’m deeply bothered by the cameras eye connected to a child’s look into an unknown Christmas future—they aren’t real. Pajamas aren’t supposed to be nicely pressed. Christmas trees shouldn’t feature LED lighting and love from within isn’t a forced frown…there's always hope in troubling times and hope cannot be found in makeup. It shines like a white dove ice skating across a morning sunrise.



Dad always said, “We may not have money for Christmas but I won’t start off a new year letting people know it. You will march into that bathroom and wash your face and hands. You will put on clean clothes that aren’t ripped and wear your best shoes. Having no money doesn’t mean you are poor…I refuse to let my children be anything but rich in spirit.”

Times may have been tough as seen through the rounded curves in our eyes but the physical display of who we were as a family stood out because we were knitted with strength and unstoppable togetherness.



Hollywood actor Foster Brooks is the greatest fake drunk ever created. His secret to collecting billions of laughs wasn’t a bottle of booze but a better view of what a real alcoholic delivers to an unknowing public. His entire display was fed by a desire to be a a drunk that acted sober not intoxicated. Although I hated it, Mom made us watch Dean Martin with his fancy martini slurping…in looking back at the classic episodes, I refuse to believe he had lost control on national television but instead borrowed from Mr. Brooks the art of trying to be normal when the soul is off playing other games.



Through acting those living life on this side of the television screen believe it’s totally forgiving to let go and stop trying. Being drunk, drugged up, a constant nag to family members or dirt poor and always begging for a handout has become what we expect from every dysfunctional gathering. It’s like Peter on The Family Guy when a doctor told him that he was mentally challenged…he took it to heart and made sure he profited from being described as such. I have a challenged brother and to this very moment I’ve never seen him use it to benefit his chapters. In his presentation he’s normal and should be accepted as such or he’ll take you on.



Think about it…as displayed in the new film Precious…the visibly poor family made sure they reached out of their circle to come across needy, they set their appearance and verbal presentation up to gain access to government support. I believe in Welfare because it has the power to keep you off the street but it can’t be turned into a career.



I wish the words of reassurance could float from these fingertips by way of softly singing that everything is going to be ok…but I’m extremely confused. If we are a single nation buried in the perils of a heart wrenching recession have we been warmed by personal and private struggles to become a stronger people or does seeing a lack of unconditional love from stores connected to it’s makers and craftsman make those wandering around this holiday season feel numb about having nothing to spend?



Are we are or are we not in a recession? I totally get the game! If you can’t see it…it doesn’t exist. If you don’t act like your poor it’s like being rich. We are drunk on American Culture but nobody acts anything less than normal so businesses feel no need to sell anything less than expensive.

There shall be no recession until the government creates a program that gives your children cash for their clunker toys.



Totally confused? Me too...



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Why can't everyday be Thanksgiving?

Thanksgiving weekend! Black Friday and the newly created Orange Saturday! It’s like working our way through the NFL, NBA and college hoops playoffs—March Madness Baby where 7,000 unheard of schools take on the masters of the court with extremely high hopes of making it the Final Four or in the case 2010.



Over the next 96 hours we’ll hopscotch, hippity dippity doop due our way through family members and friends trying to score just enough points to win nothing more than a reason to sit at the adult table. As much as we’d rather be honed in on the hottest, coolest and latest jokes cruising through American Culture, the turkey always seems fresher up in the land of graying hair and constant complaints about bosses and jobs.



Unlike the world of sports and their whirlwind playoffs, what you do this weekend probably won’t damage the final outcome of the daily delivery of everyday living. Sisters will battle brothers, too much alcohol will flow from the bottle to your lips, popcorn balls will end up on the floor causing the dogs to choke and choke but it’s a lot better than the silent things they do that make human eyes roll.



Halloween is the open door to winter like Memorial Day prepares us for summer. Those buckets of candy serve a great purpose, each chunk of chocolate gets the body physically ready for an overload of sweet potatoes, pumpkin and apple pie, turkey with cranberry sauce and all those over saturated hugs and kisses from nearly everyone you meet that blurt out, “Happy Holidays!”



It’s too easy to write, “Please be on your best behavior.” Blah blah boring!



For some, we wait an entire 52 weeks to meet up with members of the family who’s noses this time last year were hoisted so high the Queen of England Facebooked them with a message, “And you thought I had an ego?”



But it’s a different America! The corporate pyramid has shifted, those who once stood high atop rocks that don't flop stand in lines hoping their business connections keep their skills afloat or they’ll be forced to learn a new trade. We’ve shaked, rattled and rolled, weebled, wobbled and fought to get back up. In the words of the great musical God’s Bon Jovi, “We’ve been livin on a prayer!” And if that’s not enough to ignite your shorts to continue pushing forward another great musical disciple Steve Perry from Journey is always willing to sing, “Don’t stop believing!”



Yes! It’s a four day weekend…….for some. Like all other things in life Monday will soon come around and no matter how bad, good or so so the moments unveiled during this short time span went…everyone of us will wake up early Monday morning and right off the bat we’ll head straight for the bathroom.



A single strand of commonality.



You can drive any car, live in any house, shop at every mall with the biggest, best and worst sales but nothing ties us closer together than an everyday occurrence. Not everyone uses a computer, not everyone buys bubble gum on Tuesdays or parties late into the night on Wednesday’s and Thursdays. Not everyone loves movies and surely not everyone believes in Santa Claus but every human on the face of this beautifully designed planet uses the bathroom.



And that is a commonality that is fully capable of inspiring every reason why you should love and respect even those you don’t love and respect.



Go get em America! Get into this Thanksgiving weekend and do your best to be only the best you can be. If you’re into faking the smile do it with pride. If Mama has you tied up with too much to do then lay your hands on her shoulders and hug her cuz one day the only thing you’ll have is a memory stuffed away in a part of the brain quickly fading.



Stand up at the dinner table this weekend and make your face known. Let the kids table have their fun like college fans in the stands. Be you! Pick a fight with the siblings and make sure its worth remembering or you’ll spend the next 52 weeks worried that something is keeping them from being them. When the parental figures scream out, “Why can’t we get along?” Let them know that life is far better when you aren’t walking through its chapters numb.



Be thankful! Be energized! Be all you are and can be! Be late for dinner! Nothing toasts your mom’s bread more than you walking in after grace has been shared. Look at her in the eyes and calmly reply, “I love you more than anything in the universe.”

Expect to be grounded for a week with no cell phone and friends. The only thing required...please flush and put down the seat!



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

I'm not late! I just forgot!

Been misplacing the car keys and your left blue sock lately? The good news is being forgetful isn’t just an age issue.



Although Hollywood writers and directors with a lot of help from Dr’s. Phil and Oz have constantly connected the picture of losing one’s mind to the double digits of everyday living…the first sign of a gray hair and we feel as if the world has suddenly shifted to the left methodizing the Blue Haired Lady Effect.



One of the major factors often set aside is the hour by hour boss driven expectations easily diagnosed as multitasking. Life truly isn’t moving any faster than what it was when our Great, Great Grandfather Mickey the Monkey was calling the shots. Trust me, he had less to do.



We’ve become a nation of over-weighted performers through no better desire than life is what it is and if you don’t want to participate there’s the door.



Having too much on the plate at work is no different than piling up the meat and tators on Thanksgiving day—the dull ache associated with being full challenges a person’s thought creation landing them in seriously out of control states of tiredness, irritability and or completely without memory. The only difference, you have the power to make a choice within the four walls that make up your home…or do you?



Mom I need this! Dad I was supposed to be there. The first sound of your dog barking and it’s off to the kitchen to wrap your fingers around a specially designed treat. We live our chapters in fast forward motion—nothings more important than the present and if interrupted anything left in the memory banks is washed away like a bad computer virus.



The index finger can’t be pointed just at your job. Take a good look at the tips of those other fingers staring deeply into your soul.



We expect change. Good or bad…subliminally we set ourselves up to force the hand to move quicker than the eye. I’m not stepping out on the limb but rather identifying the truth when I say we want life to happen so we don’t have to deal with the present. Overcrowding our life and style feeds a dried river bed with just enough energy to push out what we’ve elected to ignore such as bills, grocery shopping, raking the leaves on the front yard or having to put up with unwanted family members in your house this weekend.”



Through constant change the need for speed heightens our awareness of where we stand as if to spell out, “It’s ok to forget things. We’ve accepted the art of making up great excuses. Therefore gifting us with a solid bless your heart…they keep you so busy at work, its only natural to be so forgetful.”



The only problem is…the entire nation has set aside its vision to move forward. We’ve elected to pretend the recession isn’t real putting the entire Health Care issue in the palms of political figures that have the bucks to hire people to remember for them. Our current technique of survival has become the childhood game Jinga…who really cares about the moves of others, all that matters is your wooden piece slowly slides out of the tall construction without giving reason or invitation to a giant crash.



Feeling forgetful and being forgetful are separate destinations.



Being aware of forgetfulness buys you time to correct a situation that could be brewing. The everyday goal should be to boost your memory by deciding what you need to remember, then focusing on it.



