False Teeth

Posted on September 22, 2026 by dave brandt • author

This entry is an update of the post Pulling Teeth.

I was riding my bike to school at Sacred Heart in Texas. I hit a loose piece of asphalt, hit the ground, broke a tooth, went to the dentist, got a filling, and was fine until thirteen years later when the filling came out. There were problems with other teeth breaking. It wasn’t a matter of hygiene, just rotten luck.

A doctor at VCU Dental Care in Richmond said the dreaded word: dentures. I went to a local clinic where they took X-rays. The lady told me that I could keep four of my teeth. They weren’t able to do the actual pulling, so she referred me to Affordable Dentures in a strip mall in Lynchburg.

Don’t let the slick commercials fool you–Affordable Dentures is terrible. They pulled my teeth with zero consultation. The four teeth I was supposed to be able to keep disappeared in the process of physical torment.

When I went in for the fitting, there was also no consultation. Of course, the insurance only covered the cheapest set they made. I was perfectly prepared to take some dough out of my savings to get something nicer. But, they never asked.

As I sat in the big dentist chair, I could hear the guy on the other side of the curtain getting his teeth pulled. It was like torture all over again, listening to the poor guy.

Once the false teeth were installed, the lady told me fifty things in one minute. I don’t remember any of it. I asked if they had a pamphlet or a website I could go to. The lady said that there was not.

I was pretty pollyanna about getting the false teeth installed–I thought I’d be immediately able to go to the nearby McDonald’s and munch on a Big Mac. The dentures came off before I got to the main road.

During the first few weeks, I diligently installed the dentures as often as I could stand. I never got the right amount of adhesive. It was always difficult to get them off. It wasn’t like a slab of plastic on the roof of my mouth, it was a slab of plastic on the roof of my mouth.

With the dentures in, I could barely consume liquids, and any kind of food was out of the question. Isn’t that the whole point of getting dentures…to eat? An associate told me that her husband could eat steak with no teeth. I doubt I’ll ever be in that club.

The dentures do look good, though. If I ever go on a “date” again, I’ll wear the teeth to make a good impression, but in the car ride to the fancy restaurant, I’ll have to explain that I need to strip my mouth down to the gums.

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That Tuesday in September

Posted on September 9, 2026 by dave brandt • author

Whatever was happening dissolves. I find myself in an empty downtown area. There are two incredibly tall, white buildings in the middle of a large, vacant circle. Suddenly, people and plant life start appearing on the concrete. A tiny airplane flies into one of the tall, white buildings. There is a small puff of smoke.

The clock radio came on, it was the news. I didn’t have anywhere to be on that day, the alarm was set on accident. The newscaster said something about an airplane crashing into the World Trade Center. I groggily got up and turned the radio off, too sleepy to process the information on the news—I figured it was no big deal and went right back to sleep. I had another dream about a huge, green, spruce goose-looking airplane landing in an empty field; then being in a very crowded and chaotic office building in a large city.

When I did get up, I turned on the television and saw the pillar of black smoke rising from Manhattan. What? It took me several minutes to put together what the newscasters were saying. All four hijacked airplanes had crashed by the time I turned the television on. I made my coffee and stayed tuned to the television for at least an hour, trying to absorb the gravity of what happened.

I went outside; my neighbor, Knuckles, was out there. I said, “I guess things are going to be different from now on.” We discussed the events then went to another neighbor’s apartment a few duplexes down. Otis was getting ready to go to work—he worked security at some government facility in downtown Nashville and was called in because of the attacks. Watching the crowds of people running, he said that if he were there, he’d be looking for valuables people may have dropped. There, for the first time, I saw the video of the towers crashing down. Otis’s girlfriend, Pooh, came in—she hadn’t heard anything about anything. I didn’t care to go over the whole story again, so I left.

I returned to my apartment and watched television until the neighborhood kids got home from school. They were all confused. One girl was in student government, and they watched the situation unfold. She saw the second plane crash live. Stupidly, I told her, “If there’s one thing America’s good at, it’s kicking ass.” That was supposed to make her feel better. Another little girl asked me if I’d heard what happened, and I said sarcastically, “Oh no, I didn’t hear anything.” We were all confused, but I should have known better.

A few years earlier, a tornado came through the neighborhood, several blocks down. I drove through the damaged area and told myself that I would never forget the feeling I had. Of course, I did. It’s the same thing with 9/11, I have for gotten how terrible I felt on that day. Even now, thinking about it enough to write about it, I can’t recapture the horror.

