This is the blog of Rob 'Acidman' Smith, who passed away June 26, 2006. Acidman was a unique voice in the blogosphere; an extraordinary raconteur with a fascinating life from which to draw his stories, from his roots in a Kentucky coal-mining town through a career as a musician and as a journalist to his years managing the production of a sulphuric acid plant.

Whether writing about the best way to make boiled peanuts, his intense love and respect for his family and friends, commentary on the politics of the day, or blazingly honest revelations about his life's challenges, he had an extraordinary way of drawing the reader in and making them think. He singlehandedly created a massive community of readers, commenters, and friends from literally all over the world and was responsible for encouraging hundreds of people to take up blogging. For an idea of just how far-reaching an effect he had on the world, read the outpouring of comments on the posts from the week he passed away.

Writing about why he blogged, Rob described it as:

an exercise where I stuffed notes in bottles and threw them into a vast ocean where I hoped someone would find the bottle and read the note. But that's not really what I was doing. This blog was my lifeline that towed me to shore when I was totally shipwrecked. It kept me alive for more than two of the worst years I've lived in my life. I wasn't stuffing notes in bottles. I was standing on the shore and shouting frantically for rescue. People came. I WAS rescued. And I will always appreciate that fact.

It was Rob's express wish that Gut Rumbles remain online, especially for his son to read as he got older, and so it shall. As much as possible, the site remains in the state in which he used it. Current posts are drawn from his extensive archives and presented on the front page. To further experience this extraordinary man and his writing, wander through the links to his archives shown at the bottom of the sidebar on the left.

You are missed, Rob.

September 28, 2009

Recondo 32 and I

Originally published August 18, 2004

Rick was raised in the small mill-town of Clinton, South Carolina, just south of Spartanburg. He and I have a lot of things in common, because a mill-town isn't much different from a coal mining camp. You either worked in the mill or you SOLD THINGS to millworkers, the same way you either worked in the coal mine or sold things to coal miners. That's where all the money came from.

Rick and I are adventurous eaters. We like to be in the middle of nowhere and see a small diner on the side of the road. If there are three cars in the parking lot, we figure that they aren't poisoning people left and right, so we stop to get a meal.

Sometimes that's good, and sometimes it's not so good. Sometimes we've stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall that served food just like Grandma used to cook. We made good ole, Southern grunting noises while eating that food, sopping up gravy with fresh cornbread and cleaning our plates. We left big tips for the waitress, too, who kept our glasses of iced tea full while we ate. That was good stuff.

Other times, we knew that the cook was opening boxes of Swanson frozen dinners and making no effort whatsoever to season them. That was a lot like eating cardboard, but we still tipped the waitress if she kept our tea glasses full. When you stop to eat at those kind of places, you may hit bingo or you may go bust, but you KNEW the job was dangerous when you took it.

Somebody posted some absolute blasphemy in my comments about iced tea. FUCK YOU!!! Ya can't GET decent iced tea out west or up north. Those fucking yankees don't know how to make it. When we hit Lexington, Kentucky, on our way back home, Recondo started his usual droning about how backward Kentucky was until we went out to eat. Then, he took one sip of his iced tea (which was served in a semi-BUCKET, the way tea is meant to be served) and he said, "Sweet Jesus. I'm back down South again."

If you're a Southerner, you know what I'm saying. If you DON'T KNOW, go piss up a rope, you yankee fuckwit.

September 27, 2009

My top ten

Originally published June 1, 2004

My ass is still chapped from watching that Top 100 Country Music Songs countdown last night. I totally disagree with the judges. If "Stand By Your Man" is the greatest country song of all time, I'm a got-dam brain surgeon. Here is MY Top 10:

10) "Blue Moon of Kentucky" by Bill Monroe, the Father of Bluegrass.

9) "I Walk The Line" by Johnny Cash.

8) "Help Me Make It Through The Night" by Kris Kristofferson.

7) "Orange Blossom Special" by any of dozens of people.

6) "Gentle On My Mind" by John Hartford.

5) "Mama Tried" by Merle Haggard.

4) "Faster Horses" by Tom T. Hall.

3) "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" by Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs.

2) "Crazy" by Patsy Cline.

1) "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" by Hank Williams.

I had to leave off a lot of really good songs, but that's my Top 10. I like my list a lot better than the one the judges chose last night

September 26, 2009

Non-musicians won't understand

Originally published June 1, 2004

Tonight, when I was watching that dumbass Greatest Country Songs countdown, they hit #3 and brought out some finalist from American Idol to sing "Crazy," which is my all-time favorite Patsy Cline song and the best thing Willie Nelson ever wrote in his life.