If I don’t leave my martial arts black belt near my car keys there’s a 99.3% chance I’ll be making an unexpected run for the house during rush hour so I don’t look like a total goof in class. I can always buy a uniform. You get only one belt. If you fail to wear it in class, it’s extremely humbling when you’re forced to workout with the white belts doing nothing more than front kicking and punching or you’re stuck in the corner doing 100 V situps followed by 500 squats. Hey! If anything the pain you feel over the next two days will force your memory into play.



Every house is blessed with a refrigerator, stove, washer and dryer and doorways that lead to other rooms. The most important tool you can have in a house is a memory spot. No matter how stupid it makes you feel, make that single place the solid location you place your keys and or other items that need to travel with you to work or play.



I have to carry Nitroglycerin with me 24/7…being that I’m extremely forgetful the goal was to instantly come up with a plan that guaranteed me a safe journey. Left front pocket, round tube larger than a memory stick, thick enough to be felt each time my thumb rubs up against my pants while walking. As irritating as it is to constantly slam my hand into something metal, the other side of my thought process tells me, “Ok…it’s perfectly cool to get back to living.”



Create memory spots at work. In an age of ugly gray corporate cubicles and leaders demanding you hit the street running…it seems natural to allow yourself just enough space to be forgetful. Bosses love it when you forget; it gives them reason to fire. Ouch! Build that bridge to safer waters. Get ahead by planning ahead. As my dad constantly said, “Forgetting is laziness.” Ouch again! Look how lazy pro football quarterbacks have become…at one time they were expected to remember the plays…now they have them connected to their forearms. Why doesn’t Microsoft build a computer that can take a hit and keep on ticking? Oh yeah…they probably forgot. That's ok...we now have Windows 7.0.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Monday, November 23, 2009

Thinking made too easy...

Get me anywhere near the internet and I instantly become a fool—spending hours researching stupid stuff, wasteful information that makes no sense, but I do it…to build up the congressional library of self, later used in quality Thanksgiving conversations that create a simple, “Oh wow.”



For instance, did you know before scissors were used to cut human hair caveman stylists used rocks and fire? Holy bad perm Batman! In some religious circles it was forbidden for women to cut their hair and a child’s first hair cut is supposed to be a right of passage.



I can still see Actor Comedian Dennis Leary angrily telling the MTV generation to do something other than surf the internet, “If you want to surf, get a board! Use it for what it is…an outlet of endless information.”



Before the introduction of the internet, radio jock junkies pulled their knowledge from grocery store magazines, local and national newspapers and published reference books that cost sixty to a hundred bucks a piece—but it didn’t matter, it was all about being unique. I remember spending nearly all of 1985 and 86 in a public library researching anything and everything that took place in the United States and around the world from Wall Street to Vietnam, Nixon to Regan between 1962 to 1982—because my program director believed the show he wanted me to write and produced demanded the air talent to be on top of his game by talking about life as if I had lived it. Being at the big office with big books still wasn’t enough, I was ordered to check them out turning my early mornings into blazing hot research projects that left my skin a dark shade of leather.



Today its click, click, read the first paragraph once or twice and poof I’m an expert on the Green House Effect, heart disease and whatever else seems to catch my attention.



I’d be lying to you if I didn’t Google my name—it’s fun to see how many foreign countries are selling my debut book. I laugh, giggle and then shove it quickly aside because most first time authors give their gift away—whatever it takes to get words in print and there they sit, those cute little covers making money in India, Japan, Spain and Canada and not a single cent has made it my way.



How then can writers play a better game? I know! The internet! Wait!



The Attorney General is correct when he warns of this global tool as being the mightiest of all robbers on earth. The first thing you’ll do is lose valuable time searching for someone you can trust and when you do find that person or company you’ve been beat up so badly that having a relationship with them will be based on how many eyes you’ve attached to the back of your head.



So if the internet is untrusting, why then do we paste our trash on its pages? I couldn’t believe how quickly my sisters went at each other on Facebook. I remember when having a family squabble was something you heard being screamed through pulled downed shades and closed windows. There’s so much physical dirty laundry in the hamper that taking it to the internet has become the new vent.



I completely freeze when writers post: I’m leaving town for ten days…gonna miss my pets. Gulp! Or…I’m at the grocery store for another hour…can’t wait to get home to check out Oprah. Gulp! You’ve now given someone sixty minutes or nearly two weeks to ransack your house.



A good friend Nathan says, “Facebook should be used only for your true friends. I never accept anyone into my circle unless I know them personally.”



I get it…but we are of the human race and our biggest weakness these 2,000 years has been acceptance. It feels incredible to have five hundred people or more linked up to your outlet. You don’t have to look at them, shop with them or feel guilty about not inviting them over for dinner this Thursday. Facebook is no different than me moving nearly twenty five hundred miles away from my family in Montana…it’s just far enough away for my sisters to fight without it destroying my day.



The internet is coming to a car near you…it’ll be far easier to use than trying to text message someone on your Blackberry, Iphone or whatever gadget’s been invented for Christmas 2009. To which I ask, what took it so long? Life during the mid-70’s in the backseat would’ve been so much easier to digest as a growing teen if we had the internet. Rather than nearly killing my father with The Bee Gee’s on 8-track over and over again—I could’ve been looking stuff up, “What is the normal length of the average nose hair?” What? You never know when valuable information like this will prove to be useful!



I go to the internet to feel smart. There aren’t any tests so it makes everyone brilliant! You can find everything there! Especially K-9 rescues…that’s where my two Chinese Crested and two Maltese came from. The internet is like being part of a paperless generation; it’s totally green until you hit print. Although my mother has nothing to do with it, the internet is who we are today.



I can’t wait for the day when early morning vehicles are programmed by GPS systems to drive you to work—just crawl into the backseat which makes out into a queen sized bed and latch onto sixty or seventy more Z’s. Then again, with as powerful as the internet is getting, why should we go to work? Thanks to Skype, it gives you face to face time with your boss without having to identify their perfume or cologne.



And who knows…science will probably invent a computer chip that documents everything we think—at the moment we pass; the chip is placed on the internet for the rest of the world to digest. Our pieces parts could be the infamous missing link. Oh wait...aren't insurance companies already doing this? What do you mean I went to the doctor four weeks after I was born for broken toe?

Is this what a gnat or fly feels like when first crashing into a spiders web? Wow this is so cool...until the eight legged bug calmly walks up and whispers, "It was nice of you to stop in for a bite."




arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Friday, November 20, 2009

No! No! Not another Holiday!!!

Wow the weekend before Thanksgiving! That means next week your life is probably going to be overstuffed with too much work and no room for play or you’ve spent the past four days to nearly two years trying to figure out what in God’s name it requires to land a job in a market too afraid to budge because the current fad in America is to cut back, cut back, cut back. Lord knows we don’t want to offend the stockholders demanding top dollar for their investment…so we play along by way of keeping the peace.



A minister stopped by my studio to record yesterday—a single sentence from her well written chapters puts it all in place, “When I sit with those who are passing, I’ve yet to meet the person who takes the time to recognize a family member, friend or coworker for the gifts they shared during the years they were strong and very much alive. Every final conversation is based on relationship. They were incredibly loving, caring and their smile seemed to warm my indifferences with everyday life.”



As much as we want to have the best looking turkey and unforgettably tasting sweet potatoes and mash tators…this changed America we’ve evolved into since the great Recession of 08 still fails to recognize what it was our Great Grandparents brought with them—the spirit of life and our purpose for being here.



In looking back the only thing we truly store are plastic containers picked up at Space Savers. I keep having visions of my mother going through her parent’s cardboard boxes and wooden crates wondering, “Who were these people?”



What will someone discover about you when you’re no longer there to protect it?



Is it really all about getting money for Christmas? If the finger prints you hold belong only to you that means you’ve left nothing in the palms belonging to the hearts you publicly accept as love but deny as reason to grow in privacy.



Materialistic value is like age…it’s only a number and digits do nothing but make your life miserable. Bowling became more fun when someone on the team was no longer stuck keeping score.



Like it or not the holidays are here. The face of American success has changed but have you? I am requiring my feet to learn a new beat. I’m horribly embarrassed to admit that I have no clue who my son-in-law Juan is and where his drive to succeed is located but I know in my heart he’s the warmest, most giving man I’ve met since my stepfather Joe. If something happened to him today I would be my mother asking, “Who was he and how did he get this way?”



I study him like hawk because he’s the keeper of my daughter’s children and the lessons they learn in life must strengthen their willingness to grow to reach through the wall not stop the moment a connection is made. Success on the financial front has got to stop because somewhere along the path we forgot to have faith in our family. We’ve chosen instead to dump our loved ones in after school programs that heave ho a bunch of doe from our empty bank accounts and place it in the hands of someone doing it because its just another job and who the heck can find a good one these days?



Christmas and Thanksgiving are everyday…get to know your Juan. Put yourself in a state of mind that makes you a leader on the day life becomes a single note and its located in a plastic container—rather than being shocked about the ingredients inside, pick up each piece and sing with it.



Native American’s never mourned the loss of a loved one…they celebrated life. What we assumed with tears of sorrow and pain were physical conversations with their Great Creator by way of saying, “Thank you for sharing.”