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Restaurants in Richmond

Posted on June 13, 2026 by dave brandt • author

It was the first time I had to fill out an application for a full-time job. It was at Coppola’s Deli in Carytown. Manny, the manager, was impressed. I was hired right away as a short-order cook, with zero experience. It wasn’t long before I got good at it. A reuben I made was named 1989’s Best Sandwich by the Richmond Times-Dispatch.

This was when I was living on Kensington Avenue with a roommate who was an abusive pot head. Things were rough. Coppola’s paid enough to cover rent, utilities, and groceries–but not much more. I became the breakfast cook. Manny and I opened the store. There were personality issues, and I had to be there at 7:00 in the morning. But, I stuck with it because I really didn’t think that I had much of an option. After seven months, it was time to move on–to Stuffy’s, a sub shop on Harrison Street.

When that didn’t work out, I applied at Third Street Diner. When the woman saw that I worked at Coppola’s, she hired me right away. Being unfamiliar with the menu, I didn’t do well on the grill. They put me in the back, doing sundry tasks–I wasn’t very good at any of them. Third Street Diner was open 24 hours. Around one in the morning, they had me take the big, heavy rubber mats on the floor behind the counter to the alley outside and spray them with a hose.

Shift change was always a relief. I would sit in a booth with kitchen staff and waitresses, drinking alcoholic beverages. One time, I was chastised for telling an off-color joke. This was when I was an Atheist, a vocal Atheist. It was a bit of a discussion with one of the Protestants in the kitchen. When the topic of soulmates came up, I said, pathetically, “I know her name.” I wasn’t terribly respected with the Third Street Diner crowd, as an employee. One time, I worked a double shift. It really wasn’t so bad. I had a Bloody Mary and went home. For some reason, I kept some CDs there: John Coltrane, Elvis Costello, and a Frank Zappa album that had some swears. They also had a jukebox featuring local artists.

My employment only lasted a couple of weeks. I found a job making and maintaining tennis courts. I worked with Ben Reynolds and Todd Brady–the two worst, most disgusting, abusive bastards I have ever known. If you see them, please spit in their faces. Anyway, the job paid $6 an hour–that was a lot of money back then.

My 21st birthday was also the first day at a new job–painting. A couple of guys from the crew took me out drinking. I got smashed at some bar and didn’t understand the concept of leaving a generous tip. It was after all the other bars were closed, so I went to Third Street Diner. (In no way do I condone driving drunk. I never got in any collisions or pulled over, but there were far too many close calls…okay, I hit a parked car once.) It was a good place to get some good eats, at any hour of the day.

The shift manager remembered me, and when I told him I’d just turned 21, I added that all the time I was drinking while working there, I was underage. He seemed a bit miffed, but then he smiled and said, “Just don’t let it happen again.”

Third Street Diner closed in 2021. The nice lady who answers questions on the telephone told me.

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Who Can It Be Now?

Posted on May 18, 2026 by dave brandt • author

l live in a cookie-cutter…in a small town…in the South. I’ve been here longer than anybody else on my floor. I don’t bother anyone, and nobody even cares that I’m here.

It happened a few times in Nashville: Some Jehovah’s Witnesses came to my door to preach their version of religion. They would always give me copies of The Watchtower or Awake! A neighborhood lady said that it’s bad luck to have those magazines inside your home.

A few years ago, two young caucasian women came by to preach the teachings of the Church of Latter-day Saints. They seemed nice. About thirty seconds into the conversation, I told them I was Catholic–just to throw them off the scent. They were like, “Oh, you’re Catholic, that’s the most amazing thing we’ve ever heard!” I hate that whenever I reveal my denomination, the first question that gets asked is, “What church do you go to?” It doesn’t matter if I go to church. Out of politeness, I said, “I used to go to Holy Cross in Lynchburg.” She excitedly asked, “Oh, are we in Lynchburg?” We weren’t in Lynchburg. She asked if I would like her to read from the book of Mormon, and I said I’d prefer not. She held out a pamphlet. I said, “On no, it’s bad luck to have that in your home.” As they turned to leave, she asked my name. She looked me in the eye and said, “Bye, David.”

It was after dark on a chilly day this past Winter. I was napping on the couch when a knock came on my door. There was a strange noise. I put on my cap and opened the door. There were a dozen or so people singing a Christmas tune–mostly women. They were all white. Not knowing what to do, I shut the door. They kept singing. I reopened the door with what must have been an uncomfortable expression. It’s good that I wasn’t still smoking pot–who knows what my reaction would have been. They sounded beautiful. It was the first time I’d been caroled–I wondered if I was supposed to give them money. The guy in charge was standing closest to me. They were from the local Baptist Church. After a couple of songs, he gave the hard sell–how nonbelievers scream in agony in the fires of Hell for all of eternity, and such.

