Episode 3 – Donkin’ It

In this episode, we discuss the important things in life, including, but not limited to, one-handed breakfast foods, career alcoholics and the improper modification of police auction Crown Victorias.

As always, NSFW unless you work at a really cool office where no one cares about anything.

Enjoy!

 

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Episode II – The Cast Awakens

It’s that time once again. It’s a new year, we’re all feeling optimistic about our productivity in 2016, and we have decided to have our own Axl Rose/Slash reunion for the SECOND ANNUAL Broadcast Outcast podcast.

The show is not intentionally annual. We just have trouble getting our crap together. Adulting is hard.

 

Links to some articles mentioned in the show are in the comments. Enjoy some light reading.

 

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Do Dogs Have Accents?

Took a little time to get it together, but the first episode of the new Broadcast Outcast podcast is live! Ray and I get serious with some of life’s most important topics, including the speech habits of dogs, non-existent trips to Mazzio’s, and Don Johnson.

 

For those who have never sat in on a conversation between the two of us, there is a bit of choice language, so we’re going to go ahead and say this is somewhat NSFW/R Rated for Language/TV-MA or whatever other Tipper Gore-inspired rating you want to give it. Listen here and have fun! More episodes to come!

 

-Dave

 

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A Good Man

My wife and I just got home from a wonderful trip to Colorado – our Christmas present to ourselves after a long year of grinding out a lot of different projects in our respective jobs. I’m still working out the details of a story about that, with pics. Hopefully that will flesh out soon.

 

Right now, it’s after midnight. Christmas Eve. A time when many of the people who will be reading this will be crashing in their old bedrooms at their parents’ houses. Or, if you’re like me, you’re sitting Indian Style, the way we always sat during morning choir at First Lutheran School throughout grade school. Sitting with a Macbook in my lap as Roseanne reruns play on Netflix and my wife and dog snooze in the bed around me. I have tried to avoid this topic, mainly out of vain self-preservation, but as my family sleeps around me, I find myself unsettled and contemplating a subject VERY unfamiliar to this twenty-seven-year-old.

 

On December 6th, a man who I grew up with died after a long battle with cancer. Chris Cecil was a grade ahead of me,  but he was probably the nicest kid I could have ever met at First Lutheran School. Despite dealing with frequent bone fractures over the years, physical pain rarely dampened Chris’s spirits. Always kind and willing to help anyone who needed it, I only have positive memories of Chris. A couple of years ago, after having not seen Chris for nearly a decade, he greeted me warmly with the familiarity of a long lost friend. He worked at a bank branch close by my work, and I saw him at least once a week for almost a year. Upon running across my mother, he greeted her with the same warmth and excitement. I feel guilty that I didn’t do more to maintain that friendship in the years between our childhood and adulthood, but Chris didn’t seem to notice. With him, all was good.

 

Tomorrow is Christmas. Whether or not you celebrate this holiday specifically, this time of year is a time when we all hold our families close. A time when we try to stop and appreciate our loved ones and give thanks for those who we hold dear. I can’t begin to imagine what this Christmas will be like for Chris’s family.

 

I’m not even sure what message I’m trying to convey here. Maybe nothing. Maybe this is just a moment of pure openness. A moment when a man in his late 20s is faced with the reality of death and wonders what the hell it all means. A man like Chris Cecil is gone, who also had a loving wife and bright future, but I’m still here. What does that mean? Is there a meaning?

 

It’s hard to know.

 

The only thing I can come up with that makes any sense is that Chris Cecil was a man of God. Simply put, he was a good man. He loved his friends and family in a way that takes most of us a lifetime to achieve. Maybe the rest of us need more time. That is the only explanation I can come up with, and it seems fitting.

 

God bless you, Chris.

What’s Art Without a Little Self-Loathing?

Frustration seems to be a required component to being involved in any form of art or creative media. In my own experience, whether I have been involved in music, fiction writing, news media, radio, or even editorial cartooning, I have never felt fully satisfied with anything. That can be blamed on others – this person or that person prevented me from reaching a point that I felt I was capable reaching. However, I’m starting to think that constantly nagging sense of disappointment, of always coming up short, is simply part of caring about your art.

I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t doing, or at least trying to do something creative. I have been a storyteller for as long as I can remember, and have always had an ear for music. Both writing (creative or journalistic) and music are things that I have been passionate about to varying degrees since grade school. Both are things I have studied, practiced and invested countless hours and an embarrassing amount of money into honing. In both of these passions I have been guilty of over-analyzing and criticizing myself. Whether that’s because a song didn’t turn out the way I had hoped, or an interview went badly, or if I just couldn’t figure out how to end a story and left it unfinished, all cases are equally frustrating.

Misery loves company, though, and I’ll confess that I do feel a little better knowing that I’m not alone in this. I’ve noticed this particularly in my wife, who is a photographer. Her work continues to improve every time I see her editing a new shoot, but she is as plagued with uncertainty, always questioning whether she is moving in the right direction artistically. Although always questioning her work is stressful, I can’t help but think that those questions are what keeps her from settling for “good enough.”

Most artists I have met are their own worst critics. A photographer who is always trying to re-work her editing style, a penciler/painter who can’t leave a piece alone when most would think it is a finished work, or a writer who tends to lean on sarcasm and isn’t sure how comfortable he is with more personal exposition. We all suffer with out own inner critic, and he writes the most scathing column in the boldest print available, published by a newspaper that should only be distributed in some ring of Hell. The only ones who don’t seem to have that devilish inner voice are the ones who think they’re going to be the next Hemingway or similarly famous artist because they managed to get an “A” in a creative writing/figure drawing/music theory class, and those people don’t tend to do anything very interesting.

As much as we hate it, and as much as it may ruin a day or week or longer while we struggle to find some sort of satisfaction with our work, we need that internal critic to push us to do better. Most of us that practice some form of creative art or media do so without pay, or at least not substantial pay. We write, sketch, paint, and compose because we don’t know how to not do those things, although we’re pretty sure we’ll never have them perfected either.

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