Since today is Saturday, we’re doing an album… and it feels downright wrong not to kick this whole thing off with Back in Black (AC/DC).
But here’s the problem with favorite album questions… they’re a trap. Because the second I say Back in Black, my brain goes: What about Rumours (Fleetwood Mac)?
💿 Then it’s, Hold up… What’s Going On (Marvin Gaye)?
💿 And of course you can’t not respect The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill
💿 And Straight Outta Compton (N.W.A.)… don’t judge me, judge your own playlist.
💿 Then somebody screams London Calling (The Clash)
💿 And a faint whisper of Led Zeppelin IV and I’m done for
Point is… there isn’t a single BEST. There’s just what hits you in the moment, what raised you, what saved you and what still makes you crank the volume like you’re paying the electric bill in vibes.
So tell me…
What are your favorite albums?
What was your favorite at 16 at 21 vs now?
Two quick updates before I go…
1️⃣ I just realized I didn’t even mention Billy Idol or The Doors which is honestly shocking and possibly a misdemeanor.
2️⃣ If you’re doing Back in Black, you do it right
♠️ You start at Track 1 and you go straight through Track 10
♠️ All 42 minutes.
♠️ Do not interrupt this concert.
♠️ No pausing.
♠️ No skipping.
♠️ No “hold on I gotta answer this call.”
♠️ Respect the experience.
And because my brain refuses to behave… let’s just go ahead and toss Sam Cooke in here too, because that man belongs in every conversation about music. Period.
So… everybody’s got their New Year’s Resolutions locked and loaded, right?
Some folks make a list. A LIST. Like we’re about to storm the beaches of Normandy with a planner and a protein shake.
Others pick one BIG, shiny goal and slap it on January like a fresh bumper sticker: New year. New me.
And look, I get it. Something about January makes us feel like we’re supposed to overhaul our whole existence before the Christmas tree even finishes shedding its last needle. But is the BIGCHANGE approach actually helpful… or is it just loud?
Because every year, we all watch the same thing happen:
🎉 People post lofty aspirations
🎉 People feel inspired for about 9 days
🎉 Then life shows up with groceries, traffic and a lower back that suddenly has opinions
What if the problem isn’t motivation… what if the problem is scope?
Big goals aren’t the enemy. Vague goals are.
“I’m going to travel more in 2026.” Okay. Love that for you. But that sentence is like saying, “I’m going to eat better” while standing in the chip aisle. It’s not a plan, it’s a wish.
Try this instead:
🤔 Pick one or two specific destinations.
💋 Not Europe. Not the beach. Pick actual places.
💋 Then do the most magical thing known to mankind…
Talk to your travel agent. Make the deposit. Boom. Done.
That’s not just a resolution. That’s a decision.
Same with reading. “I’m going to read more” is sweet, but it’s slippery.
Try:
📕 1 book a week if you’re a fast reader
📕📗 2 books a month if your life stays busy
📃 10 pages a night if your attention span has been personally victimized by social media
Now you’ve got something you can actually measure. Progress feels good. Progress keeps you going.
Resolutions, but make them smaller and meaner
Not mean like hateful. Mean like effective.
😕 Instead of: I’m going to get organized
🙌 Try: Every Sunday, I’m clearing one surface. One.
😕 Instead of: I’m going to get healthier
🙌 Try: I’m walking 20 minutes three days a week. Start there.
😕 Instead of: I’m going to save money
🙌 Try: I’m auto-transferring $25 every payday.
Quiet. Consistent. Powerful.
Tiny wins stack up. And stacked wins turn into real change without the drama.
My twist this year: I’m not really doing the whole New Year’s Resolution thing. I’m switching it to my birthday. Because honestly… wouldn’t that make more sense?
January is everybody’s fresh start. It’s loud and crowded and full of other people’s expectations. But your birthday? That’s your personal page turn. Your individual new chapter.
And here’s the thing… it’s not just a chapter in some fancy hardcover book. It’s a journal you’re writing in real time. You choose what goes on those pages. You choose what gets remembered.
Those pages become the kind of memories our children, grandchildren and people we love carry forward. Maybe they’ll read them one day, maybe they’ll just feel them long after we’re gone on to be with real Jesus instead of hanging down here with tiny Jesus.
So yeah… I’m making my commitments on the day that belongs to me.
And if you’re reading this on Journeys With Jani, consider this your permission slip to do the same. Skip the giant vague promises. Pick a couple of specific things. Make them doable. Put dates on them. Put money on them if needed. Put accountability on them if you’re serious …like, get an accountability partner!
A resolution isn’t a personality trait. It’s a choice you repeat.