This morning, a slow but steady knocking came upon my door. It was two older black women. They told me their names and asked mine. I thought that they were neighbors, but they were really Jehovah’s Witnesses! One of them asked, “Is living without pain or sadness possible?” I said, “No.” They gave me a card and went away.

Life would be boring without pain and sadness.

Jehovah’s Witnesses

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

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Trifling with Peril

Posted on April 24, 2026 by dave brandt • author

When I was living on Belmont Avenue, I worked forty hours a week, painting. Saturday mornings were a restful ritual. I would wake, bake, and listen to rap. It was usually Check your Head by the Beastie Boys and Public Enemy’s Nation of Millions.

Driving home from work one day, I heard on the radio that Public Enemy was performing at the Richmond Coliseum that evening. It was the Apocalypse 91 tour. Walking toward the entrance, some black guys waved me over. One of them sold me a ticket for $10. It turned out to be legitimate.

I walked around the Coliseum casually, oblivious to the fact that I was the only white person there. Well…there was a pocket of white people huddled together in a nook. I knew some of them from the dormitory days. I stopped to chat, then I went back to walking around. I entered the auditorium and found a seat.

The concert was pretty good. There were a ton of opening acts. I remember Naughty by Nature, Geto Boys, and Queen Latifah. Public Enemy only performed for about 45 minutes. At the end, they hanged a Klansman in effigy. When the show was over, I was walking toward the entrance and someone behind me said, “Get a rope.”

Fast forward to Thanksgiving 1999. I was living in Nashville, things were tough. I visited family in New York City. Money was tight, but I’m glad I got to experience the city as much as I did. It was a non-smoking apartment on the upper East Side of Manhattan. My sleep schedule was erratic. Sometimes I needed a cigarette at one in the morning. I would walk along the riverside, having a smoke at one in the morning.

One evening, I got lost walking around. Luckily, I found a pay telephone that only needed one quarter. I was a terrible fool. I wanted to go downtown by myself. I got on a subway, thinking it was heading that way. After two stops, I figured out that I was going the wrong direction. It was a long walk through Spanish Harlem.

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The John Birch Society

Posted on February 15, 2026 by dave brandt • author

When I turned twenty-one, I was living in a third-story apartment on Belmont Avenue in the Fan district of Richmond, Virginia. It was the second apartment I had all to myself. It was my home for about a year.

For over half of the duration of my stay, I worked with the same painting crew. There were personality issues, but it was a steady paycheck. I took some classes at the community college, but it was difficult to do both.

I was really into politics. I allowed myself to flirt with the idea of running for City Council. The only money I put into it was for an answering machine. I went to City Hall and filled out the paperwork. A friend took some photos of me in a jacket and tie at the University of Richmond campus. I got less than a half-dozen signatures.

The first President Bush was running for reelection. This was before the internet, so I had to rely on what information I could glean from the television. It was entertaining to witness the rise and fall of Ross Perot. It was an interesting race. Bill Clinton eventually won the primary and the general election. I consider him the best President of my lifetime.

On one corner of Belmont, there was a Laundromat. On the other, there was some sort of ultra right-wing bookstore. One day, I stepped inside and started looking around at the merchandise. There were two older white men in a corner of the main room. They were whispering to each other. They seemed to disagree. The taller one asked if I wanted to go downstairs and watch a video.

The John Birch Society is fiercely anti-Communist. They accused President Eisenhower of being a Communist. They consider the fight against Communism a spiritual war against the devil.

I always thought that One World Government is a laudable goal. We’re all people. Of course, the John Birch Society is totally opposed to the United Nations and all international organizations and treaties.

Many prominent right-wing radicals swear allegiance to the Society: Ron Paul, Alex Jones, Steve Bannon, Lt. General Michael Flynn, and others. There are people in my life who hold opinions that are similar to those of the Society. I feel that I have to be careful about casting aspersions. Conservative values are valid.

When the video was over, I was more than a bit creeped out. Notwithstanding, I felt obliged to purchase something. It was a paperback of Gorge Orwell’s 1984. I lost it before I started to read it.

They were opposed to the Civil Rights movement of the 1960’s.

The John Birch Society

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Top 5: Albums

Posted on January 31, 2026 by dave brandt • author

These are the greatest albums in the history of recording technology. I don’t care what Rolling Stone or their cohorts think. Abbey Road is just too obvious. There are several pieces not featured that exemplify quality music making. It was difficult to fine it down to five, but these are the ones.

