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.

January 25, 2011

Rob,

It's Stevie.

I feel like I owe you an apology and an explanation.

I kinda am and am kinda not sorry I let Gut Rumbles go like I did.

I am sorry because I promised you I'd do this forever or for as long as I could and I didn't. I dropped the ball.

But, why I dropped it is why I'm kinda not sorry... I have a life worth living, finally.

It's not easy, it's not perfect, but it is enough to warrant my full attention, for the most part.
Even if the most part has been trying to survive....

Anyway...

I think I'm back.
I think I can now, once again, make an honest effort to do what I told you I'd do for you.
Because... Acidman, I still love ya.
Miss you like a sumbitch, too.

But, I'm not angry anymore about you leaving.
Not happy about it, believe me, but at peace with it, finally.

And, I think I finally have a firm grip on pretty much everything else, so... here we go, Darlin'.

And, I'll tell ya what... I promise, if I find I still can't keep up like I should, I'll find ya somebody who can.

Your legacy needs to live, period.

I want to do that for you.
One way or another.

You still are, always have been, and always will be, one of my heros.
And, I'll love you forever, no matter what.

Peace, Rob.
I do hope you finally have it...

More here »

March 01, 2010

the fine art of cursing

Originally published May 31, 2004

The proper use of profanity has been cheapened and defiled by gangsta rappers, professional athletes and people who never were trained in the art of good cussing. I really hate to see poor, ignorant foul-mouths abusing our colorful language that way.

I was trained to curse by some true experts. I never heard my father use a foul word until I started playing golf with him. Then I learned that my dad could cuss a golf ball as well as anyone on the planet. He was imaginative and creative in his cussing, too. He didn't use the same lines over and over.

"Sit DOWN, you wicked bitch! Don't fuck me like that! Awww, you heartless whore. Go on into the water, you rotten piece of shit! You need a goddam bath anyway, cocksucker." My dad could have been an excellent Marine drill sergeant.

I pride myself on have a very educated foul mouth.

But I also agree with this guy that turning off the cuss-instinct is difficult to do sometimes. I try not to cuss around Quinton or Jack, because little pitchers have big ears. If you say "fuck!" one time around a young'un, you can bet your sweet ass that it's coming back at you very quickly. I don't want my son to cuss until he's old enough to know what he's cussing about.

I learned to cuss well from a lot of time playing guitar in bars and working 24 years in a chemical plant. Some people just can't understand the message you're attempting to send unless you reinforce it with some creative cursing.

Handle a heckler in a bar. If you can't out-cuss that troll-like bastard, you're fucked, right there on stage. You've gotta put a big chomp on his nasty ass right off the bat, humiliate him in front of his audience, or he'll heckle all night long. I could chainsaw those assholes.

Working in heavy industry, I found myself bossing a lot of rough cobs. If you tip-toe around such people, say please and thank you, they'll eat you alive. I am not a big man. In fact, I'm kinda short and a lot skinnier than I want to be. But I had a job to do, and I relied on sheer, unmitigated attitude, combined with creative cursing to keep those people in line.

If I ever cursed an employee in front of a witness, I was subject to a grievance from the union, so I usually did it with no one else around. But when the time was right, I let fly.

"Just what the fuck did you think you were doing? I ain't puttin' up with that kind of assholery on my watch. If you can't get your shit in one sock and do your job the right way, I'll have your nutsack flying from the front-office flagpole tomorrow. I'll cook you like a goddamn Christmas goose. And if you think I'm lying, you dipshit, just go back out there and fuck up again. I'll have your ass on a stick over the hottest fire YOU ever felt."

Mr. Rogers, I wasn't.

Cursing sometimes is a very effective way to get an important point across to someone who doesn't want to listen. I keep practicing every day.

February 28, 2010

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.)

February 27, 2010

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.

February 26, 2010

resolutions

Originally published December 31, 2005

I stopped making New Year's Resolutions years ago. Before then, I would make the resolutions, convince myself that I was serious about keeping them, and then break every damned one, usually before the end of January.

That crap was a waste of my time and a real blow to my self-esteem. If I broke promises that I made to MYSELF, for crying out loud, I HAD to be a really shitty human being, worthy of NO ONE'S trust. I finally figured out that I was better off NOT making resolutions that I was bound to piss all over than I was lying to myself like a delusional, disgusting swine.