Now… go make one that actually sticks.
And I promise DJ MJ will be back this afternoon with a music blog.
For today, my brain is stuck on three numbers: 33, 45 and 78.
Because honestly… what was better for my generation than vinyl? And those 45’s with the little spinner? Yep. The spider. The tiny plastic magic that made the whole thing work.
I had so many little carrying cases for my 45s and I would do just about anything to have them back.
When I was in elementary school, my mother gave me $1.00 for an allowance and trust me when I say I did absolutely nada to earn it. Unless you count taking care of myself in her absence like every other Gen X kid.
But that dollar meant something. It meant freedom. It meant music.
Saturday at Ashley Gardens Apartments in New Holland, Pennsylvania in the late 70’s, I would grab my dollar, hop on my bike (which was basically a treasure for any kid) and take off to Stauffer’s Drug Store down the street. My mother sort of knew where I was but that was just standard back then. We did what we did as kids and showed back up for lunch.
Back to Stauffer’s.
Stauffer’s had this display of 45 records… as in 45 RPMs… and it was always the most popular 45’s for that timeframe. With tax, one record was $1.00.
Heck. Yes.
My music lovin’ little heart was fulfilled nearly every single Saturday.
And if it was raining? I pouted. Unless I could talk my mother or her boyfriend into taking me. Which usually worked.
Denny and my mother were the essential base of my love of music.
So I’d walk up to the counter with my 45 in hand and the cashier would place it in a flat brown paper bag along with a “spider.” A spider is actually called a 45 adapter but spider was the slang. I had one spider for every single 45… red, blue, yellow, maybe green.
Out the door, package in the basket on the front of my bike and back down the street. Key in lock. Up the stairs to my bedroom. Open the cabinet to my record player. Yes, I had my own because music was essential in that house.
Then the ritual.
Shimmy that spider onto the spindle.
Turn it on.
Move the speed to 45.
Place the needle exactly right.
Listen to the crackle (IYKYK).
Then it would begin.
I would sit right there and listen for two or three turns and if it was some pop or disco song, I would dance around my room like a Solid Gold dancer. Slower songs, I would lay on my bean bag and dream about being Leif Garrett’s girlfriend.
These are the memories I hold lovingly to.
Because in our childhood there can be so many painful things that happen and it can be so easy to allow those to swallow us whole. I absolutely would never say to bury that because I sure as hell can’t nor want to.
What I do believe is this. I choose to allow my soul fulfilling memories to be greater than soul draining ones.
If 2025 had a soundtrack, it would be a mix of Rebel Yell (I’ve got something to say) & Don’t You Forget About Me (…while my brain is buffering). That pretty much sums up my year of writing.
Some days the words showed up like they owned the page. I had something to say & I said it. Other days I sat there staring at a blank screen like it was a personal attack. Writer’s block is such a cute little phrase for something that can feel so frustrating. It’s not that I had nothing in me. It’s that I had too much… it all got tangled up somewhere between my heart & my hands.
That’s when I have to talk about my mental library… because that’s exactly what it feels like up in there. Some parts of my mental library are beautifully organized. Label makers, color-coded tabs, a whisper-quiet reading room. You could eat off the floors. Other rooms are… not that. Other rooms are like a blind chia pet is the librarian & everything is just flinging itself off shelves for sport.
Then there’s the vault.
The vault is the mysterious part of my library that stays locked down so tight that even I only have limited access. I truly believe it’s my soul’s protection mechanism. It’s the place where certain memories, certain truths & certain stories stay tucked away until my mind & heart decide I’m ready.
Here’s what I’ve learned this year though. The more I write, the more often things get released from that vault. Not all at once & not always when I expect it. But piece by piece, the pages start sliding out like, “Okay… you can handle this now.”
That’s why I kept coming back.
Because this blog was never just a blog. It was the beginning of something bigger. The book is the reason I started all of this in the first place. The blog became my practice ground… where I could find my rhythm, test my voice, tell the truth in smaller pieces & remember that I’m allowed to take up space on a page.
This year I wrote about travel, about life, about people, about kindness, about the things that make me laugh & the things that make me stop & think. I wrote through the busy seasons & the tired seasons. I wrote when I felt inspired & I wrote when I felt stuck. Sometimes I published with confidence. Sometimes I hit post & walked away like I’d just jumped off a cliff.
And somehow, that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.
Now let’s talk about 2026.
I’ve got a notebook full of ideas already. Not a vague -oh I should write more- kind of notebook. I mean a real deal, filled up with titles, notes, half-formed thoughts & little sparks that I refuse to ignore. Travel stories I can’t wait to share, reflections that need room to breathe & topics I’ve been circling for a while, waiting until the timing felt right.