1. BEAUTY & CRIME • Suzanne Vega is an immense talent. This album hits on every cylinder. Every word, every note is perfectly placed. If one fragment were changed, the entire piece would fall apart. Beauty & Crime is composed entirely by Suzanne Vega.

New York is a Woman / Suzanne Vega


2. NAKED • People think of Talking Heads as a quirky band with some guy who dances like a glove on a stick. Naked, their final album, is very dark. The rhythms are so complicated that it took me years to figure out what’s going on with the intertwining percussion parts. Chris Frantz’s minimalist drumming seems to disappear in the swirl of the rhythms. David Byrne wrote the lyrics and melodies after the music was recorded–each song could stand as an instrumental. Naked was made in Paris, where they worked with a diverse pool of musicians.

Big Daddy / Talking Heads

3. THE PROS AND CONS OF HITCH HIKING • This is the only Roger Waters album that doesn’t suck. It’s just like a Pink Floyd album, with different musicians. To appreciate The Pros and Cons of Hitch Hiking, one must pay as close attention to the story as if watching a movie. Each side is an account of different dreams. The titles of the songs are the times in the morning that each song occurred. Maybe he put a little too much thought into it. I recited “4:58AM (Dunroamin, Duncarin, Dunlivin)” as a poem in tenth grade. Some people didn’t like that I said, “Christ, all those clothes.” The electric guitar is Eric Clapton.

4:58AM (Dunroamin, Duncarin, Dunlivin) / Roger Waters

4. BLOOD & CHOCOLATE • This album was my introduction to Elvis Costello. I don’t listen to it much because most of the lyrics hit too close to home. Any man who has ever had romantic dealings with any woman at all can relate to every word of “I Want You.” The musicianship of the Attractions is on full display on “I Hope You’re Happy Now.”

I Hope You’re Happy Now / Elvis Costello and the Attractions


5. HEAVEN OR LAS VEGAS • The songs on Heaven or Las Vegas have a cool groove, and there is a captivating underlying rhythm on this track. Apparently, the guitarist was a cocaine fiend, along with other drugs. This album was made just after Elizabeth Frasier had their daughter. The bass player and keyboardist, Simon Raymonde’s father died as the Cocteau Twins were making the recording. Not only did Robin Guthrie play the guitar, he’s the one who programmed the drums. Thank you, Wikipedia.

Road, River and Rail / Cocteau Twins

Honorable Mention: BIG SCIENCE

Example #22 / Laurie Anderson

I reserve the right to say that not everyone will like these albums. I made that mistake in one of my zines. I sang the praises of Double Fantasy without thinking about how much distaste emanates toward Yoko Ono’s songs.

Be careful ordering albums off of iTunes. I bought two for $9.99 each, and when I tried to order another one, my card was blocked–apparently, making two purchases for the same amount is suspicious. I’m still in the middle of trying to get things straightened out. I’ve made so many telephone calls. My only option is going to my local branch. The thing is, I’m completely snowed in right now.

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The Media-Industrial Complex

Posted on December 16, 2025 by dave brandt • author

What I have could be called basic basic cable: the major networks, C-Span, and a bunch of channels that show sitcoms from the seventies. I get YouTube on the wi-fi via my Blu-ray player. I watch the Democracy Now! podcast. The morning headlines come pow! pow! one after the other. You really have to be on the ball to catch it all. Sometimes, I try to listen to the meditation music, but there are too many commercials.

When I had real cable, the twenty-four hour news channels were right next to each other. There were times that I’d be flipping through the channels and hear something intriguing on FOX. I generally disagree with the angle FOX News approaches current events–but I like to get information from different sources. I’m smart enough to see through the bias.

My mornings suck. The big three networks (NBC, CBS, ABC) have only about five minutes of news at the top of each hour. After that, it’s all silly and useless. There are two local channels with morning news programs. I get better information from them than any of the networks. It’s the fifteen minutes of weather every half-hour that I dislike. Oh, and the idiotic banter is just excruciating.

Fast forward to 5:00 in the evening. There is an hour of BBC news. The first half-hour is called The Context. They focus on British and International goings on. Then it’s BBC World News America. Sometimes, I’ll watch part of the PBS Newshour. I get a couple of PBS stations. One shows the Newshour at 6:00 and the other at 7:00.