I sat on the floor totally unmoved by the performance. That woman hit all the notes and the band was good, but the song just didn't feel right. She sang "Crazy" as if she were happy to be on that stage. Patsy didn't do that. She broke your fucking heart when she sang that song. There wasn't a damned thing happy about it, and she let you know.

Why is it that some people FEEL music and other people don't? I'm talking about both listeners and players. How can a woman with a voice as beautiful as the one I heard sing tonight just totally butcher Patsy Cline? How could people not feel the difference between going through the motions and really FEELING the music?

I'll have to think about that question while I play my guitar.

September 25, 2009

I call bullshit

Originally published June 1, 2004

Here are (allegedly) the top ten country music songs of all time:

10) "Mama's Don't Let Your Boys Grow Up To Be Cowboys" (Waylon and Willie)

9) "Behind Closed Doors" (Charlie Rich)

8) "Galveston" (Glenn Campbell)

7) "I Fall To Pieces" (Patsy Cline)

6) ""Friends in Low Places" (Garth Brooks)

5) "Your Cheating Heart" (Hank Williams)

4) "Ring of Fire" (Johnny Cash)

3) "Crazy" (Patsy Cline)

2) "He Stopped Loving Her Today" (George Jones)

1) "Stand By Your Man" (Tammy Wynette)

Bull-fucking-shit is all I have to say. "Help Me Make Through The Night" didn't make the top 100. Neither did "Gentle On My Mind." I still believe that "I Walk The Line" is the best song Johnny Cash ever recorded. Go through the grist-mill of divorce court the way I have and listen to "Stand By Your Man." You'll want to upchuck.

I don't know who picked that Top Ten, but I think they need to dig some serious wax out of their ears.

September 24, 2009

Country music

Originally published May 31, 2004

I never realized that I was a fairly poor boy when I was growing up. I was fed, watered and clothed and I knew that my parents loved me. They gave me all they had to give and I thought that was plenty until I hit high school.

That's when I learned that my clothes sucked. I couldn't be "cool" without Gant shirts, Gold Cup socks and a Barracuda jacket. My parents couldn't afford such shit, so I bought my own clothes. (Did I mention before that I've had a job almost all of my life since I was 12 years old?) I wanted THE UNIFORM that cool high school students wore.

It took me years to realize how foolish I was at the time. My parents may not have had much money, but I was a lot richer in other ways than most of the "cool" people I tried to emulate. I was a dickwit at the time.

Tonight, I've been listening to The Top 100 Country Music Songs Of All Time on CMN. My pick for the very best country song (Hank Williams: "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry") came in #32, so I am curious to see what is #1. But this has been a rough evening.

I've sat on the floor and cried a few times tonight. "Coat Of Many Colors" by Dolly Parton made me think of my mama, and tears rolled down my face. "I Can't Stop Loving You" by Ray Charles made me think of Jennifer and my son, so I cried some more. "Will The Circle Be Unbroken" made me think of my whole family and I wept like a baby. "Strawberry Wine" by Dena Carter brought back memories of better days, set around a kitchen table where I played guitar and the woman I loved sang that song. "Forever and Ever, Amen," written by Paul Overstreet and Don Schlitz, and performed by Randy Travis, was the song my brother and my old-time singing partner, Sally Roundtree, sang at my wedding when Jennifer and I were married.

I cried some more.

Say what you will about country music, but it cuts straight to my heart. The words and music are so simple, yet so earthy that I fall head-first into the songs. They are about my life. I am a hillbilly and a Georgia Cracker. That kind of music sings to my soul.

Aw, shit. I don't know what I'm trying to say. If you don't get it when you hear the music, you're never gonna get it. It's either IN YOU, or it's not.

It's IN ME, and I want to watch the rest of the show.

September 23, 2009

Shuck beans

Originally published August 18, 2004

I am amazed by the number of people who wrote me emails asking what in the hell are "shuck beans." If you've never eaten them, you have not lived a proper life.

Shuck beans are nothing more than your typical Kentucky Wonder green beans, the kind that grow like ivy and climb anything you put around them. I used an old piece of fence nailed between two poles to train MY beans and they ran over and through that fence like kudzu. They had beans hanging off those vines like Jamacian dreadlocks. I could go out and fill a five-gallon bucket with them when they really started producing.

To make shuck beans, you just pop the ends off and peel the strings from those regular green beans and then run a needle through them and hang 'em on long pieces of thread until they dry and rattle in their shucks. Then, you soak them in water overnight, throw 'em in a pot with some salt, fatback and a few new potatoes and cook them all day on the stove.

That's the best mess of beans you'll ever taste.