And yes… I’ve got a few little surprises up my sleeve too.
I’m not ready to spill every detail yet, but I will say this: 2026 is going to have more intention. More follow-through. More depth. More humor. More honesty. And more of me showing up on purpose instead of only when everything feels perfectly lined up.
If you’ve been reading along, sharing posts, commenting, messaging me, cheering me on quietly from the sidelines… THANK YOU. You’ve made this feel like more than me talking into the void. You’ve made it feel like community.
So here we are. End of 2025. Page turning. Deep breath.
I’m walking into 2026 with a notebook full of ideas, a heart full of stories & a promise to keep writing… even when it’s messy, even when it’s hard, even when it’s not perfect.
Welcome to my annual purge. Not a meltdown… a cleanse. A spiritual exfoliation. The Hold My Earrings edition where we say the quiet part out loud, then go make somebody a glass of sweet tea & move on with our lives.
Because 2025 was loud. Like, exhaustingly loud.
So here we go. Bundled up nice and neat… like a rant basket with a bow.
💥 Bundle #1: Travel Advisors Are Not Free Google–
Let me clear my throat for the people who keep just wondering all the way to booking on their own. It costs you nothing to use a travel advisor. If you ask me for ideas, resorts, routes, best areas, is this a good deal, what would you do… that’s planning. If you take all that info then book it yourself, agents make $0.
If you want to DIY, do it. I respect it. Just don’t treat my experience like a free sample tray.
You’re not saving money by skipping an advisor… you’re just skipping the person who could have saved your trip when the airline decides to act possessed.
💥 Bundle #2: AI Is a Tool, Not the Devil-
AI photos, AI captions, AI planners, AI whatever… some folks are acting like a robot snuck into their house & stole their moral compass.
Here’s my take:
👩💻 If an AI photo makes someone feel better about themselves, good
👩💻 If someone uses AI to write, plan, create, organize, market, brainstorm… also good
👩💻 If you don’t like it, scroll on with your righteous thumbs
People are out here trying to survive life with confidence held together by caffeine & duct tape. Let them post the picture.
Now the religious & political rants all over Facebook… whew.
Some of y’all are out here preaching, judging, condemning, threatening to unfriend like it’s a spiritual gift.
Newsflash: being loud isn’t the same as being right.
If your faith makes you cruel, you missed the point If your patriotism requires you to hate everyone, also missed the point If your entire personality is arguing online, baby that is not a hobby
More listening. Less running our mouths.
💥 Bundle #4: The Mom Wars & the Grandma Olympics–
Let’s talk about the parenting gatekeepers.
The young moms who think they’ve got a lock on motherhood because they watched three parenting reels & bought the beige toy set.
And the grandmas who think they know more than the young moms because back in my day their babies survived on love, Tylenol & questionable car seat decisions.
Here’s the truth:
It all falls somewhere in the middle.
Young moms have valid instincts & new info Grandmas have experience & perspective Nobody needs to act like the Supreme Court of Parenting
We could all calm down & help each other instead of competing over who has suffered more and who knows best.
💥 Bundle #5: Breathe Before You Blow a Fuse–
Half the internet needs a snack & a nap.
Let’s do more breathing and less holding it in until we explode on somebody who didn’t even deserve it. Let’s stop living on the edge of a meltdown like it’s a personality trait.
And when that irritating neighbor gets under your skin… instead of fantasizing about doing something you’d regret…
Make them some sweet tea.
Extra sugar.
Because bitterness will wear you out way faster than people will.
❤️ The Point of This Whole Rant
This is Journeys With Jani, and I’ve learned something this year… Peace is a decision. Boundaries are holy. Silence is powerful. Kindness is still a flex.
So in 2026, I’m trying to do less arguing, more living.
Less reacting, more observing.
Less internet warfare, more actual joy.
If you agree, come sit by me honey. I’ve got sweet tea & zero desire to fight strangers online.
All families have stuff. The difference is back in the day, there was no social media. Unless you were famous, nobody knew your mess… except the local Baptist ladies who met up once a week to “pray.” And by “pray,” I mean they had a full report, names included.
We also didn’t have cell phones. Or caller ID. The phone rang, you answered, and if a relative made you mad… there was nothing more soul-satisfying than slamming that heavy receiver down on the base.
BAM.
“End call” doesn’t hit the same. It’s like trying to win a fight with a sticky note. You can throw your $1500 iPhone into a brick wall but then the only person you punished is your own wallet. Apple is not moved by your emotions.
But here’s what I was thinking about today: people are different.