The big three bring their contributions to the world of American news at 6:30. All three of them suck. NBC dumbs things down too much. It’s insulting. CBS was cool until they started introducing banter into the broadcast. Banter! “The last time I was on a plane, blah blah blah…what was it like when you were last on a plane…?” Disgusting. So, I’m stuck with ABC. All they do is tease. “Someone you hardly know of has died today. We’ll tell you who later in the broadcast.” It’s a half-hour. I’m going to watch the whole thing! Is David Muir handsome? He seems a bit creepy.

I’ll usually top off the day with Inside Edition at 7:30. It’s a light take on the day. They show news that other outlets don’t have time for. What did they do with the rubble from the demolished East Wing? They put it in a public golf course for topping with dirt and grass. Inside Edition doesn’t have a political bent–they just sensationalize stories that they think will attract the biggest audience.

Studies have shown that Democrats watch more television than Republicans. That’s where your liberal media bias comes from. It’s all about ratings, all about money.

The big networks have a moment of levity at the end of each broadcast. It’s one or the other. A bunch of high school students pool their finances to buy the janitor a new car. Or, a young student is surprised by a parent coming back from war. They are so happy and excited! I wonder how that makes the children who have lost loved ones in the war feel.

American news is sinister and crooked. They harp on the dangerous things that are going on, so that stupid people are scared to leave their homes, and they sit around and watch more television. I’ve been an infomaniac, a news junkie, for several decades. The negativity in the news doesn’t bother me. I’ve become desensitized. I’m used to it.

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Pulling Teeth

Posted on October 24, 2025 by dave brandt • author

It began with an injury, in sixth grade. I was bicycling to school, and there was a small piece of asphalt ahead of me. I thought I could jump it, but I hit it and was knocked off my bike. My upper front tooth got chipped. The dentist put on a filling. It lasted thirteen years–until one day I was stripping wire with my teeth, and oops.

They called it TennCare–a state-run health insurance program. It was free for anyone. When it came out, employers cut the health benefits of their employees. TennCare only covered the least expensive doctors that they could. I got fillings at a few dentists, but they just kept falling out. I walked around with the chipped tooth for several years.

I went to the Free Clinic in Lynchburg. The student did an excellent job. The filling lasted thirteen years. After that, I walked around with the chipped tooth for many more years. Having scraped together enough dough to see a real dentist, I was told that the tooth couldn’t be fixed for some reason.

I bought a cheap car that had all kinds of issues. It needed to be driven for a half-hour most evenings so the battery would be charged enough to start the car in the morning. When I would go on these excursions, I would treat myself to a blizzard from Dairy Queen. I was partial to the Snickers. Have you ever had a Snickers bar that was refrigerated? They get really hard. So hard you could chip your teeth.

It’s like talking to someone with a pierced septum…your attention is drawn to it so you can’t look at anything else. It was almost better to have most of my front teeth broken than to have just one space to attract all of the attention.

A brother took me to VCU Dental, in Richmond–about two hours east of here. They uttered the dreaded D word. Yes, I needed dentures. No! I am barely into my fifties! My insurance company approved the procedure at Affordable Dentures, located in a strip mall in Lynchburg.

There are three steps: extract all of the teeth, get fitted for dentures, install the dentures. There may be some adjustments made after that. Affordable Dentures had no pamphlet, no website to go to for information. Searching for medical advice on the internet is getting seven different answers from five different websites. I called the office about a dozen times with questions. It turned out that the optimal time to get dentures fitted is six months after the extractions. So, I’ll have no teeth until January.

The extraction experience was the worst four hours of my life. They didn’t knock me out, they just gave me multiple injections of numbing agent. (There’s a reason my insurance works with Affordable Dentures.) In the room, it was just the surgeon and her assistant. I question the competence of both. For the longest time, I felt that the only pain I actually enjoy is when a dentist sticks the needle into the roof of my mouth. That notion has been expelled. Once she pierced the skin, she moved the needle around…a lot. Christ, it was painful. Some of my front teeth were fused to the jawbone, so they needed to cut them out. Maybe two hours into the procedure, they were having trouble with a tooth on my upper left. It was a struggle. They broke it in half just to get it out. The sound of a tooth cracking will be with me forever. My hand gripped the armrest and my leg was visibly shaking. When they pulled the tooth, it was the most pain I had ever experienced. I couldn’t have imagined that a human being could feel so much pain. I am not the same person I was before the procedure.

Other than the hydrocodone, the healing was intolerable. The area around the tooth in question was swollen for a week. It was close enough to my brain that I could feel the pressure affecting my thinking. I sent out some odd e-mails. My diet was restricted to food that doesn’t need to be chewed. Did you know that teeth keep saliva from getting on your lips? The hardest part is brushing my gums…it always brings up memories of having teeth.

