Recently, a young man was murdered—no, assassinated—because of his opinion. Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, John Lennon, Alan Berg, The Moores… all killed for absolutely no reason except someone disagreed with their god given right to a voice. Add Charlie to the list.

And unlike some of those names I just dropped, Charlie didn’t hate anyone. I don’t give a fuck what anyone says. He was a man of his own faith, unafraid to discuss any topic with anyone. Respectful, honest, willing to debate in good faith—and for that, someone decided he didn’t deserve to live?

As this story keeps rolling out, I can’t help but wonder: what the hell goes through a person’s mind that makes them think this is okay? That it’s somehow acceptable? Or worse—coming out on a public platform and cheering it? Saying he deserved it?

Nobody deserves to die because of an opinion.

NOBODY.

The most miserable shit I’ve heard from so-called Americans in the last few days makes me sick. Even here in little ol’ Boise, we had a vigil for Charlie. And some looney fuck decided it was a good idea to mouth off and cheer the man’s death.

And what happened next? Some folks—Idahoans, no less—beat the man. Right there at the vigil. And look, I get it… I understand that rage. But let me be very clear:

You failed.

You stooped to the level of violence the wolves want. You gave in. You lost control. And you suck for it.

Jordan Peterson once said:

“You can’t truly call yourself ‘peaceful’ unless you’re capable of great violence. If you’re not capable of violence, you’re not peaceful, you’re harmless.”

That quote hits deep in my soul. And yeah, it gets misinterpreted all the time, but to me? It rings absolutely true.

What Peterson means is this—peace is formed within. You must be capable of destruction and still choose restraint. You must have the power to hurt… and the wisdom not to.

Now let me tell you about something Lt. Col. Dave Grossman said that shaped how I see the world. He described three kinds of people:

The sheep, who go about their day unaware of evil.

The wolves, who feed on the innocent.

And the sheepdogs—the ones who protect the flock, who are just as capable of violence as the wolf, but only use it when absolutely necessary.

Except, I’ll take it a step further. I say 95% of Americans are sheep. 4% are wolves. And the last 1%? We’re the dogs. The guardians. The ones who stay alert, even when others sleep.

We recognize each other when we cross paths. It’s a quiet nod, a look in the eye, and an unspoken code: “I got your six.”

So here’s my final note to the 4%—to the wolves—those people who cheered Charlie’s death:

You’re on notice.
You crossed a line.
And now?

The sleeping dog just woke up.
And he’s on point.
Ready to protect the sheep from all you motherfuckers.

~Dick

Dreamcatcher. Stephen King. Early 2000’s movie. Jonesy had what he called a “Memory Warehouse.” Basically, a photographic memory — or as Sheldon would call it, eidetic memory. His brain was so good an alien took over his body just to poke around. But Jonesy was so in control, he could lock stuff up and keep the alien out.

I like to think I’ve got maybe half that talent. I can remember back to before kindergarten — about three years old. My mom asked if I was wearing underwear before a trip. I said yes. She didn’t buy it. Gave me the mom wedgie check and told me to go put some on. I can still picture the Chrysler LeBaron we were driving and the creepy old house with the basement. But I couldn’t tell you if I actually went back in to put them on or just got in the car. No clue. That’s my earliest memory.

I remember starting kindergarten too. Not the first day, but moments. I was four — one of the youngest. Most kids were five, except Jamie H., born the same day as me. Didn’t know that then. Mary Beth taught me how to draw a star. That random detail is burned into my brain forever. Why? No idea.

Then there’s the one from when I was maybe seven or eight. Weird one. I was asleep — or thought I was. My eyes cracked open toward the window…

Three sisters in a three-bedroom house. They shared a room. I had my own. Logical call by my parents. I was an asshole. Not nice. Maybe it was the “only boy in a house full of sisters” thing. (More on that another time.) Anyway — eyes cracked open, and I see a man. Big guy. Face pressed to the glass. Dark outside, but I could make out the features.

I froze. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Finally, I broke free — tried to yell — nothing came out. Frog in my throat. I bolted, ran to my parents’ room, and finally croaked out, “man… window… bad!!”

Dad, muttering under his breath, stumbles into dad mode — cop mode. Checks my room, looks out the window. Nothing. “It was a dream. Go back to sleep.”

Yeah, okay Dad. I didn’t sleep right again until I was 14.

Then puberty hit. Life got harder — in more ways than one. I got a job (thanks, Jake). High school. Too tired not to sleep. We moved, same town, still had my own room. Sleep came easy again — and so did the dreams.

Some of those dreams are keepers, but that door’s locked. Go ahead, try it. I’ve got plenty of memories from 6th grade on, but before I get there… 5th grade is a real keeper of a story. Coming soon.

Anyway, the whole point here — dreams. Real? Did it happen, or is it just a dream memory? No idea. But I know this — not knowing is probably for the best.