When was the last time you looked into your Juan's eyes and said, “You have no idea how much I appreciate you being part of my life.” Even your pets will sit next to you a little bit longer when you start whispering, “Thanks you little hambone.”



Did you know Gene Simmons of KISS owns the rights to the dollar symbol…rightfully you should be paying him for the bucks you spend…which is my way of saying put value in family and get to know them because after a three day work week with bosses who will never understand, those eyes and open arms are going to be sitting around that table physically pumping out the energy to make your earned day off a bright spot to hold. And on your dying bed what you got in presents will never be remember but the finger prints you shared becomes the remnants in the red carpet firmly stapled to the stairway to heaven.



Steal my art….



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Thursday, November 19, 2009

The United States of Insomnia...

Look around you…do you see them? Coworkers, neighbors and family members who are having serious problems keeping their eye lids closed at night. No assumption required!

While colleges prepare for make it or break it semesters to end, businesses are booger deep in fourth quarter survival strategies which could lead to the left hand reaching for slips dipped in pink. No wonder people act like they’ve added fifty two point six pounds to their hearts—where is the joy in the holiday’s when everything in and about your world can suddenly change?



Music…



Not drugs, I didn’t say alcohol, calm down the drive to shop and stop surfing the web til you drop…the peace you seek is found in music.



I want Dr. Gail Mornhinweg’s job! She was hired by the University of Kentucky to locate a single strand that connects the average Joe Blow human mind, body and soul to a good night sleep. Once there, how did such rest affect the arrival of the next twenty four hour period? Carefully wading in the waters of time you can’t recapture, her sliver of gold was located in music.



Music is the reason I got into radio. I was the insane preteen who slid his hand held battery operated transistor rhythm maker under the pillow to catch CW McCall pouring out his storylines on Convoy, Elton John Crocodiled the world of Rock and for the love of God I could never figure out why Paul McCartney featured a ball and chain at the beginning of Silly Love Songs.



According to Dr. Gail, music is the best medicine prescribed when trying to sleep.



Hit the breaks! Screech! Music…like everything else captured within the realms of modern day American Culture, has been completely diversified to the point of no identification. Disco isn’t Disco its music that picks you up. Classic Rock doesn’t belong to middle aged men, high school orchestra’s and marching bands have made it part of their ongoing presentations. Country isn’t just Western but there’s also Americana just as much as Alternative can be anything from Shakira's Electro-Pop to Metal to Emo. Never ending music research has completely destroyed the foundation of music.



The Rock n Roll Hall of Fame is proof of that—during the 1980’s bands, solo performers and songwriters were added to the pages of a continued history by what they brought to the industry as a whole. The latest edition of Rollingstone completely blows the cover off the selection process revealing to normal people how each person added today compared to the beginning doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with impact on the masses but rather their selected sliver of music’s cut up pie.



Artists endorse other artists, John Fogerty of CCR fame stood in front of the panel with one of the most unforgettable presentations in music history—not to induct his band but the man who inspired him to become a musician. KISS will probably never get in, the worlds most successfully marketed band isn’t looked upon as being a success story but rather a sideshow act.



How then does music guarantee you a full nights sleep?



The journey begins with the absence of VH-1 and MTV. As brilliant as they’ve been to giving artists another step to climb on the ladder of fame and fortune, those who still view what few videos are left can’t get a good nights rest because of our addiction to watching moving pictures. Just as you’re slipping into a deeper keeper…Beyonce pops on with Single Girls and boom your eyes are wide open and you’re legs are jamming with the junk in your trunk.



Dr. Gail says, “Go old school…really old school.”



Excedrin PM has the power the make you go nighty night quickly but in the morning its moan, groan and whoa too many foggy corners to reach through. Baroque music is the secret to a winning an incredible nights sleep. When you modernize the description Baroque it falls under the category of New Age.



“Oh no way! Not me! If my friends or family find out I’m listening to this stuff they’ll think I’ve become my Grandmother!”



That’s why I couldn’t get into Jazz and Charlie Pride—I was mentally terrified of people thinking I was becoming an old man. It’s kind of like eating squash and asparagus…if you’re digging the famous weeds, there must be something wrong.



Research shows New Age Baroque when listened to at bedtime puts the average person into some serious rapid eye movement much quicker than over the counter meds. The best part is, you sleep longer and feel more refreshed. During the nights when patients were allowed to listen to "their" favorite music, sleeplessness returned spelling out bad moods and no desire to work the following day.



Hootie and the Blowfish is an incredible band! But no Hootie before you sleep. Your Nirvana will turn into a Cold Play creating a lack of U2, which in the medical world means your Tina has turned not giving you a Foo Fighting chance to catch some Jay Z’s. Your workday will be more AC than DC mind melting the Van Halen nerve in your backbone. You won’t go broke adding Baroque to your sleeping diet.



Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

The United States of Insomnia...

Look around you…do you see them? Coworkers, neighbors and family members who are having serious problems keeping their eye lids closed at night. No assumption required!

While colleges prepare for make it or break it semesters to end, businesses are booger deep in fourth quarter survival strategies which could lead to the left hand reaching for slips dipped in pink. No wonder people act like they’ve added fifty two point six pounds to their hearts—where is the joy in the holiday’s when everything in and about your world can suddenly change?



Music…



Not drugs, I didn’t say alcohol, calm down the drive to shop and stop surfing the web til you drop…the peace you seek is found in music.



I want Dr. Gail Mornhinweg’s job! She was hired by the University of Kentucky to locate a single strand that connects the average Joe Blow human mind, body and soul to a good night sleep. Once there, how did such rest affect the arrival of the next twenty four hour period? Carefully wading in the waters of time you can’t recapture, her sliver of gold was located in music.



Music is the reason I got into radio. I was the insane preteen who slid his hand held battery operated transistor rhythm maker under the pillow to catch CW McCall pouring out his storylines on Convoy, Elton John Crocodiled the world of Rock and for the love of God I could never figure out why Paul McCartney featured a ball and chain at the beginning of Silly Love Songs.



According to Dr. Gail, music is the best medicine prescribed when trying to sleep.



Hit the breaks! Screech! Music…like everything else captured within the realms of modern day American Culture, has been completely diversified to the point of no identification. Disco isn’t Disco its music that picks you up. Classic Rock doesn’t belong to middle aged men, high school orchestra’s and marching bands have made it part of their ongoing presentations. Country isn’t just Western but there’s also Americana just as much as Alternative can be anything from Shakira's Electro-Pop to Metal to Emo. Never ending music research has completely destroyed the foundation of music.



The Rock n Roll Hall of Fame is proof of that—during the 1980’s bands, solo performers and songwriters were added to the pages of a continued history by what they brought to the industry as a whole. The latest edition of Rollingstone completely blows the cover off the selection process revealing to normal people how each person added today compared to the beginning doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with impact on the masses but rather their selected sliver of music’s cut up pie.



Artists endorse other artists, John Fogerty of CCR fame stood in front of the panel with one of the most unforgettable presentations in music history—not to induct his band but the man who inspired him to become a musician. KISS will probably never get in, the worlds most successfully marketed band isn’t looked upon as being a success story but rather a sideshow act.



How then does music guarantee you a full nights sleep?



The journey begins with the absence of VH-1 and MTV. As brilliant as they’ve been to giving artists another step to climb on the ladder of fame and fortune, those who still view what few videos are left can’t get a good nights rest because of our addiction to watching moving pictures. Just as you’re slipping into a deeper keeper…Beyonce pops on with Single Girls and boom your eyes are wide open and you’re legs are jamming with the junk in your trunk.



Dr. Gail says, “Go old school…really old school.”



Excedrin PM has the power the make you go nighty night quickly but in the morning its moan, groan and whoa too many foggy corners to reach through. Baroque music is the secret to a winning an incredible nights sleep. When you modernize the description Baroque it falls under the category of New Age.



“Oh no way! Not me! If my friends or family find out I’m listening to this stuff they’ll think I’ve become my Grandmother!”



That’s why I couldn’t get into Jazz and Charlie Pride—I was mentally terrified of people thinking I was becoming an old man. It’s kind of like eating squash and asparagus…if you’re digging the famous weeds, there must be something wrong.



Research shows New Age Baroque when listened to at bedtime puts the average person into some serious rapid eye movement much quicker than over the counter meds. The best part is, you sleep longer and feel more refreshed. During the nights when patients were allowed to listen to "their" favorite music, sleeplessness returned spelling out bad moods and no desire to work the following day.



Hootie and the Blowfish is an incredible band! But no Hootie before you sleep. Your Nirvana will turn into a Cold Play creating a lack of U2, which in the medical world means your Tina has turned not giving you a Foo Fighting chance to catch some Jay Z’s. Your workday will be more AC than DC mind melting the Van Halen nerve in your backbone. You won’t go broke adding Baroque to your sleeping diet.



Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Who invented the rules that Step Parents must follow?

During a single life how often is one reminded, “Like father like son or like Mother like daughter?”

Every mall in America, school campus or slow walk through the hood, showcased is the family members who physically look, act and react the same—from the nose all the way down to the core of their soul, nothings changed.



It’s as if Mother Nature whispered, “If it works…why break the mold?”



