I've always found it funny how you build friendships with people. Some friends were always meant to be and others were always ones that constantly needed work. I guess it's true in any relationship one has with another human being.
It's true, even if you don't want to admit it, that you make sacrifices for friends. These are never verbally talked about, because it's just something that happens. For example, there have been times when I didn't want to go out to the bar but my friends really wanted to. Looking for a lady to dance with, or a chance to just go out, let loose. I know I didn't want to go out, but I did because that's what friends do.
Of course there are much larger events in one lives that test you. That go further then the "wingman" and go beyond anyone's expectations. It's a court date. It's a wedding. It's a birth. Things that you don't agree with, but have to show support, because it's what you do.
Friends also don't ask questions. Though it kills to want to know that answer to what's troubling the other, you know you shouldn't ask. That they'll come to you when the time is right. To me...that's fucking cool. There have been many times when I don't want to talk. Even when I'm in a good mood, I don't want to talk.
But how much should one sacrifice to make sure that their friendship stays strong? How much does one give up of themselves to assure that things stay "cool"? Is it the right thing to do? Is it the wrong thing to do?
When you make a compromise for one friend, then you feel that you should do it for another. "I'll just let it slide this one time." The one time becomes two, and three, and four until you forgot what you were doing. You've gone off the path and in your friends eyes, you see that twinkle in their eye, but they miss it in yours. Assuming, not knowing what you have given up to make sure that there is peace in the world. It's a tough gig..being friends with me. It takes a lot out of me sometimes cause I tend to worry. I tend to make sure that everyone's happy and even though people tell me that I should focus on me first, I never listen. I guess I'm stubborn but it's what keeps me going...being a friend of a friend.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Bless You...More Like Bless Me.
It is official...I have retired from using the term "Bless you" when someone sneezes. I just can't do it anymore. The reason...I just find it stupid. There are many explanations of why this came about. One for example is that people believed that when you sneezed, your soul was escaping. Another reason is that when you sneezed, there was an opening for a demon to enter. The list goes on and on.
With time, the meaning has been lost and when it's used, it's more of a systematic function. When one says, "hello," you reply with, "hello." I'm done now people. I'm just sick of saying it twenty times a day. I really don't see the need for it. Plus, not everyone believes in that method and I guess I'm one who tries to be P.C. (I said tries).
If I fart and burp, I'm the one expected to say, "excuse me." Why would I? I'm farting and burping out loud to be gross and disgusting. I am aware that I am doing it so why would I try and get out of it by "excusing" myself. The thing is, everyone burps and farts, just like how everyone sneezes. So why does the sneeze get to be the exception? This isn't very fair.
I believe that when I fart or burp, you should "bless me." It's the only way that justice is going to be served. I want justice served on a cold platter. With a side dish of "thank you" and "you are so right."
With time, the meaning has been lost and when it's used, it's more of a systematic function. When one says, "hello," you reply with, "hello." I'm done now people. I'm just sick of saying it twenty times a day. I really don't see the need for it. Plus, not everyone believes in that method and I guess I'm one who tries to be P.C. (I said tries).
If I fart and burp, I'm the one expected to say, "excuse me." Why would I? I'm farting and burping out loud to be gross and disgusting. I am aware that I am doing it so why would I try and get out of it by "excusing" myself. The thing is, everyone burps and farts, just like how everyone sneezes. So why does the sneeze get to be the exception? This isn't very fair.
I believe that when I fart or burp, you should "bless me." It's the only way that justice is going to be served. I want justice served on a cold platter. With a side dish of "thank you" and "you are so right."
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Bram's Panties. By Dave M.
I have encountered a problem. A question of integrity, sentimentalism, and character and now I need the help of the atthecornerbar community to give me guidance on an important, perhaps life altering decision. I could simply ask the question, but the issue is so complicated that it requires some background so that you can fully comprehend the nature and importance of the decision that now lies before me. Please help me if you can.
The roots of this issue arose around about the year 1994. About 11 or 12 years ago I had occasion to slumber through the evening with Dan. By “with Dan” I mean that I spent the night at his house. I don’t know why, I cannot recall the circumstances of this particular encounter. I don’t know if we were hanging out and the night got out of hand, or if we had some early morning engagement that I felt more comfortable sleeping with Dan and embarking on the journey together early in the morning. I don’t remember if we shared a bed or if I took the couch, or if there were more than just us, such a Bram himself, Nathan and Randy all lined up in sleeping bags in front of the TV enjoying an exclusive viewing of “Dawn of the Dead” or some other fine cinematic masterpiece of similar ilk. Like I said, I just cannot remember and it is truly unimportant. It was the next morning when our story, or…happening begins.
It was in the morning when I realized that I did not have a clean pair of underpants to wear. Mine were soiled and I have never been one to wear the same pair of underwear two days in a row and I couldn’t just allow my Johnson to aimlessly flap about all day long. I’ve since developed a fondness for a commando style performance, but all in all, I am much more comfortable actually wearing something between my naked body and pants. I didn’t know quite what to do, but Dan had a solution. He let me to borrow a pair of his boxers. But Dan did one better than that even, he gave me a pair of Bram’s underwear. I didn’t ask him why it was that he had Bram’s underpants in his basement, and I didn’t care. I was just happy to get a fresh pair of pants, no questions asked.
Well I comfortably journeyed through the day, no problems. A fine pair of boxers these were. Soft cotton, a white base with vertical lines interspersed with shorter horizontal lines that constructed sort of open ended rectangular boxes pattern. They were comfortable, very comfortable. I suspect their comfort resulted from Bram’s gentle breaking in process coupled with further sessions of Dan wearing them once or twice as well.