Even inside the same family, raised in the same house, by the same parents, kids can come out wildly different. Like straight from the womb. One is cautious. One is fearless. One is tender. One is a tiny CEO with opinions and a five-year plan.
And before anybody gets their feelings hurt… none of those personalities are wrong. None of them are right. They’re just different. Different wiring, different strengths, different ways of moving through the world.
Some people are regimented. They stick to the plan. They don’t veer. Those are the steady ones. The dependable ones. The ones you can count on to show up, handle it, keep the wheels on the bus.
And then you’ve got the “fly by the seat of your pants” folks. They go with the flow. They hate boxes. They roll with change like it’s their natural habitat. That can look like chaos to the structured people, but it isn’t always. Sometimes it’s creativity. Sometimes it’s adaptability. Sometimes it’s survival. Sometimes it’s just how they’re built.
Neither one is better.
The steady ones give the world stability. The flexible ones keep the world from breaking when the plan goes sideways. We actually need both. Families need both.
And it’s not just work and church and social circles where we run into people who are different than us. It’s in our own living rooms. At our own tables. In our own bloodlines. The people we’re tied to whether we like it or not.
Me? I’m somewhere in the middle as an adult.
What I know is the people who truly loved me made room for me to be me. And I’ve always tried to make room for people who aren’t like me.
Because we have got to learn to be gentle with each other.
Not fake gentle. Not “bless your heart” gentle while you silently judge somebody into the ground. Real gentle.
We’ve got to stop labeling people like they’re either “the good kind” or “the bad kind.” We’ve got to stop acting like different automatically means difficult… or wrong… or less-than. It doesn’t.
It just means different.
And yes, sometimes the differences are annoying. Sometimes they clash. Sometimes you want to go outside and scream into the wind like an 80s music video. But if we can learn to pull the positive instead of hunting the negative, we’ll see something else: most people are just doing the best they can with the tools they’ve got.
And sometimes… family isn’t just different. Sometimes it’s painful. Sometimes it’s wounds
Not just Sunday God.
Everyday God.
The God who shakes His head when I’m driving down the road and somebody is going slow and I say all the bad words. Yep. Same God.
And let me tell you something else I know for sure… I’m real glad He doesn’t treat me the way I’ve deserved over the years. Whew. If God loved me only when I earned it, and handled me based on what I “deserve,” I’m pretty sure I’d already be sitting in the hot place with no sweet tea.
But He doesn’t.
He keeps loving me anyway.
Can I get a HALLELUJER!
I 100% know me and God are different. And yet… there He is. Loving me anyway. Handling my craziness anyway. Laughing at my fourteen prayers in thirty-one seconds anyway.
So as we walk into 2026, can’t we just TRY to be better to each other?
In our families. In our friendships. In our churches. In our workplaces. In our daily interactions with strangers who might be carrying more than we’ll ever know.
Can we pause before we react? Can we assume there’s more to the story? Can we choose grace even when it’s not convenient?
As I sit here writing this, tears have started streaming down my face. I usually take hours and sometimes days to write a blog. Today was just a pouring out.
If someone out there needed this today, I’m glad it found you.
Not “I could use a nap” tired. I mean heart-tired. Brain-tired. Soul-tired. The kind of tired that makes you stare at the ceiling and think, Lord, if one more thing breathes near me wrong, I might just run away.
And I’ve been down this road before. I know I have. I’ve written versions of this in my head a thousand times. But here I am again because apparently my life enjoys a recurring theme.
Over the years I’ve slowly learned something that sounds simple but is surprisingly hard to live out…
Sometimes the smartest thing you can do is sit back, close your eyes, and breathe peace in.
Not because you’re weak. Not because you’re letting it go. Not because you’re pretending it didn’t happen.
But because not everything deserves a reaction. And impulsive reactions rarely fix anything anyway. They just create a brand new mess you now have to clean up while you’re already tired.
There are two ideas that keep bumping into each other in my mind lately, and honestly they’re really the same idea wearing different outfits.
1. You are not responsible for other people’s actions, but you are 100% responsible for your reaction.
2. Learn to sit back and observe… not everything needs a reaction.
Let’s talk about both.
The hard truth about self-responsibility
People do what they do.
Some folks are kind. Some are chaotic. Some are sweet as pie until they don’t get their way, then they act like a toddler who lost custody of the remote control.
You can’t control any of that.
You can explain yourself perfectly and still be misunderstood. You can be generous and still be judged. You can do everything right and still get someone else’s mess splashed on your shoes.
But here’s the part that took me years to accept…
My reaction is mine.
Not theirs. Not the situation’s. Not the “but they started it” committee.
