A lot of folks (those filled with regret and unsaturated fats, mostly) use this time of the year to “reflect” on what the past 365 days has brought them. This is hilarious mostly because it’s very very sad. I have two total regrets and I acquired them some 24 years apart, so I don’t really get this whole “identifying and learning from mistakes” thing.
To me, Buck Crimshaw, your friend and trusted ally in the fight to right this damn ship we call the U.S.S. United States of America, it’s all about looking forward. This post will detail my personal resolutions for this coming year, 2017, which will be my 59th on this planet.
And, look. I am a modest man. My life is wrought with sacrifice. For flip’s sake, I pursued a career in punditry and news broadcasting. I write down my opinions unwarranted and appear weekly on nationally televised debate programs to monopolize the conversation for your benefit and the benefit of “The American Way.”
It’s never about me, so please humor this rare self-indulgence. And maybe, if you read closely, you will glean from my writing the daily habits of remarkable conservative men and learn what it takes to be a political thought rebel, media titan, father to eight youths biologically, and temporary father figure to the five others whose mothers have claimed my paternity in a court of law.
1. In 2017, I resolve to finally get my line of men’s home furnishings out of R&D and into retail.
HomeSmith, my pet project and the best brand you’ve never heard of, is all about crap covered in leather and slapping cupholders on every damn thing. We men like that. And here’s the kicker: all items are flame-retardant and smell like lake.
Can’t beat that with a stick.
2. In 2017, I resolve to put on 35 pounds of clean muscle, and do it naturally.
Look, I love Rocket Clemens like he was in my pledge class, but I can’t condone juice. If I’m going to do this — and I will — it’s going to be straight raw. Nothing but egg browns and quinoa sandwiches in between Bikram Pilates and strength training.
And I better do it quick. By the end of 2017, my eldest son Landham will be 17 years old and (fingers crossed!) a state wrestling champion at the 152-pound weight class. He’ll think he’s Mr. Tough Titty Crimshaw and the rules don’t apply when — newsflash: they do. To maintain order in my home, I need to at least be able to haul four bags of salt from the garage to the cellar and dump them into the water softener without soiling my Dickies.
Stay tuned.
3. In 2017, I resolve to man the hell up and just apologize to O’Reilly.
Listen, I don’t trust the fella as far as I can huck him, but it’s been 18 years since we fell out and, to be honest with you, he hasn’t recovered from it. I mean, you ever watch that program? He looks like shit served cold. It’s hard for me now to accurately recall the events of that night, but if he says I goosed his niece in the pool, then, hell, I might’ve goosed his niece in the pool. I was coming out of my second divorce at that time and I’m not afraid to admit that my antennas were down for a while there.
I will call his assistant Beth Ann at some point in the next calendar year, hang up a couple times first, and then eventually act like I butt-dialed her but, “Yeah, sure, I’ll get lunch with Bill next time I’m in Manhattan.”
It’s called being the bigger man.
4. In 2017, I, Buck Crimshaw, resolve to dust off the six-string and get back in the studio to record my Woody Guthrie-style folk concept album, “USland.”
You might not know this about ol’ Buck, but in the late 1960’s I began taking guitar lessons from Jeph Blezerian, a man who I fear was Armenian but could make an axe purr like you wouldn’t believe. Under his influence, I pretty much started shredding and never looked back.
Zeppelin? Been there. Floyd? Done that. Crue? You know damn well. Folk? It remains for me an unexplored genre, but I think I get the gist. Harmonica, tambourine, mixed metaphors, etc. Plus, it will give me an opportunity to excoriate libs in a place they once designated as “safe” — a Barnes & Noble cafe.
Look for “USland,” a one-track double LP coming in 2017 to wherever they’re still doing cassettes.
5. In 2017, my wife Kris Sue and I resolve to finally take our dream getaway vacation through the battlefields and cemeteries of the Civil War.
Can you believe it? We’ve been talking about this one since our third date (pillow talk) and we just decided, heck, we’re not getting any younger and this is the type of balls-to-the-wall trip that we just won’t be able to pull off in ten years.
Here’s the tentative itinerary: We hit Gettysburg on Day One (I know, I know — it’s anticlimactic, right? Wrong. It provides the context for the entire conflict, silly), head south and hit Antietam, Bull Run, and Appomattox on Day Two (that day’s a doozy!), then west to Forts Donelson and Henry in Tennessee, do Shiloh on Day Four, catch the tip of Sherman’s March in Atlanta on Day Five, do a Braves game and dinner with Kris Sue’s cousin Pamlynn on Day Six, then make for the coast and take the ferry to Fort Sumter on Day Seven, where the whole damn thing started.
Of course, there’ll be some digressions for museums, reenactments, and roadside love-making in the trunk of the Cherokee when I get caught up in the excitement of it all and need to blow off some steam.
Wow. Talk about a bucket list item.
6. In 2017, I resolve to practice self-care and cancel my doggone Facebook subscription.
It’s just not healthy for folks to see the never-ending successes of my blended Christian family littering their feeds day in and day out. That’s pride — one of the seven deadly. And while I’ve got nothing but good things to say about the software and its ability to connect me with my many co-ed fans, it’s just got to be a drag for my brother Rudy — a widower and absentee father — to see how friggin’ much we all love each other all the time.
In addition, Mark Z has an allegiance to the Chinese that I cannot condone. He married one and his child is being raised as one. This man probably owns a martial arts outfit, and I will not be a party to his dark arts.
7. In 2017, I, Buck Crimshaw, 30-year veteran of news media and a brand ambassador for the K.C. Masterpiece family of grill sauces, resolve to fight tooth and nail to ensure that a pathway to “The American Way” remains open to all who seek it.
Except, of course, the illegals, male gymnasts, soccer people, DeGeneres and all who claim her, and the thousands of militant veganarians both known and unknown who seek to destabilize our way of life.
I love “The American Way.” In 2017, I will do all I can to protect it.