(By the way, that "mess of beans" is a Kentuckyism that means a whole bunch, enough for a good meal. "I picked a mess of beans today," means it's enough to fill a good-sized pot.)

September 22, 2009

Breaking the law

Originally published May 31, 2004

I believe that Martin Luther King wrote an essay when he was locked in the Birmingham jail during the civil rights movement that pretty much sums up my philosophy about being a law-abiding citizen. I may go Google the speech to see if I am correct, but I don't really care. No matter where I read it, it is the way I live my life.

I am a free man. Government puts certain constraints on me through the threat of overwhelming force, which means that the faceless assholes can seize my assets, throw me in jail and TRY to humble me, but nothing they do to me will change what I believe.

I remain a free man.

I don't obey laws that I think are senseless. I also don't consider myself to be a criminal for doing so. I consider myself to be a free man. I carry a handgun in places with strict gun-control laws. I exceed the posted speed limit on the highway. I gamble on illegal games of chance. I have rented a prostitute.

If I were your neighbor, you would like me. I would never break into your home, steal your belongings or molest your children. If you needed help with a home-improvement project, I would be the first to volunteer assisstance. If you went on a two-week vacation, I would collect your mail and pick up the newspaper from the driveway every day, and keep an eye on your house while you were gone.

I don't behave that way because of any laws. That's just the way I was raised. I don't NEED laws to make me act like a decent human being. And I won't obey laws that I think are stupid.

We have way too many laws in this country now. Government has taken a nation of free men and women and transformed them into sheep through excessive regulation, excessive taxation and excessive intrusion into things that are none of government's business. I sometimes believe that if our Founding Fathers could see what their ideal of freedom and a true republic has become, they would be twisting like windmills in their graves.

You can heed the shepherd if you want to. But I won't.

(ADDENDUM: I didn't write this post lightly, nor am I drunk. I am a free man staring right into the maw of the monster, and it is poised to take everything I own. I expect to go to jail for "Contempt of Court." I will be guilty, because I hold divorce court in total contempt. But I WILL NOT DO what that Court Order says that I'm supposed to do. That is a law that I refuse to obey. And I'm willing to back up my words with my actions, no matter what price I have to pay. That's a true American attitude, if you ask me.)

September 21, 2009

Monkeys

Originally published May 30, 2004

I stayed at a place called "The Hotel California" when I was in Martin Antonio, about a mile away from a Costa Rican National Park. I had some kind of big, flowery bush growing right up to the handrails of my second-story porch and a three-foot iguana lived there. I went out for a morning cigarette and said "buenas dias" to him every day. He just sat there in the bush and munched leaves.

I was accustomed to my friend, the giant lizard, and I kinda liked having him in that bush. He didn't bother me and I didn't bother him-- plus, his presence added to the tropical atmosphere. If you're in Costa Rica, you're SUPPOSED to see some giant lizards, right?

But The Day Of The Monkeys was something else. I bought a pack of Belmont cigarettes the night before and I was smoking one of those locally-manufactured sticks when I went outside to say good morning to my lizard. I heard a loud ruckus in the trees. It wasn't screeching or chattering that I heard--- it was simply the sound of large objects bending limbs and rattling the leaves. I watched to see what it was.

The next thing I know, I have a FUCKING TWO-HEADED MONKEY looking at me from about a foot away in the same goddam bush the iguana lived in. I took a step back and glanced down at my cigarette. What the fuck did Costa Ricans put in their tobacco? Back in my college days, I smoked some heavy shit, but I NEVER saw a two-headed monkey before, not even in my worst nightmares.

All of a sudden, the trees were swarming with monkeys, eating mangos and dodging some kind of brown birds that dive-bombed them with the aggression of a southeast Georgia mockingbird. I realized then that I hadn't seen a two-headed monkey. I saw a mama with a baby on its back. There were several such pairs racing through the trees. The babies hold on so tight while mama climbs and jumps that they LOOK like one monkey with two heads.

I watched them for almost an hour; then, they went away.

I finished my pack of Belmont cigarettes, but I didn't buy any more. The sight of what I thought was a two-headed monkey in an iguana bush at 6:00 in the morning was more than I could stand.

Yeah. I had serious adventures in Costa Rica.

September 20, 2009

My good deed rewarded

Originally published August 17, 2004

I had some shopping to do today and I ended up at the Winn-Dixie Customer Service Desk to buy a book of stamps. I was in line behind a very attractive young woman with a pair of the prettiest red-toenailed feet I've seen in a long time. She was a beauty and she was talking on a cell phone to someone while she performed whatever transaction she was there to do.