And yes, I know. Sometimes the reaction feels automatic. Like it just happens. But most of the time, it happens because we’ve practiced it. We’ve reinforced it. We’ve built a little mental shortcut that goes straight from triggered to reacting.
When my heart is tired, my impulse tries to convince me that reacting is power. That if I clap back, correct, defend, explain, or set the record straight, I’ll feel better.
Sometimes I do… for about twelve minutes.
Then the adrenaline wears off and I’m left with the same situation plus the aftertaste of, “Why did I waste my energy on that?”
Self-responsibility is choosing not to hand your peace over to someone else’s behavior like it’s a party favor.
It’s saying, “You can do what you do… but you don’t get to steer my nervous system.”
Observational wisdom is not passivity
This is the part people misunderstand. Sitting back and observing doesn’t mean you’re a doormat. It means you’re the owner of your own oxygen supply.
Observation is a pause with purpose.
It’s giving yourself enough space to ask:
🤔 What is actually happening here?
🤔 What story am I telling myself about it?
🤔 What do I want the outcome to be?
🤔 What response gets me closer to that outcome?
Because here’s the truth… reaction is usually about relief, not results.
Reactions are the emotional equivalent of slamming a door. It releases energy, but it rarely solves the problem.
Observation is different. Observation is you noticing the door, noticing your hand on the knob, and deciding whether this moment deserves a slam or a soft close or a full-on exit stage left.
And yes… sometimes the answer is absolutely “exit.”
What travel taught me about reactions
You know I’m going to bring travel into this, because I can’t help myself. It’s my real-life classroom.
Travel has taught me more about emotional regulation than any self-help book ever did.
Flights get delayed. Weather does what it wants. People show up unprepared, overpacked, undercaffeinated, and occasionally allergic to common sense. I can’t control any of that.
But I can control how I respond.
I can respond like, “We’re doomed, everything is ruined, the universe hates us.”
Or I can respond like, “Okay. Here are our options. Here’s what we can fix. Here’s what we can’t. Let’s move.”
One of those responses drains you. The other one guides you.
And honestly, that’s the whole point.
The peace-breathing practice, real-world edition
When I say breathe peace in,I don’t mean you need a mountain retreat, a sound bath and a robe made of ethically sourced clouds.
I mean a simple moment where you interrupt the cycle.
Here are a few ways I do it when I’m tired and my emotions are trying to run the show:
✋ Pause long enough to name it
😡 This is anger
😭 This is hurt
😱 This is fear
😑 This is me feeling disrespected
Naming it keeps it from shapeshifting into a whole personality.
Don’t answer on the first draft.
📲 That text you want to send?
👩💻 That comment you want to leave?
🗣️ That speech you want to deliver in your kitchen like you’re in a courtroom drama?
📝 Write it. Save it. Walk away.
If it’s still true later, you can respond with a clearer mind.
If it’s not, congratulations… you just saved yourself from being your own regret.
Ask, “What does peace cost right now?”
🕊️ Sometimes peace costs your pride.
🕊️ Sometimes it costs your need to be understood.
🕊️ Sometimes it costs your need to win.
The price can feel unfair. But the alternative is paying with your energy and I’m sorry, I’m on a budget today.
Choose your boundary, not your battle.
➡️ A reaction fights the person.
🔃 A boundary protects you.
A boundary can be:
🖤 I’m not discussing this right now
🖤 I’m going to step back
🖤 I’m not available for that kind of conversation.
🖤 This is where I end the interaction
❤️ You don’t have to convince anyone.
❤️ You don’t have to get permission.
❤️ You just have to follow through.
Let silence do some of the work.
Silence is not weakness. Silence is a strategy.
Not everything needs your energy. Some things need your absence.
The part nobody wants to hear
Sometimes the situation doesn’t change. Sometimes the person doesn’t change. Sometimes you do everything right and it still hurts.
But if you can keep your reaction from becoming your prison… you’ve already won something huge.
You can’t always control what happens to you. But you can decide what happens inside you.
And when you’re tired… that decision matters even more.
Because tired hearts don’t need more chaos. They need steadiness. They need softness. They need a moment where you stop performing your pain and start protecting your peace.
So if you’re tired today too, I’m right there with you.
😌 Close your eyes for a second.
✌️ Breathe in peace.
🧘🏽♀️ Breathe out the need to react.
Then do the next right thing… calmly, clearly, and without letting somebody else rent space in your spirit for free.
This is Journeys With Jani… and apparently today’s journey is learning how to stay unbothered on purpose.
A few weeks ago my firstborn said something to me about making my granddaughter mind.