Guess I’m the freak…I’ve got more in common with Mom than Dad—endless amounts of brown hair, a drive to touch success that’s flat out sick, extremely compassionate about creatures in the woods and waters and each of us have horrible devices, she continues to smoke cigarettes and I can’t stop writing.



Step parents tend to miss out on that level of deepness…blood parents and their children are extremely close to each other...I call it the vampire connection—a person can be three thousand miles from their parental figure and know instantly when something isn’t right. Often set aside in the corner of a darkened environment is the voice of a “step” that puts value in true family love and the spirit of it continuing…but didn't see or feel something coming.



It’s not that they don’t want to participate, physically, mentally…there’s an emptiness a “step” has to deal with and in some cases they’re forced to use personal experiences to draw them closer to the unexpected change and or loving way of an event that’s quite possibly mind blowing.



“Steps” use a special language that connects them to generations they’ll one day meet.



Countless times I’ve credited my stepfather Joe for pouring the ingredients required into my life that has made my split family a single unit. When Jenny took a Sharpie pen and wrote all over her bedroom walls every name of every weird rock band, I didn’t force her to grab a bucket of paint and whitewash it back to a normal state. Nope, I did what Joe would do…we left it there. Sure it grew into an artistic display presented by friends who turned her bedroom walls into a canvas of nothingness to parents who investment their monthly paychecks in a piece of property that’s got to be sold one day…but like my bedroom back home in Montana, those reasons to express have become “Thee” reason why returning is memorable…I can still see the lettering I put on the wall during my moments of expression and love my stepfather for not hiding it from me.



Connectedness occurs daily, sadly the placement of a “step” into a family can often times go unnoticed. It doesn’t mean there’s less love. I don’t think Joe ever looked at my drug addicted brother and said, “I don’t love you.” I did see him countless times hold him while fighting back tears of fear.



That mean old man who spanked us when we were bad but guaranteed a Christmas every year ended up being the biggest reason why I had to leave home barely at eighteen. It’s not because he locked us up in a bedroom in long timeout sessions or failed to feed and cloth us…in his own way, he proved to me that no matter how hard I try to gain access to a successful career in radio—if there was to be failure, he’d be the one doing the catching as each foot let go of the path moving forward.



Like stepfather like step son…it happens everyday and neither of you are expected to carry the same blood. Like the vampire connection, a long distance presence is delivered by the wind and today I have my proof. Since Saturday, I’ve rested my right hand near my heart over and over complaining about chest pains and uncomfortable feelings. I’ve taken my blood pressure so many times a tiny bruise from the squeezer has started to grow. Physically watching everything I did and documenting any changes became my dedication and nothing screamed, “Go to the doctor now!”



Last night at 10:00 right on the dot…the cell phone rang—a calm sister Susan said, “Dad’s had a heart attack.”



I think the real reason why I love John Lennon so much has nothing to do with him being part of the Beatles or having a very successful songwriting and solo career. Mr. Lennon spoke the language of true love and stood up in places not for him to be recognized but for something so many of us easily toss to the side—his message wasn’t self serving but rather more giving. John became our musical stepfather.



I write about love daily: Love can be black then white. Love can be right then wrong. Love can be seen while being completely invisible on an extremely crowded city street. Love is a single strand of energy that reaches out, through and across not one but hundreds of paths that have nothing in common and yet there’s a single rose petal staring back when you arrive. Love can be forgotten then rediscovered. Love shelters but in the end we still get wet from the rain. What we feel might not look, smell and sound like love because love comes with no taste…



Joe and Arroe…two completely different human beings, “steps” and now we have something unforgettably in common—three days shy of four months to the hour, minute and date, both of us were hit by realities bite in the shape of clogged arteries in the same exact place in the heart and both were medically corrected by stints in the same exact place. How has my mother remained so strong?



I woke up this morning and no longer felt pain. I have no reason to assume the step-daddy isn't having a brilliant day.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

We all need 10 minutes in timeout...

Take the word...stillness…and what do you envision?



During these unwritten chapters fed by fall, stillness is found floating gently beside a yellowish, red and brown leaf waiting to kiss the shore of a new found land to which it will help feed. Stillness smiles upon the un-harnessed corners of a black and white calf located three steps from its mother who constantly nags in a mooing way that winter is coming closer everyday.



Enormous amounts of humans run from stillness. It invites fear into the unknown while stealing air from what already is. Stillness to some is a calming of the inner core created by sheltered avenues of inspiration and influence painting what becomes the portrait you see each morning in the mirror only to fuzz up the storybook with sharp jabs of judgment.



“Stillness is a language while all other things are a bad translation,” says author and spiritual guru Eckhart Tolle.



I love to touch the soft edges of an unexpected catnap. For a brief moment, you’re no longer in control which makes dreaming more colorful and unforgettably empowering. To slowly wake from such a tiny escape connects you to an object that is formless and timeless, a dimension within a self few learn to recognize. We elect instead to cover its face with IPod's, cell phone conversations, out of control shopping habits and eating adventures aimed at pleasing anything, everything and all things not associated with the silences of being.



We see the eyes, the fading shapes of a chin that once stood for something, arms that were once rounded and a rear thats become every shape but round. Quickly turning away, stillness becomes a once loved favorite song carefully placed in a cardboard box then hidden in an attic you visit only during holidays or the loss of something that once stood for unconditional love and protection.



Life exists beyond the ego…its called stillness.



Runners reach it while pacing their life and style through neighborhoods or open fields of no place but inward to go. I locate stillness while creating, be it writing at sunrise, producing radio commercials people instantly tune out of or raking leaves on the front lawn into a pile resembling the skyscraping snowcapped peaks connected to the mountains of Montana.



Stillness has no form…thought does.

To sit down and write to write puts form into what’s been written. To put pen to paper and perform what Julia Cameron calls painting a room allows your senses to become the room inviting incredible amounts of stillness to breathe on the pages that arrive without explanation.



I call stillness a white out. Friends and family label it distance—a pulling away when in fact I’ve gone no where but inside, for a moment, a brief period of something that an artist, chef, baker or traveler can never locate the right words to describe because doing so becomes the birth of form which goes against the waves that identify stillness as being a simple place and or safe escape.



Allow your form to dissolve. Rather than chase dreams, catch what can’t see, arrive expecting nothing only to learn in that single moment you shall be inspired.



Stillness…the art of steal art from the sky.


arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Monday, November 16, 2009

Train yourself to get off speed...

My neighbor Hal took up NASCAR racing over the weekend, a birthday celebration that gifted him with speeds reaching 151.73 mph—which really isn’t that fast compared to the internet and texting. I’m still freaked out about how someone on the West coast can speak in real time with me in the Carolinas.


I wanted to ask Hal if he felt extremely young upon his return—he had been to the future and back! When someone moves that quickly it has to put him in a different time zone. The average bicycle cruises along at barely 15 mph and look what it does to your system? Millions of people jog everyday while millions of others question their dedication. Does someone who runs or walks make invisible waves inside the circles of time set? No…the amount of time required to put in a mile or ten takes just as long to sit at home doing nothing.


How fast does one have to travel in order to catch up? You can’t…sleep and falling behind at work is like a Carolina midsummer drought…once you start losing, the total impact is an act that can never be made up. You deal with what’s been lost by becoming aware of how you are currently getting ahead.


A very good and longtime friend owns not one but two Renaissance Festivals—when the cold November rains become part of the game, invited into the channels I keep are rivers of fear based on him having failure. Not so… He stands to lose in the department of success by having such festivities during months of incredible heat. Accepted is the change of weather making what he does a part of the season not just any reason. I remember him telling me in the extremely bare hills of Arizona, “I plan ahead for weather and abnormal economic conditions…I can’t control them and although it seems like a loss, what I gained in years past makes everything I do today…equal.”


It’s like the Stock Market hitting its highest numbers in fifty two weeks—to the average consumer, it doesn’t mean Jack. Behind closed doors each passing day rebuilds this nation’s foundation which puts pride back in the steps of those who’ve invested their earnings in a product that nearly became extinct. Leaping upward to just over 10,250 this past Friday was pretty much 151.73 mph or putting the right foot in front of the other for a single twenty four hour period.


I personally have a problem with time. The more I attempt to manage it the harder it is to keep up. Two years ago I crawled onboard a different ship based on placing my hands on anything and everything that seems and is extremely boring. I learned while sitting in traffic how incredibly slow the big and little hands move when nose nostril deep in a serious pile of something not so exciting.


By locating boredom I’m fully capable of being in control of how time is delivered. It starts with sitting on your front lawn doing nothing more than staring at six billion fallen leaves—if you get up to rake them off what little green is left in your lawn, you elected to speed up time. If you lay on the leaves and reshape the passing clouds 1pm doesn’t become 3…it become 1:01pm.


Play the observation game at work. Take what you’ve been delivered and lay out each project side by side to do nothing more but observe the presentation by way of slowing down time. Suddenly leaping into a project through no better reason than getting the job done steals from every reason why you’ve made this your career. Savor the chocolate left in the corners of your lips. Gently lick the curved edges of your teeth freeing a hidden piece of caramel corn still holding enough energy to make you go, “Mmmmm.”