But, being in touch with my feminine side today, I have changed my mind. Here are my Resolutions For 2006:

1) I will drink no alcohol today. Or tomorrow, when that day comes.

2) I am going to get off my dead ass and start recording on my home studio. I've had the damned thing set up for more than two months now and I haven't done diddly-squat with it. I'm gonna cut my own CD of original songs with me playing all the instruments and me singing all the vocals. Then, I'm gonna sell the CD on my blog.

3) I'm going to start playing golf regularly. I'm going to get good at the game again, too.

4) I WILL NOT buy any more firearms or musical instruments in 2006. I have more of those than I need already.

5) I will continue to blog.

6) I will sail to Belize with Recondo 32 this summer. I will survive the trip, too, even if I have to put his lovely, loud-mouthed wife, Georgia, in the lifeboat and tow her on a line 50 yards behind us when she gets in one of her bitchy moods. (Yes, she intends to go, too.) If she keeps bitchin' after that, I'll just cut the tow-rope when Recondo isn't looking. He's deaf. He'll never hear her cries for help.

7) I'm gonna get a cat for a pet, take LOTS of "cute" pictures of it and post the pictures on my blog every day. Heh. I threw that one in there just to take the pressure off of keeping ALL my resolutions.

8) I'm going back to Costa Rica at least TWICE in 2006.

9) I'm going to start a light weightlifting program and gain another 20 pounds. I'm still too weak and skinny to suit myself. I'm eating a lot better than I was, and I don't want to get fat. Yes, I am older than dirt, decrepit as hell and losing my hair, but I'm still vain.

10) I'm going back to work on my novel and I will finish it in 2006. I also intend to sell that fucker, make a mint and retire AGAIN, this time in Costa Rica.

Those should be no problem to keep.

February 25, 2010

the plan worked

Originally published December 30, 2004

As I write this post, I have two wimmen cleaning my house. They're going at it like whirling dervishes, too. I was politely (well, maybe NOT so politely) told to get out of their way. I was happy to oblige.

Heh. They like staying here, but they couldn't stand the filth. They are correcting that problem as the scent of "Splash of Rain" wafts through the Crackerbox from the tart-burner they bought me today.

Earlier, I mourned for a moment, because Samantha informed me that the spider behind my commode was dead. I checked, and sure enough: he was gone to that great web in the sky. In fact, he appears to have gone there quite a while ago without saying goodbye. I just didn't notice.

Wimmen have a cleaning gene that men just don't possess. I was counting on that fact when the girls came to visit. They are proving me right, once again.

I LOVE IT when a plan comes together!!!

February 24, 2010

the truth

Originally published February 28, 2005

I once thought I knew The Truth. I once thought that I could see it and understand it. But I was mistaken.

The older I get, the more fungible and diaphanous Truth seems to be. It's not etched in stone. It's more like a bead of mercury sliding around on a plate of glass. You can see the perfection of the bead, but you can't pick it up. If you try, it breaks into smaller pieces and they all form their own perfect little beads on the glass and you can't pick up any of those, either. If you play with those beads long enough, they will poison you.

That's the Truth.

February 22, 2010

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.

February 21, 2010

In a pissy mood

Originally published September 5, 2004

I get this way sometimes. Things that I should ignore just PISS ME OFF on days such as this one. I started yesterday when a group of evangelicals knocked on the door wanting to bring the Word Of God into my life. I sent them scuttling with a blast of profanity that would have impressed a drunken sailor. I didn't wave a gun at them, but I was about to.

I shouldn't have done that, because it was rude behavior on my part, but it was MY goddamn door and I was watching football at the time. Unless God could score a touchdown for my beloved Georgia Bulldogs, I didn't need any back-pack-wearing, apple-eyed pie-hole coming to preach at me.

I'll tell you what else I don't need. I don't need anybody doing anything for "my own good." I'll either run my own life or fuck it up all by myself. I am a grown man. I don't need or WANT your "help." Just go away and leave me alone. If I end up in the gutter, that is the result of MY choices.

I can live with that.

February 20, 2010

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.