It could be argued that all of this is vanity. My teeth were fully functional before the ordeal. But, they hindered my ability to interact in social situations. An empty mouth is much easier to look at than a bunch of broken teeth. The nicest thing is that I am no longer ashamed to talk to people.

False Teeth.

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Free Society

Posted on August 28, 2025 by dave brandt • author

The first time I saw it, I was driving home from the mall. It was so out of character with the surrounding energy that it seemed a mirage. The LU in the logo stands for Liberty University, a private religious college in Lynchburg, Virginia.

The Falwell organization took a mountain, one of God’s most beautiful creations, and turned it into a billboard. What kind of precedent does that set? Golden Arches on a Mountain? The Peaks of Budweiser? Mount Ozempic? Tesla Ridge?

If I were a multi-billionaire, I would buy the two mountains to the right of the logo. I would put a giant CI on one and FER on the next.

How much do mountains cost, anyway? It was always known as Candler’s Mountain. The Falwell organization bought it and changed the name to Liberty Mountain. Recently, the Candler family has put together a petition to remove the logo. That sounds nice, but they want to replace it with a cross. NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! (Talk about wearing your religion on your sleeve.) I’m sure they have the legal right to do that, but come on. Have some respect! Not everyone who lives in or visits Lynchburg is a radical Protestant.

Maybe I’ll start my own petition to have the logo changed to a portrait of Alfred E. Neuman. That would be the best of all possible worlds.

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Government and Free Society

Posted on July 5, 2025 by dave brandt • author

“Anyone who wears their religion on their sleeve is not to be trusted.”

Jon Grayson
Radio Personality

Everybody knows that the words “Separation of Church and State” are not in the Constitution. But the concept clearly is. This beautiful 45-word sentence explains it all:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

Judges order people to go to Alcoholics Anonymous. Alcoholics Anonymous is an extremely religious organization. Federal money supports the Salvation Army. The Salivation Army can hire and fire people on the basis of whether or not they go to church.

The city of Lynchburg lives in the shadow of the Falwell organization. Literally. Near Liberty University, there is a mountain bearing the image of LU–in a huge circle. They took a mountain, one of God’s most beautiful creations, and turned it into of an advertisement, for their business. You can’t tell me that Liberty University doesn’t turn a profit.

They have a big auditorium that public high schools use for graduation ceremonies. I don’t know how much money changes hands. When I went to my niece’s high school graduation, there was a sign hanging in the auditorium that said, “Christ: God’s only way to Heaven.” There were children there, what if one of them saw that?

If Trump leaves office, we must keep Vance in power until he selects a Vice President! The Speaker of the House is second in line to the Presidency. Mike Johnson is a dangerously insane human being.

When he first took power, he said that, “If you want to know my agenda, just look in the Bible.” After that, he showed no visible signs that his religious beliefs were influencing his decisions. He seemed like a calm and intelligent person–no nonsense, strictly business.

Yet, in Johnson’s mind, Christianity has been the established religion of the United States since its inception: “The birth of our great nation was inspired by the bold declaration that our individual, God-given liberties should be preserved against government intrusion,” he says on his official website.

What about the liberties of transgender people? Trump and his clones just love to trample on those. No one in the military had a problem. Whether or not parents give their teenagers puberty blocking drugs is an exceedingly difficult, agonizing, and personal decision. The rights of parents should be kept free from government intrusion. The government should keep its nose out of everybody’s business.

Johnson likes to mock and belittle those who don’t think that America is the greatest nation the world has ever known. He sure does love to shove his system of beliefs down the throats of anyone who might disagree with him. Mike Johnson is an intolerant fool. He didn’t drink the kool-aid…he mixed it.

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Regarding Abortion

Posted on February 28, 2025 by dave brandt • author

My belief is that life begins at conception. Half of Americans disagree. I am in no position to impose my system of values on anybody. I believe that abortion up to the point of viability should be safe, legal, and accessible.

Some people want to ban contraception, too. That makes for an awful lot of babies put up for adoption. I’m sure that the vast majority of them will go into nice religious homes where they will be turned into a new generation of Bible thumpers.

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Music in Music City

Posted on February 22, 2024 by dave brandt • author

The late nineties were a bit of a boom in Nashville. Temporary workers were in demand. Some of my fellow temps were failed musicians who were “between gigs.” A theme running through their chatter was how difficult it is to play with feeling, as if that’s some ultimate goal to aspire to. It’s easy: Play the guitar like you’re mad at it. Pretend the guitar just kicked your dog.