Although movie critics pasted bad comments all over it, worldwide this past weekend, John Cusack’s new film 2012 raked in over $200 million. Experts claim it’s because every nation and nationality shares one thing in common, fear of the unknown. While the Mayan and several other calendars drop from the surface of the planet to which we walk on December 21, 2012…Hollywood directors are cruising along at 151.75 mph to score the perfect opportunity to nab a few extra bucks before we all go ka-blowie.


While moving so quickly, I wonder if Hal could see the future. Did he at anytime feel like a modern day DVR player screaming past television commercials? Could he have been racing faster than the next song selected on the Ipod? During those three laps, was he gifted with enough power to leap from the car and catch the Twilight sequel New Moon then get back in time to feel his friends arms embrace him?


I’m sure it would be easier to just ask him…but why? Getting an answer always steals from the hunks of meat left in your teeth connected to the imagination. The art of creating an unexpected Mmmmm went out with dial up AOL.


Getting back to living…steal my art.


arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Friday, November 13, 2009

Keeping the attention off your cause...

The funniest thing has happened since taking the walk along side the river of chance meeting fate this past July—I keep getting invited to drop the creative drive to eat, drink and be merry. Sounds fun until you get there and everything nicely presented becomes what doctor’s claim are objects I can no longer desire.


I can’t imagine the number of cows and pigs alive today because restaurants and private parties no longer serve me. I scan the web everyday searching for Monster drinks and Red Bull to announce they’re going out of business due to an economic twist with their top drinker being forced into early retirement.


Does going to a party to enjoy perfectly pitched food and drinks to which I cannot eat make me a dink?


“Yep!” says morals expert Anne Marie Sabbath. “If religious or health reasons are keeping you from filling your plate at parties where being extra full is the game…your dietary restrictions is every reason to look like you are snubbing the chef.”


Eating properly isn’t the pain—standing around with an empty plate or complaining about not having enough veggies available makes you the wrong player in a field of professional eaters.


Attending gatherings where mega amounts of food are available must be approached like a martial artist walk through the streets of everyday life—don’t put yourself in a situation where what you know is going to be challenged. Living the life of a black belt is being aware of where you are at all times—eating is no different.


According to Anne Marie, “If you fear what’s going to be served…eat before you arrive. Then you won’t spend the evening worried about where you’re going to pick up some protein or even worse hit a fast food joint on the way home because the body has completely given up.”


What if you’re hanging out at a well known steakhouse? How do you keep from being called the buzz kill? Rather than going political about how the world should become a vegetarian, keep it cool by asking the waiter at the time of ordering what they suggest for someone who is a vegetarian.


The worst thing you can do at a restaurant is come out of the food closet—it’s insulting to those who take the time to present an incredible display of things to eat. To stand up on a soap box and protest your rhyme reason and purpose makes you nothing more than a loner with barely a fan to support the cause. You aren’t there for the restaurant; you’re there for the group of people who invited you. Keep peace in the street.


Getting back to living by being aware of where we walk and eat…steal my art…


arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Fight! Fight! Fight!

How often did you and your father pull off a major stare down in the center of a family gathering, totally earning high honors as the embarrassment king by demanding you were nothing more than a know it all and he wouldn’t have any part of it?

Swallowing that granite hard chunk of ego that suddenly sprouted like wild onions and mushrooms in the front yard, you walked away thinking, “Hmm! You got me this time Darth Vader but I shall return.”



It took me nearly thirty years to discover how incredibly cool my stepfather is…but until that moment he earned the finger point…you know, the single most power entity accused of creating the two hundred twenty five foot wall and hard shell that make up who you are. Rather than chase drugs and alcohol as a teen, I locked myself up in a half built bedroom blessed with KISS posters, twenty five speakers, three guitars with barely five strings, cardboard boxes that served as drums and an imagination that physically believed it could survive on this giant marble without the aid of family and friends.



If the world is going to act like the stick figure playing father…then let me do it alone! You know what I learned from this sort of tantrum? A solo career is a lonely place to sing.



At my age you spend enormous amounts of uncounted time gluing puzzle pieces together knowing at any moment the phone could ring and the one who drove your teenage years insane isn’t going to be with you for the holidays. Rather than ponder on such negative realities, life becomes more meaningful by discovering forgiveness.



Like Hollywood seductress Angelina Jolie and father Jon Voight who’ve fronted an endeavor to invite peace to the generations that follow—their eight year publicly displayed indifference has made its way through the assumed inescapable hardships of a family at war.



No day passes that something isn’t printed in the press about America with its dysfunctional habits and the choices involved while trying to relieve a continuing stress on the ropes of everyday life. Robbery, murder, deceit and corruption add a foul taste to the turkey at Thanksgiving…



Before the age of eighteen I ran from the streets of parental involvement believing this kid’s survival wouldn’t be weighed down by something that infected the uncontrollable dreams pumping through a thick ego driven skull. Fed by rivers of girlfriend turned teenage wife peer pressure, it became easier everyday to convince myself that turning my back birthed a will to grow without judgment…only to learn, life’s best kept secrets are shared in pieces parts.



Brad Pitt is credited for mending Angelina’s broken fence. In famous situations like this I often wonder what character was used in opening closed door. Was Brad the gutsy teen Ricky Austin as portrayed in the 1988 hit Freddy’s Nightmares? Might he have been the clever J.D. in Thelma and Louise? The inquisitive and willing to learn Paul Maclean in River Runs Through it or Louis de Pointe in Interview with the Vampire?



I played the roll of human who looks like a dog with his tail between its two legs.



Umteen million pages later, I get why the Grinch who stole my Christmas ripped out the manmade radio station fully capable of broadcasting nearly a mile from the house:

It was illegal to operate. Pirate radio is no laughing matter in America.
25 speakers with chords held together by double stick tape meant an electric current could’ve easily sparked a fire.
Two of the people I hung out with dyed of drug overdoses as teens
Jumping off a two story house into freshly Rota tilled dirt might lead to broken limbs he’d have to fork out money to fix.
If you’re going to miss school on Friday you can’t go bowling on Saturday—skipping school leads to future bad decisions.
I could write and write and write about all the tiny things that seemed like an out of control parental dictatorships but as you can tell…I wasn’t playing in the major leagues of victory. The step-dude was just trying to protect what he loved.



Each day that passes we gain ground on another season of holiday gatherings…if personal battles are keeping you from reaching up to light the bulbs attached to an ancient tree begging to be recognized…set aside the multitudes of reasons why you finger point and make way of what really counts—stealing from Michael Jackson…can we please have some L.O.V.E.?

Step parents have hearts and real parents have souls...as much as you think you know, never take from them what really counts, the opportunity to lead. Before you know it, it'll be your turn and there's a big big chance you'll be pulling off the same stunt they did.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Merry Christmas its raining!!!

I wake up laughing on rainy days like today—as pleasurable as it sometimes is to watch grown men and women land the big splash in unseen puddles while racing to their chilly awaiting cars…it’s our allergic reaction to the wet stuff falling from the sky that brightens up the darkened edges of a faceless cloud passing by.



It’s always been a fantasy to write a children’s book based on the importance of a single drop—like anything Disney it opens with several freshly delivered raindrop babies leaping and lunging, giggling while poking fun of, laughing and learning the secrets required to make their way through Mr. Johnson’s well groomed lawn, over to the nicely paved city street, a quick turn at the manmade sewer system and off they go into a nearby stream headed for the Atlantic.



Can you imagine being a raindrop for a day?



My luck I’d end up playing on the tarred roof of a super Wal-Mart with no way down except to jump through a long metal spout, shooting quickly across an overcrowded path of walkers, talkers and drivers whose car stereos have more Hip Hop boom, boom, boom then the clouds that delivered us.



Sadly, not everybody is happy when it rains because sometimes it pours creating floods which rip trees from their roots and foundations connected to homes bend while swerving between water currents they don’t see coming.



While television weathermen point out daily how low we are on levels of being normal…rain never seems to earn a good break, it’s either too much, too little, too late, way too early or the reason why the company or family picnic was anything but a success. Rain is like a cuss word…when the Stock Market falls American earnings poured creating a bottomless pool of investors with no place to go.



Native American’s love the rain—so much so dances were created by way of recognizing its importance and or spiritually speaking to Grandfather Sun by way of asking, “Can we please grab a couple of cups?”



The Native American Rain Dance invites men and women to become a single unit of expression. Worn aren’t your everyday boots and suits, the clothing and large headdresses were unique and extremely special to those offering the invitation to the keeper of the gate. Large headdresses containing goat hair was proudly displayed while the rest of the body was draped with colorful designs and jewels such as turquoise. Rain dance apparel wasn’t disposable or worn just once…they were kept and displayed every year, to give thanks and or pray for more rain was an annual event, showing the creator our appreciation of an important single drop.



As for the dance, the ceremony featured men and women moving in zigzag patterns, rather than standing in a circle as was often seen in bad Western movies.