Now… I love that boy with my whole heart. But in that moment, my eye twitch applied for a promotion.
Because yes, he’s her daddy. He gets final say. I heard him, I nodded, I said ok like a civilized adult responding to the boss.
Then I went right back to doing what grammas do.
My boys never really had the classic grandparent setup the way I did. My Grampa and Gramma were straight out of a movie (minus the Yuengling & Jameson). I did no wrong. They spoiled me. They comforted me. They loved me with every fiber of their being, no fine print attached.
My boys had their paternal side, but they were as old as my own grandparents. Papa died when they were little. NeeNee had so many grands, but she did think my boys could do no wrong. Then there were my parents. My mother could “spoil” but it came with a contract. She kept score like a bookie. It wasn’t love, it was leverage. She didn’t have any love to give.
My dad was in prison until my boys were in their late teens. Complicated doesn’t cover it. But I do know this, he thought those boys did no wrong. He still thinks that. And now he loves being a great-grandpa like it’s his favorite title on earth. And he is going to always show up for them!
So when my son says “make her mind,” what I hear underneath it is, “Help me shape her.”
And I get it. I do.
And before anybody gets offended… let me explain the difference between parenting and gramma-ing.
Parents have to be the mold. They have to hold the line. They have to teach routines, responsibility and consequences.
Me?
I’m the comforter.
I’m the peaceful place.
I’m the soft landing.
I’m the fun-der-dome.
Yes, I teach behavior. I’m not raising tiny feral raccoons and sending them home like “good luck, Godspeed.” But I do it like a gramma. I redirect instead of barking. I soothe first, then I sort. Because kids need an escape from the mold sometimes. They need a place where love isn’t earned by being perfect.
And here’s why I’m like this: I love my boys with everything in me. Jake and Jarrett do no wrong… of course they do, but I love them regardless. Then they had babies and suddenly I got to watch that love come back around in little faces and little voices and little arms running full speed at me like I’m the finish line.
That moment where they light up and yell “Gramma!” and squeeze you like you’re oxygen? That’s joy and blessings times two in a single moment.
And love like this isn’t about DNA. It’s about belonging.
I didn’t give birth to my bonus son, Mitch. I married his dad when Mitch was 21. But the grandsons Mitch gave me? Same love. Same heart-exploding joy. They know what grandpas and grammas are for. At our house, they play, fish, sing, dance, make up stories, eat cookies too late and fall asleep next to their gramma after a good movie… because they KNOW they’re safe and loved.
And truth be told, my first grand came another way too. When Jarrett got married, I had an instant grandchild who was about two. I loved her instantly. The bond is a little different only because she wasn’t around me as much, so we didn’t get that day-to-day rhythm. But the love? Every bit the same.
I’m her gramma always.
Parents tell the kids, “You better behave at your gramma’s.” The kids swear they will. I swear I’ll make them. And we all know I’m gonna do what I want.
Because I’m a gramma.
That doesn’t mean no rules. It means different rules. We use manners. We don’t hit. We don’t act ugly. We clean up. We’re kind.
But if you’re tired, you can melt into my lap. If you’re sad, you can cry. If you need comfort, you get it first.
So yes, I respect their parents. If Daddy says no, it’s no. I’m not here to undermine, I’m here to support.
But I’m also going to love loud. I’m going to keep the magic alive. I’m going to be the soft landing.
Love doesn’t require matching DNA. It requires showing up.
Punk isn’t a haircut, a safety pin, or a pair of Docs. Punk is a decision. It’s the moment you realize the world is full of made-up rules… and you simply do not accept their terms.
Punk rock is what happens when that decision gets loud. It’s music built on urgency, nerve and DIY stubbornness. Short songs, sharp edges, big feelings, zero permission slips.
It’s not perfect.
It’s honest.
The music history, with the eyeliner smudged on purpose:
Before punk arrived, it had a bunch of troublemaking cousins.
Proto-punk: the spark before the fire:
This is the stuff that foreshadowed punk’s attitude and guitar bite before the scene had a name.
🖤 The Kinks were already dropping distorted, riff-forward chaos in “You Really Got Me” back in 1964 and yep, it gets tagged as proto-punk for a reason.
🖤 Iggy Pop with The Stooges helped write the whole no rules/ no shame blueprint.
🖤 Patti Smith’s Horses (1975) is basically poetry, grit, and gasoline.
Ground zero vibes: the clubs and the first waves:
A lot of this energy got concentrated in places where the floors were sticky and the dreams were loud. CBGB opened in 1973 at 315 Bowery and quickly became a major launchpad for punk and new wave.