They were pathetic, each wanted to show that he knew more about the industry—like a fourteen-year-old kid who desperately wants everyone to think he’s had sex. A bunch of us were hanging out and I mentioned to one guy that I have an acoustic/electric guitar. He said, “That’s a contradiction of terms.” No one stood up, no one explained it to him. I could’ve said, “If you put a pickup on an acoustic guitar, it becomes an acoustic/electric. Dummy.”

One guy was cool, though. I was bragging about my 1967 Ludwig Jazz kit with a 22” K-series ride. I fully admitted that I was a terrible drummer—I couldn’t even keep a steady beat. But, he asked me to audition anyway. He played bass and there was a guitar player. What Rob didn’t tell me is that the guitarist was his ten-year-old son, Robbie. Rob just wanted his son to have experience playing with a drummer (and to play drums when I wasn’t there). At least I can tell people that I was in a band when I was in Music City.

Rob, who was a good deal older than me, was another failed musician. He saw Robbie as a shot at redemption. The kid had skills, but anyone can sound good playing over 12-bar blues. America doesn’t need another blues guitar genius.

The musical ensemble didn’t last long, but Rob and I maintained our friendship. Whenever I was at the job, we would get together for lunch. We had a good rapport, and genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.

Dustin and my friends in Harrisonburg respected me as a songwriter. I followed Dustin to Nashville, under the pretense of recording my music in a friend’s studio. We had made serious headway on a couple of songs, but Dustin moved back to Virginia. I did some recording with my new friends in the Nashville crowd–we laid down some fabulous tracks, but the Akai board was just ancient. It would cost $300 to transfer one tape to digital.

Before I moved to Nashville, I spent a week there to find an apartment. My time was not managed well. I smoked too much pot. I kept fucking with the mini-blinds. I spent more time hitting on Dustin’s girlfriend than looking for a place to live.

Living in the little crud hole in East Nashville for five years, I wrote a lot of songs. The discipline to learn and perform the songs was elusive, unfortunately. My friend Clay—who grew up with a father in the music business—had to sit through my horrible renditions of songs that I thought were pretty cool compositions.

There were no pretentions of getting discovered and getting a recording contract. In fact, the inner punk hated the thought. I wanted to circumvent the music industry—to make a name for myself by making my own cassettes and relying on college radio for promotion.

Clay had told me several times that he didn’t want to record my music, but I kept trying to push the idea. I never got over Dustin leaving. Too much time was wasted in Clay’s family studio. I was never prepared, assuming that the magic of the studio would make everything come out groovy and happening.

One time at a social get together, my friend Tony played a song he had written. When he was done, Clay said that it sounded commercial. I was waiting for Tony to punch him in the face. Apparently, that’s not an insult in Music City.

I was into the free-form improvisation scene. No rules. No regard for tempo or key. Just creativity and instincts. It’s not for recording and trying to sell to anyone, it exists strictly for the people in the room at that time. An audience who goes along with it is cool, but it’s just about as much fun as two guys with cheap guitars, cheap amps, and distortion pedals in a parent’s living room can have. It’s raw, unbridled passion.

Dissonance is your friend. Making feedback is fun. In the five years I was there, I participated in zero free-form rock out jam sessions. The closest thing to improvisation in Nashville is when someone farts.

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A Calm Place

Posted on November 2, 2018 by dave brandt • author

My Dad liked to travel. He and I took two vacations down the East Coast several years ago. I was sleep deprived, so I didn’t drive much. I wish I had done more driving with all the trouble we had finding the hotel in Atlanta (after Dad had been on the road for seven hours already).

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My friend Clay was living just outside of Atlanta at the time. We had known each other from Nashville. Sometimes in conversation, I would bring up things my Dad said. Clay respected my Dad’s ability to say things concisely and profoundly. When Clay came to the hotel, it meant a lot for him to meet my Dad. I think it meant a lot to Dad, too.

On both trips, Dad St Augustine Ligh5thousewas very accommodating. I wanted to go to the top of the St. Augustine Lighthouse, but there was no way Dad could climb the stairs. He paid, but about three-quarters of the way up, I got such dizziness that I went down. The whole time, I was thinking that they should have a room on the ground floor for people to stretch their legs. I wanted to give Dad his money back since I didn’t make it to the top. Of course, he wouldn’t have of it. (I just saw on television this week that the St. Augustine Lighthouse is supposed to be super haunted.)

My favorite city was Charleston. The place had a peaceful vibe. We walked around the riverfront park on a foggy night. We didn’t make it to Fort Sumter on the first trip, but we did the second time. It’s where the Civil War began. For some reason, I just had to tell the tour guide that I lived in Appomattox.