Feathers and turquoise individually play out major roles in the ceremony, they symbolize wind and rain. Although many elders are reluctant to tell the true tales of their particular band (a division of a nation) traditional Rain Dances are passed down through history featuring men with long wavy hair and women who wore theirs in a special tribal wrap at the sides of their head. Some faces were painted while others proudly showed off their personalized masks; a few were designed with a turquoise strip that stretches from ear to ear across the face. Near the bottom is a band of blue, yellow, and red rectangles. A fringe of horsehair is tied to the bottom protecting the throat with the power of three white feathers.



Native American women wore something similar except there’s no turquoise stripe, its replaced by a white line and their masks don’t feature rectangles on the bottom or the horsehair. Instead, it has goat hair around the top and an Eagles feather hangs over their face.



What would a great ceremony be without makeup?



Men painted their arms, legs, face and torso then blessed the art with tribal standard beads which were worn with fox skins and a silver bracelet with a white apron cloth. Native men didn’t go barefoot; they wore turquoise moccasins while women did nothing to protect their feet. Without the moccasins ladies were dressed in black dresses with absolutely no part of their bodies shown and then covered in a brightly colored shawl with one black and one white shawl over that.



Once completely dressed for a spiritual journey, each member of the nation lined up and performed the Native American rain dance in hopes of inviting rain to their day. Many children of Mother Earth in the southwest still perform this ritual to this day.



But! But! But! This shape of prayer was once banned by the United States Government.



The term “Rain Dance” came into being during the days of the Native American relocation, the government banned certain religious ceremonies (amongst them the Rain Dance and Ghost Dance? Nations in suppressed areas were forbidden to perform the Sun Dance. The Windigokan, a nominally cannibalistic sect, nicknamed "the backward people," became famous for telling federal representatives that the dance being performed was not the Sun Dance, but the Native American Rain Dance, thus preventing any prosecution or federal intervention.



I woke up laughing with the rain today…taking note of the roses with their leaves of green and petals lit like fire engines chasing wild flames on the face of a mountain in the sky—even the Elms, White Pines and Dogwoods didn’t seem to mind how cold each rain drop was to the nearest human touch. They didn't shiver, snore or call life a bore! They laughed right along with me.



While forty mile per hour winds scraped summer from the cluttered gutters and placed it parking lots, backyards with tall wooden fences and inside garbage cans tipped over by city employees who can’t seem to leave the vehicles that pay their rent, I found no reason to be anything but positive.



Getting back to living. Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Merry Christmas its raining!!!

I wake up laughing on rainy days like today—as pleasurable as it sometimes is to watch grown men and women land the big splash in unseen puddles while racing to their chilly awaiting cars…it’s our allergic reaction to the wet stuff falling from the sky that brightens up the darkened edges of a faceless cloud passing by.



It’s always been a fantasy to write a children’s book based on the importance of a single drop—like anything Disney it opens with several freshly delivered raindrop babies leaping and lunging, giggling while poking fun of, laughing and learning the secrets required to make their way through Mr. Johnson’s well groomed lawn, over to the nicely paved city street, a quick turn at the manmade sewer system and off they go into a nearby stream headed for the Atlantic.



Can you imagine being a raindrop for a day?



My luck I’d end up playing on the tarred roof of a super Wal-Mart with no way down except to jump through a long metal spout, shooting quickly across an overcrowded path of walkers, talkers and drivers whose car stereos have more Hip Hop boom, boom, boom then the clouds that delivered us.



Sadly, not everybody is happy when it rains because sometimes it pours creating floods which rip trees from their roots and foundations connected to homes bend while swerving between water currents they don’t see coming.



While television weathermen point out daily how low we are on levels of being normal…rain never seems to earn a good break, it’s either too much, too little, too late, way too early or the reason why the company or family picnic was anything but a success. Rain is like a cuss word…when the Stock Market falls American earnings poured creating a bottomless pool of investors with no place to go.



Native American’s love the rain—so much so dances were created by way of recognizing its importance and or spiritually speaking to Grandfather Sun by way of asking, “Can we please grab a couple of cups?”



The Native American Rain Dance invites men and women to become a single unit of expression. Worn aren’t your everyday boots and suits, the clothing and large headdresses were unique and extremely special to those offering the invitation to the keeper of the gate. Large headdresses containing goat hair was proudly displayed while the rest of the body was draped with colorful designs and jewels such as turquoise. Rain dance apparel wasn’t disposable or worn just once…they were kept and displayed every year, to give thanks and or pray for more rain was an annual event, showing the creator our appreciation of an important single drop.



As for the dance, the ceremony featured men and women moving in zigzag patterns, rather than standing in a circle as was often seen in bad Western movies.



Feathers and turquoise individually play out major roles in the ceremony, they symbolize wind and rain. Although many elders are reluctant to tell the true tales of their particular band (a division of a nation) traditional Rain Dances are passed down through history featuring men with long wavy hair and women who wore theirs in a special tribal wrap at the sides of their head. Some faces were painted while others proudly showed off their personalized masks; a few were designed with a turquoise strip that stretches from ear to ear across the face. Near the bottom is a band of blue, yellow, and red rectangles. A fringe of horsehair is tied to the bottom protecting the throat with the power of three white feathers.



Native American women wore something similar except there’s no turquoise stripe, its replaced by a white line and their masks don’t feature rectangles on the bottom or the horsehair. Instead, it has goat hair around the top and an Eagles feather hangs over their face.



What would a great ceremony be without makeup?



Men painted their arms, legs, face and torso then blessed the art with tribal standard beads which were worn with fox skins and a silver bracelet with a white apron cloth. Native men didn’t go barefoot; they wore turquoise moccasins while women did nothing to protect their feet. Without the moccasins ladies were dressed in black dresses with absolutely no part of their bodies shown and then covered in a brightly colored shawl with one black and one white shawl over that.



Once completely dressed for a spiritual journey, each member of the nation lined up and performed the Native American rain dance in hopes of inviting rain to their day. Many children of Mother Earth in the southwest still perform this ritual to this day.



But! But! But! This shape of prayer was once banned by the United States Government.



The term “Rain Dance” came into being during the days of the Native American relocation, the government banned certain religious ceremonies (amongst them the Rain Dance and Ghost Dance? Nations in suppressed areas were forbidden to perform the Sun Dance. The Windigokan, a nominally cannibalistic sect, nicknamed "the backward people," became famous for telling federal representatives that the dance being performed was not the Sun Dance, but the Native American Rain Dance, thus preventing any prosecution or federal intervention.



I woke up laughing with the rain today…taking note of the roses with their leaves of green and petals lit like fire engines chasing wild flames on the face of a mountain in the sky—even the Elms, White Pines and Dogwoods didn’t seem to mind how cold each rain drop was to the nearest human touch. They didn't shiver, snore or call life a bore! They laughed right along with me.



While forty mile per hour winds scraped summer from the cluttered gutters and placed it parking lots, backyards with tall wooden fences and inside garbage cans tipped over by city employees who can’t seem to leave the vehicles that pay their rent, I found no reason to be anything but positive.



Getting back to living. Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Where'd you buy that bad mood mask....a Halloween 75% off sale?

If the world was meant to be perfect, we’d spend less time worrying about the way others drive during morning rush hour. At times you can’t help but feel 85 mph is the new 65, better them getting the speeding ticket, too bad too sad when something happens up ahead and you’re now 45 minutes late for work.



Bad traffic, never ending financial statements, cell phones that barely reach beyond the tip of your nose and a child set on proving he or she knows more than you act as tributaries to the open plains leading straight to the unprotected valley called, “What mood will I be in today?”



Preachers spend every Sunday lecturing about it, motivational speakers plaster words in book form to penetrate it, bosses demand you bend that frown upside down and whoa…the kids are back screaming for compassionate kisses on the kepi…there’s not enough time in the world to do anything more than fake-n-bake an expression.



How many genuine smiles are left in the world?



According to Dr. Neil Fiore who authored the book Awaken Your Strongest Self, Break Free of Stress, Inner Conflict and Self Sabotage—if being in a bad mood caves in your workday, the big ole giant booger taking you face first to the gutter is you.



“Human moods change every five seconds,” says Dr. Fiore.



There goes the idea that I’m the captain of a ship of multiple personalities. I’ve banked on the idea of allowing all voices to be heard and poof…we learn its completely 100% natural to skate through a single minute unveiling 20 different shapes of moods. Wow! This is like getting ice cream from 32 Flavors!



The problem with a bad mood is its weight—it’ll hang with you the entire day. According to Dr. Stephanie Wilk, a professor of management, “If you begin your day feeling down, you’ll end your day the same way. Even worse, the mood you start your day with can very easily be leftovers from the day before.”



The top reasons why we’re weak in the moodiness department fall under the category of little sleep, hunger, body aches and pains, the environment to which we work, stress connected to time urgency, hormones and adrenaline. Outside of that…we should all be working for Santa Claus in ho, ho, happy all the time ville.



Winning is a choice. It looks like being a bad mood is too. Change the way you think and you’ll gain the power to influence the outcome of your day. It’s free to think positive!



Stop right there. Even I became sick to my stomach writing something so up, up and away. Constantly connected to the happy button isn’t always accepted in the world of business—coworkers and bosses find themselves pushing their day away from up beat and feeling great. It’s not reality. It’s at this point in the daily game where jovial Jimmy jumps off the bridge because he can’t figure out what mood to be in.