She had a daughter, about six years old, named Megan. I know this because Megan was restless waiting on her mama and mama had to bark at her a couple of times. "Megan, you settle down and behave! I'll be finished in a minute." I didn't mind the wait. I liked looking at her. That woman even had pretty ears.

She finished her business and walked away, leaving her cell phone and her keys on the Customer Service counter while she hurried off to catch her wayward child. I spoke very loudly: "Darlin,' I think you forgot something." She turned and looked back at me appearing somewhat stunned. Bejus, but she was beautiful. There I was, a scruffy, old unshaven fart who probably made her think of felony sex criminals when she saw me. I pointed at the cell phone and the keys. "These are yours, aren't they?" I asked. "I don't think you want to leave them here."

She said, "Oh, my GOD! Thank you!" and she came back to retrieve her belongings. "You are so sweet." Then, she stood tip-toe on those pretty red toenails and kissed me right on my unshaven cheek. I almost fell down. "I don't know where my brain goes sometimes," she said as she walked away. "Thank you again."

No, darlin.' Thank YOU! You made my day.

September 19, 2009

Not older, but better

Originally published August 17, 2004

Some wines, good bourbon and hand-made guitars get better with age. People don't.

What am I BETTER at now than I was when I was young? Let's think about that one... okay, I am a better writer than I was when I was young and I'm a lot better at crossword puzzles today. I've done enough traveling that I can find my way around ANY airport better than I once could. Wimmen don't intimidate me anymore. I am aware of my own mortality and that fact doesn't frighten me.

But... I can't run and jump and burn the candle at both ends the way I did when I was young. I don't kick as high anymore. I stay tired a lot. I was a weight-lifting 40-miles a week jogger in my younger days. I once was a stud-muffin and now I'm an old geezer.

Am I better in bed than I once was? No, I don't think so. I know how to please a woman better than ever, but youthful enthusiasm, all-night stamina and a ceaseless quest for adventure outweigh what I feel now about sex.

To tell you the truth... I would rather have a woman rub my aching back than give me a piece of ass. I've HAD a lot of ass. But a good back-rub is difficult to find. I'm getting kinda like that old farmer down the road from me. He says, "I tell my wife to promise me some every night. I don't GET it, but she promises me and that's good enough. Once I couldn't wait to have some. Now I always feel like I just had it."

Growing old is a bitch.

September 18, 2009

Feeling depressed

Originally published May 30, 2004

I miss my son. I wanted to talk to him today, but every time I called I got nothing but the answering machine. I left a message for him to call me, but I haven't heard back from him yet.

I wonder where he is?

I have a bag full of goodies, gee-gaws and other things I bought for Quinton in Costa Rica. I want to give it to him, if I can ever track him down. I don't give a damn what the law says--- what Jennifer has done to drive a wedge between me and my son is worse than her slipping off in the dark (and later in broad daylight) to throw her pussy to the wind. I don't give a shit what she does with her pussy anymore.

But I still love my son.

My father made one hell of an impact on my life. We didn't agree on a lot of things, but he was one hell of a man and he helped me a lot through the years. He was my Yoda--- the wise one I consulted with when I wasn't certain what to do next. He drove me hard, and he often barked at me when he thought I needed it, but he never failed to give me good advice. I didn't always follow it, but I'll miss him until the day I die.

I want to have that kind of impact on Quinton's life. I may be a crazy old buzzard, but I've learned a lot through 52 years of fire and rain. A boy needs a father in his life and I still remember what it feels like to be a young boy. I could help him a lot with things NO WOMAN understands, even if she does believe that she's Supermom.

Yeah, I've fucked up. But I don't believe that I'm a bad man and I'll never believe that Quinton is better off without me. I am his father and I always will be. Nobody else can ever change that fact, no matter how many men Jennifer decides to sleep with.

I miss my boy.

September 17, 2009

It's in my will

Originally published August 17, 2004

When I die, I expect somebody to sell all my stuff and divide the money between my two children. Samantha gets her share right away, but Quinton won't see a dime until he's 18 years old. Whatever legacy I leave will be held in trust for him until he heads off to college. I don't want Jennifer to have a chance to fuck with my life's work any more than she's doing now.

I made my will a 50-50 split between Sam and Quinton and I hope that they never fight about it. There'll be plenty to go around. The sickest thing I've ever seen in my life is a bunch of relatives fighting over a dead person's assets. (The worst case of that I ever saw was led by a Baptist minister. Man of God, my ass.) I'll never do that and I hope that my children don't, either.

But I singled out one thing in my will--- my Martin guitar. THAT goes to Quinton, whether he ever plays it or not. I just hope that he takes care of it. It ain't that hard a job and even if he's NOT musical like his daddy, his son or his daughter might be, and I'm leaving them a fine instrument.