The Ramones: the three-chord blueprint:
If CBGB was the clubhouse, the Ramones were the wrecking crew with a plan. Formed in New York City in 1974, they took rock back to the basics… fast, simple, loud, and weirdly addictive. Britannica flat-out credits them with cultivating that simple three-chord sound that became the foundation of punk rock. And when their self-titled 1976 debut album hit, it basically laid down the punk rulebook: guitars like noise, drums like a sprint, vocals like a dare.
Translation: they didn’t just play punk. They helped define what punk sounds like.
Post-punk and new wave:
When punks got artsy, spooky or synthy. Post-punk shows up in the late 1977 wake of punk, keeping the DIY energy but getting more experimental. This is where a bunch of your “was it punk?” bands live and they absolutely count in the punk family tree.
🧷 Siouxsie and the Banshees: formed 1976, post-punk pioneers with style sharp enough to cut glass.
🧷 Blondie: formed 1974, punk/new wave roots with pop instincts and CBGB cred.
🧷 Devo: formed 1973, art-punk weirdos who made “different” look like the whole point.
🧷 Gary Numan: “Cars” drops in 1979 and basically moonwalks synth-pop into the punk-adjacent universe.
🧷 The Psychedelic Furs: founded in 1977, straight out of the post-punk scene.
🧷 The Smiths: formed 1982, not “punk rock” like a mosh pit, but absolutely post-punk/alt in the lineage.
🧷 The Cult: formed 1983, early post-punk/gothic rock before they went bigger and harder.
So… The Clash? Punk royalty 👑
The Smiths, Psychedelic Furs, The Cult? Punk’s cousins who went to art school then came home with better cheekbones.
That still counts.
Hardcore punk: when punk stopped being cute about it:
Hardcore is punk with the speed cranked and the politeness removed.
🏴 Black Flag: formed 1976, foundational hardcore.
🏴 Dead Kennedys: politically sharp, satirical, and loud like a siren in your living room.
Crossover and chaos: when punk picked a fight with metal
⚔️ Suicidal Tendencies: formed 1980, major crossover thrash energy.
Punk’s “wait… why is this making me cry?” corner:
🖕 Violent Femmes: formed 1981, folk-punk awkwardness in the best way.
And yes, we are saying Billy Idol with punk… correctly:
❤️ When you say Billy Idol and punk in the same sentence, you mean Generation X-era, not White Wedding on MTV (even though we love that, too). And you’re right to separate the eras.
Generation X formed in London in 1976 and that band is punk/new wave/pop-punk right in the bloodstream of the scene.
❤️ Billy starts there, then his solo career takes that snarl and packages it into bigger pop-rock hooks… and honestly, that’s not betrayal. That’s evolution with good hair.
😇 Where I come in… because punk isn’t a museum piece
I was that Class of ’87 girl who refused to fit one mold, floated through every circle, dressed how I wanted, wore my hair how I wanted, did what I wanted… and if somebody didn’t like it, well, they could die mad about it.
That’s punk. Not the label. The posture.
And now my version of punk fashion has grown up a little… it’s less “Docs stomping the hallway” and more Coach black leather buckle boots. Polished, yes. Still a problem, absolutely.
XOXO🖤, Jani
Punk Family Tree Playlist: Jani’s Edition
🎸 First-Wave Punk Fire:
Ramones – Blitzkrieg Bop Ramones – Judy Is a Punk Ramones – Sheena Is a Punk Rocker Ramones – I Wanna Be Sedated
🖤 Proto-Punk Spark
The Kinks – You Really Got Me The Kinks – All Day and All of the Night The Stooges – Search and Destroy Iggy Pop – Lust for Life Patti Smith – Gloria Patti Smith – Free Money
👑 First-Wave Punk Fire
The Clash – London Calling The Clash – White Riot The Clash – Clampdown The Clash – Should I Stay or Should I Go
❤️ Generation X Billy Idol
Generation X – Ready Steady Go Generation X – Kiss Me Deadly Generation X – Your Generation Generation X – Dancing With Myself (Gen X version)
🧷 Post-Punk, New Wave, Art-Punk
Blondie – One Way or Another Blondie – Hanging on the Telephone DEVO – Uncontrollable Urge DEVO – Whip It Gary Numan – Cars Siouxsie and the Banshees – Hong Kong Garden Siouxsie and the Banshees – Cities in Dust
🏆 Punk-Adjacent but Family
The Psychedelic Furs – Pretty in Pink The Psychedelic Furs – Love My Way The Cult – She Sells Sanctuary The Smiths – This Charming Man Violent Femmes – Blister in the Sun Violent Femmes – Add It Up
🏴 Hardcore
Black Flag – Rise Above Black Flag – Nervous Breakdown Dead Kennedys – Holiday in Cambodia Dead Kennedys – California Über Alles
🖕 Crossover Chaos
Suicidal Tendencies – Institutionalized Suicidal Tendencies – Possessed to Skate
If loving pizza is wrong then I do not want to be right.