Is there an in between? After all, isn’t the real reason why we go to work everyday to feel accepted? Forget about getting the job done on time with a quality shine…there’s nothing more important in life than feeling like we belong.



Cough, cough…oh my forget N1H1…I’ve got the workday wooky wookies. No need for Oprah and Dr Phil if feeling loved outside the four walls of home is this warm. Blah blah blah.



Feeling grumpy, down, depressed and in need of attention completely whacks your mind, body and soul out of place. If science shows the human mood swing occurs every five seconds, that’s a life insurance policy you need to invest in. What makes you unique also has the power to make you great. Being good is the enemy of quality…good gets you by. Great makes your everyday unforgettable.



If coworkers and family members can’t stand you being uppity up and feeling wow and really cool…they have the problem, not you. This is the part of the program where you usually hear them say, “I’m not in the mood for your energetic approach today. I’m walking this way and you go that way.”



That’s perfectly fine…smile inside and put your imagination back to work. Those who knock you down while you’re up are also the same people who knock you down while waiting for the five second mood swing to take place.



If being in a bad mood is completely destroying your efforts today…calmly walk into the restroom and look at those eyes in the mirror and softly whisper, “I love you.”



Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Monday, November 9, 2009

Get off my back! No get on! Get off!! No get on!!!

Oh oh…just fifty two days…that’s one thousand forty hours or nearly four million seven hundred thousand single tick tocks on a clock away from 2010. It has to happen! Harley Davidson, Ford, Black and Decker and Crest toothpaste have already unveiled their hot new line beyond two double oh nine.



Not my favorite time of year!



Like leaves on a tree, humans are expected to brighten up their limbs and stems in blinding yellows, outrageous oranges and unforgettable reds then suddenly become dry leaving hordes of bad habits behind on the ground—which usually ends up being tightly shoved into a 36 inch by 24 inch plastic box with a nifty lid that clicks like Tupperware…then poof…life is back to being good.



I am a bill collector. I never throw away statements and or expectations. Doctors, dentists, mall stores, veterinarians, credit card and cable television companies are in business to do one thing…rip people off. By collecting every white storm sent via snail mail, I have a fighting chance to prove that every agreement was met. As neatly as I place them in their proper folders then protect them from possible damage in a plastic box…those finger slicing business envelopes resemble the basement of a freaky library where the dusty books dating back a billion years are stacked to the ceiling with barely a ray of light available to feed starving vegetation on the Appalachian Trail…



It would be incredibly easy to scan the statements then store them in digital form on disc drives they swear can’t be filled—only to hear the other side of my Cancer driven personality when it wakes at two, three and five, “I forgot to back up the system!” One fear feeds another and that’s not a safe place to be.



My mother gave me the wrong name at birth. What in God’s name is an Arroe compared to a nice solid Para Noid Collins. Names should paint your personality. That’s another one of my bad habits—I’ll sit staring at you wondering where along the time line someone felt you were to grow up and become a Billy, Freddi or Michael Thomas III. Louis VIII must have been totally torched. “I could’ve been Sha-meeka! Why didn’t someone call me Kanye?”



Bad Habit Arroe would’ve been quite fitting. Each year we’re blessed with three hundred sixty five days to pull from the center of our budding roses a situation that’s become darkened by the elements that which make up a habit. Problem is there are some pretty cool habits you just can’t dump—the only reason why I put ink into the veins of a clean sheet of white paper every morning before sunrise has nothing to do with writing books…it’s a fifteen year old habit. I’m a firm believer that being a martial artist for most has a lot to do with a walk of life…not me, too many popcorn balls and desires not to eat bushels of carrots and celery…I feel horribly guilty when I’m not drugging my body with human made endorphins…if the mind, body and soul aren’t getting their daily rush…the habit takes over...chocolate.



What the heck is the best way to drown a bad habit?



It begins with a willingness to change. Not an attempt to restrain but a full fledged give it all you’ve got eyes in the mirror agreement that says, “Um…dude, like can we do a little communicating?”



Dieters gain their weight back. In the new People Magazine Tim McGraw tells readers in the same sentence, “I’ve never smoked before in my life…but when I drank alcohol I’d smoke a few.” Make up your mind!



The will to change is a commanding effort that allows experimenting with change acceptable. Not only is it difficult but it features more backsliding than hitting the tracks backwards on Thunder Road at Carowinds. The best way to get up and over a wall is to deflect your attention from the habit.



I do something horribly illegal during the deflection period. After ten to twelve hours within the deep hallowed halls of radio these size eleven feet go totally bare in a class filled with others chasing Tae Kwon Do aspirations. You can always tell when I don’t want to be there…I pick fights…not with students but class leaders. The challenge against them deflects my need to bolt. While they shove evil empire chi energy toward my presentation, I turn around and use it as a match to spark a new flame. Once I’m up…life is great! Very bad habit. Nothing new…been upsetting the masses since the mother figure brought me into a family of eight. Survival is everything at the kitchen table. If need be, I’d take on the dog for a little action to stimulate my crashing willingness to be anything but down. Bad habit!



And now…the reason why I drink so much water! Drum roll please!



An old trick taught by Dr. William J Knaus—drinking water takes the urge to perform a bad habit and makes it totally invisible. When you feel a habit coming on, take two sips of ice cold water and it totally wipes out the feeling of stepping off the path.



Before doctors had high prices and plenty of drugs to calm your nerves…we fended for ourselves, in some cases, those who challenged the beast became famous. Actor Jim Carrey couldn’t have said it better last week on Conan O’Brian, “If doctors would have diagnosed him with having A.D.D. as a child, he wouldn’t be the Jim we know today.”



The funniest people on earth from Robin Williams to Rosanne Barr no longer hide behind walls of discouragement fed by ample rivers of depression and addiction. They took their bad habits and turned them into outlets of creative flow.

I often wonder how many perfectly designed garages or front yard flower gardens are created by an open agreement to feed the roots of a very bad habit. Those perfected front lawns or clothing styles we wear are in essence an outlet to break free from something bad happening.



Habits are like opinions and bums…we all have one. Sadly, you can get away with having several habits and opinions but the second you develop another bum which looks nothing like your birth bum…now we have a million bum reasons to create more bad habits.



Can you win this war? Depends on if you truly are willing to change. We can start today or wait fifty two days…that’s one thousand forty hours or nearly four million seven hundred thousand single tick tocks on a clock until 2010.



Getting back to living…steal my art.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Friday, November 6, 2009

The stock market is up...spend money!!!

Wow…it did it again yesterday…the stock market climbed over the 10,000 mark for a second time this financial season. Something about the recession numbers weren’t dramatically pummeled like months past so the news didn’t send a seriously out of control spin into the overpriced chairs a big old famous decision makers sit in.



I am such the Scrooge! This news isn’t new. I’ve been spoiled, tainted, poisoned and tossed into the doubt fire by the Dustin Hoffman flick Wag the Dog—where it seems all things that take place is nothing more than governmental marketing.



Three weeks shy from Black Friday…CEO’s and their wanna-be sidekicks are screaming, “Get those numbers up! Do what you can to make what we do look brand new and revitalized! If we don’t break out with some hot numbers the first day after Thanksgiving…3/4’s of this staff is gonna have to go.”



Thank god my stepfather Joe didn’t run his household that way, “If we don’t get the lawn mowed, chickens fed, rabbit cages cleaned and your mothers kitchen rebuilt before 5pm Saturday, I’m dumping half you kids off at the nearest park and not coming back.”



Why would today’s elementary aged kids want to grow up to participate with Corporate America if they’re being delivered the portrait of a big bad mean old man in a heavily decorated office where the carpet in front of the desk cost more than three houses in the neighborhood?



The New York Yankee’s just picked up their 27th World Series title. I love the Steinbrenner style of baseball—no matter what the cost, that family surrounds themselves with winners. Too bad American businesses don’t play the same game. Every hallway is blessed with the cheapest, hardest working, most dedicated presently available—they know they aren’t the best at what they do, they’re just thankful they have a job and that’s good enough for the boss man.



No wonder we went crash!



I heard the absolute best quote from a local business owner yesterday, “What’s wrong with American consumers? Stop listening to CNN, NBC and Fox News! If 9.8% of this nation is currently unemployed, what are the other 91.2% of the people doing?”



What we need to identify are the lines that separate our personal uniqueness.



The workplace has become an entity of super-organization…be all that you can but be everything to me between nine and five. Some have stuck to that plan while others stand back thinking, “I know he ain’t talking about me.”



The master of the do it my way plan is Glenn Frey from The Eagles who has no problem claiming he’s got the gift—but his band in 2009 has nothing to do with the passion of performance they delivered in 1977. Today’s success is fed by a rivers need to survive in a big business world. Those unstoppable harmonies are no different than Wal-Mart whipping out their research to see what products the average Joe is willing to dump his trust in.



Author Leo Babauta can see both sides of the business fence—those who do and those who don’t. But somewhere on this playing field there’s got to be a resurgence of energy that’s going to generate a big enough wave to conquer back workday pride. You can’t go if there is no flow. Damming up the process aren’t wild beavers from nearby manmade lakes…it’s not even bosses demanding 210% from every breath you take. The common ground employee is kicking their own tail and allowing themselves to get away with it.