I hope that guitar is still ringing when nobody named "Smith" even remembers who I was.

September 16, 2009

I love my family

Originally published May 29, 2004

I went to see my mama and my grandmother today. My Uncle Virgil was there, too, and we had a nice, long conversation about a lot things other people wouldn't understand. We laughed a lot, but my family is famous for witty repartee and a good sense of humor.

My grandmother just turned 93 years old. She's tiny and frail now, but she was a pisscutter in her younger days. Virgil told about how, when my grandfather administered haircuts to him and his two brothers, Mommie (that's my grandmother) always made sure that all three had enough hair left on their heads so that she could grab a handful and snatch them around when they fucked up. She would check the length of the cut, nod approvingly and say, "That's a good haircut. I can grab that."

Mommie was fixing supper one afternoon and wanted to make some cornbread, but she was out of buttermilk. She gave my Uncle George some money and told him to go to the store and buy a quart. George became distracted by some game he was playing and didn't scoot off quickly enough to suit Mommie. "I thought I told you to go to the store and buy a quart of buttermilk," she said to George, who was still playing in the yard and oblivious to his responsibility.

"I'm going in just a minute," he replied, which was the wrong thing to say to Mommie. She grabbed a switch and laid a nice lick on one of his bare shoulders. "You'll go RIGHT NOW!" she said, drawing back for another swipe. George went, kicking up a cloud of Kentucky dust behind him.

When George came home with the buttermilk, he had a nice, red welt on his arm from the switch-mark. "Look, Mommie," he said, pointing to the V-shaped stripe on his arm. "You made me a private."

"Yes, I did," Mommie replied. "And if you ever ignore me like that again, I'll promote you to sergeant."

She meant it, too.

I have hundreds of such stories to tell. I've heard a lot of them more than once, but I never get tired of hearing them again. I come from a long line of good storytellers. A meeting of my relatives is a lot like a blog-meet. If you want to get a word in edgewise, you'd better talk first and talk loud.

My family is quiet and shy, just like me.

September 15, 2009

Wordplay

Originally published August 16, 2004

I shamelessly stole this idea from here. I like word association games.

Server - Fuck if I know. I'm a computer nitwit. Explorer, maybe?

Charlotte Steve Hamby's ex-wife. Somebody I had the chance to ball once and I didn't because she was married to my best friend. I don't do that kind of thing, but if I met Charlotte again today, all previous bets are off. Steve is dead now. Also one of my favorite cities to visit in North Carolina.

Jackson Michael, and I hate myself for saying that. You can bet your sweet ass he'll never get his gloved hand on MY son if I have anything to say about it. Not that I own a sawed-off shotgun or anything like that. I'm just sayin'...

Resentment A festering boil that never goes away. I try to treat people right. I don't like it when they don't return the same favor to me.

Controlling A good boss on one hand and a lying manipulator on the other. "Control" is a tricky word. As a boss, I wanted to GUIDE people, not control them. But I know people who crave CONTROL over others and I don't like them. Those people are used car salesmen, lawyers and Democrats.

Intense My emotions. I don't do ANYTHING half-way even though I wish that I wasn't the way I am.

November A dreary month, too cold for a Southern boy. Even the nekkid trees appear to shiver in the wind in November. I hate that month.

Donkey A beast of burden that I would like to ride someday. A briar-chewing, ASS which is a fitting symbol for the Democrat party.

Weave What my mama and grandmother used to do on the front porch while they gossiped about the neighbors. Don't tell me that busy hands will keep your mouth closed. I know better.

Satisfies A warm woman in my bed on a cold night. There's nothing better than snuggling under the sheets with a woman who doesn't snore or hog all the covers. I feel really good with one arm across her chest as I feel her breathe. If I have that, I don't care how cold it gets outside.

How's that for word association?

September 14, 2009

Words of wisdom

Originally published May 29, 2004

My daddy was a wise man. (he also looked kinda like Clint Eastwood) He taught me three lessons that have stuck with me for most of my life, and I see more truth in them every day.

1) "If it looks too good to be true, it IS too good to be true."

2) "Nobody else in this world is going to give you something for nothing except for me and your mama, and even when WE do it, you'd better step back and examine our motives."

3) "If you're lucky, you don't have to be good. But I've noticed that the harder I work, the luckier I get."

If people want to tear down the Ten Commandments in public places, let them post my daddy's advice instead. If more people took those words to heart, we'd have a much healthier country.

Oh yeah. Daddy was also fond of saying, "If it was easy, any asshole could do it."