Because if I had full control of my memory warehouse… there are a few rooms in there that are better left locked.

— Dick, keeper of the locked doors

This is about a man I love.
He loves me, I love him — and we’re forever bound to each other in that love.

Before you twist it, it’s not gay.
It’s the ultimate friendship.
We tell each other “I love you” and it’s real.
If that makes you uncomfortable, that’s your problem.

We’ve known each other since 6th grade in 1988, when we were both 11.
Back then, we didn’t know who we were yet.
Thrown to the wolves in junior high, figuring out:

Who’s good

Who’s bad

Who are the weird kids

Who’s “normal”


We spent the next seven years mapping it out.
Then life split us up — I went into the Navy, he went to college.
But we never lost touch.
Never gave up on each other.

As we got older, I had kids and he’d visit.
He got married and we’d visit.
There’s this unspoken thing between us — he’s always got a room for me, and I’ve always got one for him.

Our families are one.
His sisters are my sisters.
His mom? I call her Mom.
Nobody replaces my mom, but she’s a damn good second place.

We’re built different.
I’m good with my hands — figuring out how things work, fixing them.
He’s good with people — how they work, how to talk to them.

It’s a perfect setup.
I’m the square peg, society is the round hole… and somehow, he makes me fit.

He’s one of the most genuine people you’ll ever meet.
Guys like me? We’re a dime a dozen.
Him? One of one.
If you ever meet him, you’ll get it.

Most people don’t have friends for 35+ years.
You might think you do… but you don’t.
You’ve got friendly relationships, people you talk to sometimes.
Social media makes it look like you have hundreds of friends — but you don’t.
Well… maybe you do.
I don’t.

I’ve got one.
The one I can call anytime, anywhere.
If he’s got cell service and isn’t in a dentist’s chair, he’ll answer.
If I say, “Buddy, I screwed up,” he’s got answers.

If he calls me and says the same?
My only question is, “Where do I need to be, and should I bring the truck to move the body?”

And yeah — I’d do it.
That’s the kind of friendship this is.

We’ve got decades of memories, and we still make new ones every year.
Every. Single. Year.

If you can’t say that about any of your friends, then you don’t have this kind of love.

There’s no better friend in the world than your true best friend.
Nobody compares.
Nobody replaces them.
They’re your rock when you’re in a hard place.

Everyone should have one.
Most people don’t — and that’s a damn shame.

Jacob — I love you, buddy. Now and forever.

Every Sunday night, I drag bedtime out like a little kid. Not because I’m not tired — I’m always tired — but because Monday morning is right on the other side. And I already know how it’s gonna go: wake up, make lunches, work, eat lunch, drive home, make dinner, do dishes, do chores. Then crash. Then repeat.

Five days of that. Every week. Every damn week.
Life is supposed to be fun, right?

That’s what they told us. Somewhere between watching *The Goonies* and getting our first paycheck, we were sold this idea that if you worked hard and did the right thing, things would get easier. Spoiler: they didn’t. If anything, it just got more expensive.

Lately, Jamie and I have been so bored we’ve been hanging out at the old folks’ home — I mean…my parents’ house. Not because we have to, because… what else is there? My son is still in the Navy, doing real shit that actually matters. My daughter’s out there navigating her own world, unknowingly channeling my sarcasm and stubbornness like a champ. And me? My friends all work at Chapala Mexican Restaurant. I know they are my friends because they always call me Amigo!

I’ve seen *Groundhog Day* enough times to quote it, but now it just hits different. I used to think it was funny. Now it feels more like a documentary. Alarm clock goes off, same tasks, same mental noise. Except I don’t get a montage of personal growth or a happy ending with Andie MacDowell. I get laundry and a fridge that stares at me every night like it’s daring me to remember why I opened it.

And let’s talk about the fridge for a second. Why do I open it twelve times a day like something new’s going to appear? Spoiler: it’s still mustard and regret.

I’ve been working since I was 13 — washing dishes and bagging groceries for minimum wage. I’ve paid taxes since 1990. That’s 35 years. And what do I have to show for it? Borderline alcoholism, a sarcastic worldview, and the sound of my knees popping every time I get up too fast.
People talk about retirement like it’s a finish line. That’s cute. I’ll work right up to lunch on the day I die. Then I’m clocking out.

I even read a book called How to Stop Being Negative, Angry, and Mean. It helped a little — but yeah, I’m still a Dick.

I get it now — this life, this loop, this never-ending to-do list — it wears you down. But I also know this: I’m not the only one stuck in it. There’s a whole generation of us who survived the ’80s, adapted to technology, raised kids, and now stare at the wall wondering when the hell we get to take a breath.

But some days, I fight back. I cook something good. I learn something weird. I listen to a podcast and question reality. I sit with Jamie and laugh about how I don’t have an ass — just one long stretch of lower back that never bothered to stop. Just straight spine to thigh. Nature skipped the blueprint on that one. But I know I’ve got one — because it’s always getting kicked. By life, by assholes, by the goddamn alarm clock.