According to Babauta, it doesn’t matter what team you bat for…time management has been destroyed on American soil and it’s got to come back asap. Without time management your life pretty much takes on the appearance of the rigid face of a granite mountain.



I am a total a** when it comes to managing time. If you step on it put on the Tae Kwon Do fighting gear… Time is a object of nothingness more valuable than the best diamonds in the world. We don’t live in California where being late is accepted. I don't get angry at a time wasting foolish player...you earn the fake smile and horrible horrible radio laugh at jokes that wouldn't make it at home in front of the kids. You've already wasted my time, you aren't getting the rest of my energy.



If American companies aren’t based on giving clients the best…how can we change that? Do what you do know. Become a master of a single art.



Gain control of your flow and what you’ll discover is room to grow. Choose only the tasks you are passionate about. If you’re barely moving the Richter scale on love, knock it away…it’s a time killer.



Choose a task that challenges you but don’t suddenly become Superman. You’re only so good.



Eliminate distractions. Quit sitting back in the office with your feet up, rediscover who are by putting a halt to the chit chat with coworkers who have nothing better to do than feed your non-caring brain with methods of madness delivered during last nights family fight. Emails are a disease. Cell phones not only cost too much but your company wastes a lot of their dollars keeping you on a time clock blessed with your talk talk talk.



Immerse yourself in the task. Go all out and have fun doing it. If an idea hits you, don’t wait for acceptance…hit the road running and make life happen. A good friend of mine was part of the team that developed fiber optics…this team of scientists knew really powerful strength before it became cool to the rest of the world—when asked if she was paid millions and billions for helping to discover something so valuable, she calmly looked at me and said, “Being there when it happened is worth more than the dollars I toss out on items I don’t need.”



So, while the stock market continues to create the open journey toward the land of happiness keep in the back of your brave heart what goes up comes right back down—one can only hope the next time we dip and your ship is left without water, the idea of being owned by big business America is a thought that went out with the 90’s.



Winning is a choice. You either are or you aren’t a winner. Remember one valuable lesson in life…all the kings’ horse and all the kings’ men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Wanna know why? They weren’t winners. It was just another job, whatever it took to get by.



Be your best today, tomorrow and everyday you come to work and in the end you will find yourself looking into the rearview mirror at a set of eyes belonging to a true American champion.



Getting back to living…steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Hello my name is Arroe and I have an ego...

How many times during a single week do you ask, “When am I going to find that tiny something that’s going to finally bring me happiness?”



You are far from being alone on this one—stand in the center of any mall or downtown and 85% of the bodies walking by resemble Hollywood Zombies lurking through the streets of nowhere willing to bite but knowing it won’t make things right.



Ever heard of the term: Lose yourself to find yourself?



As extremely difficult as it comes across, the act of letting go of the need to emphasize your form takes from your hallow halls of unrehearsed and well hidden depressions and turns them into incredible opportunities of growth.



Outside our comfortable shores the rest of the world is brilliant when describing American’s as egomaniacs. What we see, we’ve get. What we can’t own pulls us deep below. Jobs, video games, hot cars, speedy recoveries to a national financial crisis…life would be so much better if everything around us didn’t infect or affect our way of living.



That’s ego…



Author and fellow spiritualist Eckhart Tolle scratches into the chalkboards hanging loosely inside our skull, “The true need is not ego.”



By learning to let go of what you assume makes you look, feel and come across as being an object much bigger than People Magazine’s sexiest people on earth—a truer self starts to emerge.



I grew up hating my stepfather. I couldn’t stand the idea my mother fell deeply in love with a man who didn’t live in an unforgettably beautiful house with perfectly painted walls, three or four bathrooms and a garage that featured a real basketball court rather than a makeshift chunk of plywood. My eighth birthday party was spent sitting on the chunked up concrete driveway blessed with grease stains and a 2x8 plank stretched between two sawhorses being the table for the few that showed up to eat off. The only gift I got was a broken clock which the stepfather exclaimed, “It’s the greatest gift anyone can have! Learn how to fix it and become wiser on your journey to getting my age.”



The man always came across as being powerfully happy. Absolutely no ego. He’d create something with his hands in the wood shed and people gasped at its grand beauty only to see him look around at his tiny helpers and say, “These are the real stars, they brought me your ideas.”

When face to face with a crushing blow to the ego, we feel horrible, as if we’ve just lost something. But according to Tolle, the opposite has occurred. Losing yourself to find yourself is the proper path to chase. We all work in patterns! Your workday followed by the chapters written at home create a continuation of nothing more than the same thing over and over again. When you let go of a pattern, you de-emphasize who you are on the level of form and who you are beyond form.



You become less by becoming more.



A good example…I’ve ghosted a radio career for thirty years and haven’t moved an inch when it comes to gaining ground on my childhood dreams. The only thing I’ve accomplished is the art of making other people happy. Every day my ego screams, “You’re a failure! Even if you gave 10% of your dedication away it’s still 300 times more than the average Joe Blow and what have you gotten for it? I do 100 pushups a day to crack the snake skin on my back so I can break free of these feelings.” Ego...



As Mom always says, “Get over it and get back in the real world.”



She’s right! In the real world, most people have dealt with or are currently facing the beast with no idea how to stop bumping into its shadow. A magazine article recently unveiled a 2009 American crisis—mothers who are secret alcoholics—they are drunk by day and dry by night. While drunk, some of them drive and in a few states they’ve gotten into fatal car accidents shocking their family’s when it’s learned their blood alcohol level was triple the legal limit.



We are addicted to how other people see us.



Obviously the stepfather wasn’t because that house should’ve been featured on reality TV’s Extreme Makeover.



We pull off daily enhancers to heighten the ego—the act of creating an impression has sickened the workplace—a world blessed with constant change so in reality knowledge isn’t really power or you’d see less people getting canned in the upper ranks of corporate managing.



Learning how to identify the ego button is incredibly easy—if you feel the urge to become angry when someone asks you to do something….ego. If you are easily offended because those hot new shoes or laptop didn’t get the approval of your friends…ego. If lots of time has been spent trying to mentally and physically get things right without complaining….ego. If your passion is to come across and or appear important at home, work or while playing…ego.



Look for the patterns. I laugh a hearty laugh when I look back at the events of this past summer. For nearly two years I protested the act of wearing my second degree black belt in class, calling it a major ego magnet. I was out to prove martial arts meant more than the color of
your belt. Then I decided to step up and take my 3rd degree test—two weeks after the announcement I was hit by a heart attack. My ego has had a horrible time trying to adjust to the idea that it didn't get fed. Only to learn, a body that doesn’t want to work the way it once did is a journey in but not without.



Look for the patterns then shatter one. Know the feeling of what its like to hold less while feeling like you own more.



Getting back to living…steal my art.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Warning: Please don't read this...

Two weeks ago while snooping around the web I was shocked to learn our beautiful Charlotte, North Carolina is pumping up the volume on residents—nearly two million people live within our circle.


Nothing inspires me more than grabbing a few seconds from the chapters of eyes, ears and feet who made this village their home when Tyvola ended at I-77, Lake Wylie was nothing more than the Catawba River and Eastland Mall was the best weekend hangout out of Plumb Crazy or Kidnappers.


Compared to the Independence Blvd vision we get today, old tattered and torn photographs resemble anyplace USA—buildings were no taller than a few stories, we had street cars connected to long wires and a business owner near Southend with a keen sense of smell creatively concocted the world’s first Waffle cone.


In the mid 1980’s I verbally argued with anyone willing to take on a challenge about how nervous the banking industry made me, “What happens when our new found financial agriculture no longer loves the soil its skyscraping roots are planted in?”


Ok, so it took twenty five years for NCNB turned Bank of America to publicly admit we really don’t like Charlotte anymore. Nobody thought the Hornets would find a new family in New Orleans. Pro ball hasn’t been the same! Look what happens in the first quarter of a Panthers game, half the stadium leaves their seats to socialize near the restrooms and food counters below—we’ve been infected by the deadly N1H1 virus where businesses have no loyalty to the people that helped create them. For that matter, we don't care what happens to them either.


How much longer before Bruton Smith races away from Concord? Will the Epicenter one day become condos? If so, I’ll be first in line for the room next to the bowling alley. Will someone please take all that empty space at the old Heritage USA and turn it into a new attraction. Dead buildings are a reminder of how close we are to becoming the next great ghost town—Detroit, Philadelphia, Cleveland and Allentown, Pennsylvania.


Wait! Wait! Why so negative? We’re talking about Charlotte where being uptown feels like being downtown but for some reason it’s been dubbed Center City. Outside of the new Intimidator Roller Coaster at Carowinds, we’re pleasured by the extremely high prices at South Park mall. If you ain’t there, you’re dropping the ATM card at Concord Mills where half the purchases made are fed by rivers of guilt…getting there took nearly a day, to go home empty handed is like waking up to an empty Christmas tree.


Nearly two million people wake up in the Charlotte area everyday. Barely 100,000 voted on Election Day.


We deserve to lose.


This is one art I can’t bare to continue stealing…


arroecollins@clearchannel.com