Tag Archives: Robert Plant

Adrian Peterson and Led Zeppelin walk into a bar…

By all accounts (and there were exactly two, which was actually pretty good for the spanse of time), my Great Great Grandfather Lawrence Neal was a surly bastard. He was always angry, and he had one good eye. He married way above his station, as all the Neal men do. His wife, Lavina, came from a pretty good bloodline of entrepreneurs and soldiers. Lawrence was drafted by the wheel the week the war ended. The week the war ended!

A horse kicked him in the leg, leaving him infirm and probably in agony, alone on his big farm for a few days before he died of his injuries.

My Great Grandfather Carlton was a lumber man, putting his sons to work in same. This was in Brookville, PA. No one has ever heard of it. I ask people from Western PA if they had but they never do. I never met him or any of my great grandparents (or even my grandparents), but if one were to judge by the shifty, drifty lives of his sons, he was a shitty parent. He probably drank a lot. I know his sons did. And their sons. I won’t go into much detail here, but there’s been lots of sadness in my family. Infidelity. Abuse. You know, stuff NFL players do.

My dad and mom drank a lot. This I know for sure. And I can say without a doubt that, while being raised by alcoholics can inform your decisions during your formative years, it doesn’t make you put that stuff in you. YOU do that.

I have no sympathy for Adrian Peterson.  He must have thought that fame and fortune meant he didn’t have to practice birth control. Even the real Vikings that Robert Plant sang about knew more about birth control than AP seems to. In fact, in the first studio run-throughs of “The Immigrant Song”, he sang a since-discarded third verse about that very topic. Lost to posterity.

He shows himself (AP) to be a careless hedonist who probably thinks he’ll never have to pay for his boot-knockin’ ways. Well, Robert Plant probably did, too, but he was British. And white. Wait a minute……..

Oh, wait. I was talking about beating the shit out of his children and neglecting the other kids he fathered. He told the kid to get the “switch” because that’s what he learned from Lawrence Hilton Jacobs in that dreary Jackson Family bio-pic. But he didn’t have to hit that kid. It’s not that he learned that behavior. it’s that he never learned what it meant to be a real father. Now he’s tweeting this prattle:

I ask again: What god abandons his children?

I don’t drink. And I REALLY don’t drink in front of my kids. It’s a choice I made, as an adult, not to put alcohol in my system in their presence. You’d….ha…I get it…”Presence”….You’d think a fine college like Oklahoma would have classes on this to prepare their gladiators before they go on to professionally gladiate.

He had a choice. He made the choice to make his kid go get a stick to have himself beaten with. That takes a little time. Go ahead. Time your kids doing it. How much time do you have to ponder what it is that’s about to happen? It’s not impulse. It’s not learned. It’s a CHOICE.

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Last night’s dream is a simple one.

I was in a large club, spinning CDs. All the sudden I found myself alone with Roger Waters. I turned him on to Scott Walker. I explained that he was once in The Walker Brothers. Roger looked surprised.  He tried to jam with “Farmer in The City” but couldn’t follow the chords. I told him that Robert Plant had once tried to perform it but mangled it mightily. Then I woke up.

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