I'm pretty disgusted with the DJs around here. They're not cooperating; they're not playing enough Hagar/Chickenfoot. Don't know what their problem is, either. The narrow-minded dumb asses play stupid stuff like Red Hot Chilly Peckers, instead...guess they just need some educatin'!
But then there are some guys who are wiser than the general sort, ones who know when to hang on to their stubborn ideals and when to simply stop. (Like not taking the stage in a dangerous storm...for instance.)
I came across a passage in a novel I'm reading about Doc Holiday that I think Sam might like, since his dad used to box. It's about a legendary match in the mid-1800s:
"For millennia, one man had squared off against another on a point of honor or simply to settle a question, here and now, once and for all. Which of us is stronger? Which more fearless and more fearsome? Which of us is the better man? In all that time, empires had risen and flourished and stumbled and failed. Maps of the world had been drawn and redrawn; globes had been invented. Wars and revolutions and science and industry had changed everything--but not boxing. It took the Lilly-McCoy fight to do that.
As a kid, Bat Masterson studied accounts of the match the way better-educated boys read The Iliad. In Bat's opinion, the fight should have been stopped in the seventy-seventh round, and he was probably right. Even then, long before it was over, McCoy was in bad shape. All the newspapers agreed about that, and they'd recorded his condition in lascivious detail. Lips grotesquely swollen. Blackened eyes puffed to slits. Broad chest red and slimy with the blood he vomited in quick, efficient gouts during the half-minute rest between rounds. The darling of Irish immigrants, Tom McCoy would not concede, and swore he'd die before he'd let a fucking Englishman like Christopher Lilly best him. Cocky to the end, McCoy went 119 rounds, surviving a total of two hours and forty-one minutes until--choking on blood, blinded by it, speechless but head up and still defiant--he staggered into the ring from his corner, toed the scratch mark one last time, and fell down, stone-cold dead" (Russell 299-300).
(From Mary Doria Russell's "Doc")