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Mom & Dad took a lot of weekend vacations and day trips. I tagged along to visit the Green Bank Observatory in West Virginia. It was the neatest excursion. You could scan the radio dial and get nothing but hiss. There was an old dish telescope, a museum piece, next to the Visitor Center. There was a film and a short presentation before the tour. SETI was only mentioned briefly.

There were seven telescopes on the site. They were the proudest of the big one, the one called GBT. The surface of the dish was over two acres. It was the largest moveable object on land in the world. It was an awesome sight.

In order for the telescopes to do their job, there had to be no frequency interference of any kind. No radio signals, no television signals, no cellular signals… There was a profound tranquility about the observatory grounds. It was a sense of calm unlike anything I’ve felt since the trip to St. John’s that we took when I was twelve.

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John Brandt • 1938-2014

Green Bank Observatory  •  Georgia Aquarium •  Charleston

Fort Sumter  •  St. Augustine

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The Flower that Became a Boy

Posted on March 25, 2013 by dave brandt • author

On a mild Wednesday evening in August of 1970, I was born.  My first home was a ranch house with a full basement in Greely, Colorado.  I was the youngest of six.  My only sister had three older brothers and two younger ones.  Although we moved to Turlock, California just as I started kindergarten, I have many memories of life in Greeley.

I remember playing alone in the yard, trying to catch grasshoppers.  I was fascinated by grasshoppers.  With all of these ultra-modern playthings kids have today, are children still fascinated by grasshoppers?

The three older brothers set a world’s record for playing Monopoly underground.  There was a huge hole in the backyard, covered with boards and canvas.  Mike, the oldest, spearheaded the feat.   Some of the neighborhood kids participated; they played for a hundred hours straight.  It was a big deal.  Newspapers around the country mentioned it, they were on the local television.  In some Monopoly boxes, there’s a listing of world records, and the brothers are mentioned.  I remember being in the cave briefly.

Of course, I wanted to set some kind of record myself.  We had a swing set, so I wanted to set a record for the longest time swinging.  My sister, Dianne, helped, timing me and letting me have a five minute break every hour.  I swung for five hours, which is pretty good for a five-year-old.  Dianne made an official-looking certificate, I still have it.

I remember having to stand on the picnic table while my brothers fought off a scary snake.  One time I stuck my bare foot in the spokes of the moving bike I was riding as a passenger.  I remember my uncle Tim giving me a dog and letting me ride in his semi.  Finally being able to reach a doorknob was a big deal.

Ballooning must have been a popular sport in Colorado.  I remember seeing them in the skies.  One time, my Mom took Dianne, my closest brother, Stephen, and me to a tethered balloon ride in the parking lot of a strip mall.  I saw the flames and it looked like it was really loud, so I started crying and didn’t go.  As an infant, I had ear problems.  They said I would cry in pain all the time.  I’d be sitting around, playing with toys, perfectly calm, then suddenly start bawling.

These early days of my childhood were in the day when there were less than a half-dozen television channels.  I remember one show called Jot—it was about a circle with arms and legs who talked about religious stuff.  Then, there was Simon in the Land of Chalk Drawings, about a boy who would draw things on his magic chalkboard and they would become real.  I would get excited every time it came on.  It was very imaginative.

But the cartoon that impressed me the most—I was four or five—was a Hanna-Barbera show, either The Flintstones or Augie Doggie.  I don’t remember the storyline, but there was a carnation that somehow became alive.  He wore a baseball cap and carried a book.  He was named Carney.  I found it the most fascinating thing.

I adopted the flower as my alter-ego.  I didn’t have an imaginary friend, I was my imaginary friend.  When I had my red Lil Slugger baseball cap on and a book under my arm, everyone knew that I was Carney.  I was to be treated as Carney.  If someone called me Dave, I would point to the hat.

My Mom would ask me if I (Carney) would like to stay for dinner.  I would say that she’d have to call my (Carney’s) Mom and see if it was all right.  Mom would pretend to call Carney’s house and ask his mother if he could stay for dinner.   Everyone played along.  I really thought I had everyone fooled.

Carnie

Thanks to Stephen for finding the picture and a link to the full cartoon. It was Augie Doggie. All these years, I thought that Carney stood for Carnation, but it stands for Carnivorous.

Seeing the cartoon again made me remember why I was so struck by the character. Since I was the youngest, everyone else was in school. Carney was a bad flower, but he became good and started going to school. It was a tale of redemption.

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