Even if this is Groundhog Life, or the Matrix… I’m still here. Still me. Still punching the clock and living the dream…one nightmare at a time!

—Dick

I have not written in this blog for quite some time now, in fact it has been nearly three years since I last wrote. It is not because I don’t have an opinion anymore, but it seems that my opinion is being cancelled out because it is not in line with the “Main Stream”. This is a sad realization for me and the future generations of opinions to come. Though I have not written in three years, that is not the meaning of the title to this blog today.

Two weeks ago, my poor little pooch of 14 years, Scruffy, passed away in his sleep. Fine one day, gone the next. We loved that crazy little dog, no matter how much he pissed us off (or literally pissed on everything). He was the dog that no matter how angry you were with him, he still loved you, licked your face, tried to lick your ears for some reason, and he just always wanted to be loved.

Not a full week after the passing of my good friend Scruffy, we get a call from my mother in law saying that my wife’s older sister is in the hospital and not doing well. With little to go on we decided to open a bottle of wine and wait for further news. It came quickly and it was bad news. I immediately put my wife on a plane to go see her, but the outlook was not good. After making a bunch of phone calls and devouring another bottle of wine in my worry, the thought entered my mind…they come in 3’s.

My beautiful sister in law Jennifer passed away and my daughter and I made the trip to go be with the family and celebrate her life, we were gone for a week and even when we got home it just felt so empty. No little dog to love on us and irritate us at the same time. The loss of a wonderful person sat heavy on our hearts, and we just felt the loss hit home.

I still could not help but to feel this aching in my heart, a disturbance in the force if you will. Why wont this feeling go away? That is when it happened, number three. I get a message from my best friend of 32 years that his Dad Paul, who had been fighting cancer, had passed away. And that did it folks, that one broke the dam, it opened up a stream of sadness, anger, darkness and distress. It had happened, two people that I loved wholeheartedly and my unconditionally loving dog had all left my life in a matter of a week.

I need to tell anyone who bothers to read my rambling, incoherent nonsense of a blog a little about each of the loved that I lost, so here it goes…

Scruffy, the one who was in my life for the least amount of time, but the one who I know loved me in a way that no humans can ever love each other. There is always the joke about putting your wife and your dog in the trunk of your car, going for a drive and then seeing which one is happy to see you when you let them out. That in a nutshell was my Scruffy. There was no way to anger this dog, he never growled at a single person or ever intentionally tried to bite. He truly loved everyone he met and his sweet soul will be missed. What more can you ask for out of a dog, unconditional love is the greatest thing mans best friend has to offer and anyone who has never experienced that love needs to go get a dog ASAP!

RIP Scruffy 2007-2021

Jennifer was probably one of the sweetest people I have ever met in my entire life. She was the type of woman that would do anything for the ones she loved. Life was hard on Jen, and she was the least deserving of the harshness that life threw at her. No human being deserves to go through what she did in her life, I wouldn’t wish it on a mortal enemy. I have so many fond memories of her that it is hard to pick a favorite one., but this one is near the top of the list.

Nearly 20 years ago, my brother in law and I would often drink by a camp fire on the weekends and just enjoy the outdoors. Our loving sister in law Jen worked late into the night sometimes and saw us out having some beers late one night on her way home from work. To our delight, she stopped in to have a beer and chat with her two favorite brothers. Earlier in our drunken camp fire, before Jen arrived, we decided to see what would happen if you stuck a full can of beer in the campfire…well we forgot it was there. Not minutes after Jen sits by the fire, we found out what happens. That can blew up so loud and sprayed embers and sparks right in her direction, knocking her clean out of the chair. She got mad, brushed herself off, laughed, called us dumb and sat back down to enjoy our drunken company. Now, most people, if you blow them up with explosive beer, would get very angry and probably leave or plot revenge. Not Jen, never Jen. She loved hard, fought harder and will always be a loving memory in my heart and mind.

RIP Jennifer1977-2021

Paul was a man that I looked up to. Being around him was like having a second dad. Not many people in this world are blessed with having two loving fathers in their life, but Paul always treated me as if I were one of his own, including doing chores around the house. Paul was always the life of the party, he could make anyone laugh, just his presence was warming and wonderful to be around. When I turned 16 Paul gave me a job at Safeway where he was the manager. He was always able to help work around my schedule for school or other events, so yeah he was also a great boss. He raised my best friend to be a wonderful, hardworking man. He has three beautiful daughters that love him dearly, and a wife that is without question an amazing woman and mother to her family. I know that at some point in life we all have to say goodbye, but Paul is one man who I wish I never had to say goodbye to. You will be truly missed and were loved by many, make sure you have cold beer ready for me when we meet again.

RIP Paul 1950-2001