My love of pizza is next level… as in I could eat it every single day and still act surprised when someone suggests pizza for dinner. Like, “Oh wow, pizza? What a creative idea!” Meanwhile I’m already halfway to the car with my stretchy pants and my dignity in the other room.
Pizza has been with me through every era of life. Every glow-up. Every meltdown. Every “I don’t know what I want to eat” moment that magically ends in pepperoni.
🍕 School Lunch Pizza Was a Whole Situation
Let’s start with the real OG: school lunch pizza back in the day.
That pizza was not trying to be authentic, artisanal, wood-fired, locally sourced, hand-tossed by a man named Luca. No ma’am. It was a rectangle. It had that slightly sweet sauce. The cheese was doing its best. And that crust… bless it… it was both chewy and soft in a way that makes no scientific sense.
But I loved it. We all did. You’d get that slice on a flimsy tray with a little cup of corn or peas pretending to be a side dish and you felt like you’d hit the jackpot.
Was it gourmet? Absolutely not.
Was it happiness? Yes it was.
🍕 Pizza Hut in the 80’s Was Peak Living
Now listen. Pizza Hut in the 80’s wasn’t just a pizza place. It was an experience. It was a destination.
Those red plastic cups? Iconic.
The dim lights? Cozy.
The smell when you walked in? Better than perfume.
Pizza Hut pizza back then hit different. That pan crust had a little crisp on the bottom, buttery edges, and enough cheese to make you feel like your bones were being blessed. And don’t even get me started on the sheer joy of tearing into a slice while the grownups talked about grownup stuff and you got to live your best life with a straw in your Coke and zero responsibilities.
Honestly, the 80’s were wild but Pizza Hut was stable. Pizza Hut was reliable. Pizza Hut understood the assignment.
🍕 And then there were those Chef Boyardee pizza kits.
Lord have mercy. If you grew up with those, you know exactly what I mean. You felt like a full-on chef. You were out here mixing sauce like you owned a restaurant. Rolling that dough out like you had a cooking show. Sprinkling cheese with the confidence of someone who had never once paid a bill.
Was the crust a little… dense? Sure.
Did the sauce taste like “sweet tomato paste with ambition”? Yes.
Did it matter? Absolutely not.
Because it was pizza you made yourself and that meant it was a masterpiece.
🍕 My Current Pizza Personality
Here’s the thing. I’m not picky about pizza. I’m passionate.
I can respect a fancy pizza. I can appreciate the thin crust, the char, the little basil leaf placed gently on top like it’s tucked in for bedtime.
But I also love the bold stuff.
Deep dish Chicago style? Oh yes. A glorious, dramatic casserole of cheese and sauce that requires a nap afterward and maybe a commitment to better choices tomorrow. The kind of pizza you eat with a fork and a prayer.
And then there’s the giant slice from Joe’s on Broadway. That’s not pizza. That’s a New York moment. That’s the kind of slice you fold like a pro and suddenly you feel cooler than you actually are. A big, floppy, perfect slice that drips just enough grease to remind you it’s real.
Mamma Mia.
🍕 Pizza Goes With Everything
And here’s the part nobody can argue with… pizza goes with everything.
A crisp Coca-Cola on a hot summer day? Perfect.
A Corona after hitting a few balls at the park? Also perfect.
Maybe you wanna be fancy and pair it with a nice glass of Grape Creek Cabernet Trois? Do it. No one will judge. Well, I won’t judge anyway.
In fact, offer me pizza and wine or maybe a Buffalo Trace neat and I am in.
Actually… I’d be in at pizza and tap water.
🍕 Pizza Isn’t Just Food… It’s Comfort
Pizza has been my comfort food forever. It’s celebration food. It’s “we survived today” food. It’s “I don’t want to cook and I’m not sorry” food. It’s the one thing that can show up at a party and everybody stops arguing.
I don’t care if it’s square, thin, thick, deep dish, folded, cheesy, crunchy, loaded, basic, bougie, or straight from the freezer at midnight. Pizza is faithful.
And honestly? In a world full of chaos, I respect a food that shows up hot, comforting, and ready to make everything feel a little better.
So yes… my love of pizza is next level. I could eat it every day. And if you ever want to win my heart, don’t bring me flowers.
Journeys With Jani 