As any gentlemen would do, when I returned home I removed the boxers, as nice as they were, and placed them in the laundry. Once they were laundered and folded in a very presentable manner I embarked to return them. I figured that because they belonged to Bram I would return them directly to him rather than take the time it would require to return them through Dan. It was just easier that way. Much to my surprise, when I called Bram to inquire about returning them he stated that he did not want them back. What was I to do? Bram didn’t want me to return the boxers. He said that I could keep them. He stated something about wearing boxers that had touched my ass making his skin crawl. Oh well I thought, his loss is my gain.
So in 1994 these boxers entered into my regular rotation. I adopted them as my own and loved them as such. Wearing them when clean, washing them when dirty, punishing them when bad.
Then 1999 rolled around. I found myself engaged to be married. The tuxedo was rented, the shoes were also rented. My good friend DJ gave me a white t-shirt to wear under the tux and God only knows where the socks came from. The panties however were more important. This garment that would cradle my most important member while I promised my life to the woman of my dreams would be none other than the white pair of Bram’s boxers that he gifted to me through Dan five years earlier. It was a momentous occasion and they performed extremely well. By this time I had worn my own ass grove into the pants. They were perfectly primed for the job. Five years they spent learning my shape, my moves, I had done almost everything in those pants. They traveled the world with me. Living on the shores of the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, Lakes Huron and Michigan, scuba diving the Great Barrier Reef, camping the outback, mountain climbing, hiking, sailing, Detroit, Windsor, Toronto, Buffalo, Boston, Washington D.C., Nashville, Charlotte, Chicago, Los Angeles, Sydney, Cairns, Alice Springs, and everywhere in between. These boxers were there, providing unmatched comfort through both rejection and conquest. Now I would commit myself to the only woman that mattered at all anymore and no other boxers would do. They of course flawlessly performed, again proving to me that these were special underpants, these were Bram’s panties.
After the wedding they went right back to work in the same rotation that they now commanded. No other boxers had worked as hard as these shorts, no other were worn as often or for as long. Another six year stint as Dave’s boxers and they gave of themselves like no other. They are still to this day in the general rotation. They longer direct the unmentionables drawer, they are getting old, but make no mistake they are there, and they don’t receive any special treatment above the others. They have the same job they undertook that spring day over 11 years ago when I needed a clean pair of pants and Dan was able to come through for me. They still magnificently perform their duty the same as they did in the beginning.
But one must keep in mind that I’ve been wearing these boxers for over a decade. I have no idea how long Bram wore them before they fell into my hands. I don’t really know if Dan ever wore them and if did, how many times. They are worn. They have begun to show their age. They have outlasted any other pair that I’ve ever owned, having long since watched each of their companions from the 90’s waste and pass away under the stress and brutal undertaking it is to perform as my underwear. Only to take in new companions and, over time, watch those pass as well. This pair of boxers have even outlasted countless pairs of jeans. It has been a long road, and only now in 2005 it is clear that the end is near. They have not torn, but the fabric is very thin, with light visible through multiple areas. The opening that allows access to my penis when my pants are unzipped has stretched and remains constantly open permitting my penis to flop out and bang against whatever outer garment I may be wearing at the time.
I have come to an important crossroads with these boxers. This is where you come in dear reader. This is where I need your guidance. I don’t know what to do. My devotion to this pair of boxers has clearly clouded my strict adherence to old boxer policy of throw away and replace the utterly destroyed, but now with this pair at its end, my judgment wanes. I have always believed that boxers were intended to be worn, and no matter how special any certain pair may have been to me I continued to wear them, and when they finally completely disintegrated, or when the elastic broke and they would longer stay up, or when they tore to the point that they no longer served the purpose of keeping butt-hole stink from transferring onto my pants I have always without fail at that point thrown them away without much of a thought. But these pants are different. I can see the end coming and it troubles me. These pants rose above all the others, not just because they outlasted by years any other pair that have ever entered my life, but also because they were loaned to me by my good friend Dan and were given to me as a gift by my good friend Bram. These are a special and intimate pair of panties. They are comfortable, attractive, and helpful; in a word these are a magnificent pair of underpants.
So dear reader, what do I do? Should I wash and press them, seal them away in a plastic bag with my wife’s wedding dress, never to be worn again? I could easily do this. There is a dry cleaner close to here. But that doesn’t seem like the appropriate tack to take with an old work horse such as these, as dignified as they truly are. Should I return them to Bram, their true and rightful owner, with a thank you, explaining their importance and loyalty in order to impart their beauty on their original owner so that he may know the service they have provided to me all these years? Or should I simply continue to wear them, let them gently fade away while wrapped around my buttocks, so familiar to them that it must seem like their only true home?
Whatever the consensus of Dan’s faithful readership that atthecornerbar decides will be their fate. As I wait for your direction, I simply wish to thank Dan and Bram (if he is out there) for my favorite pair of boxers. My wife calls them, “Bram’s Panties.”
The roots of this issue arose around about the year 1994. About 11 or 12 years ago I had occasion to slumber through the evening with Dan. By “with Dan” I mean that I spent the night at his house. I don’t know why, I cannot recall the circumstances of this particular encounter. I don’t know if we were hanging out and the night got out of hand, or if we had some early morning engagement that I felt more comfortable sleeping with Dan and embarking on the journey together early in the morning. I don’t remember if we shared a bed or if I took the couch, or if there were more than just us, such a Bram himself, Nathan and Randy all lined up in sleeping bags in front of the TV enjoying an exclusive viewing of “Dawn of the Dead” or some other fine cinematic masterpiece of similar ilk. Like I said, I just cannot remember and it is truly unimportant. It was the next morning when our story, or…happening begins.
It was in the morning when I realized that I did not have a clean pair of underpants to wear. Mine were soiled and I have never been one to wear the same pair of underwear two days in a row and I couldn’t just allow my Johnson to aimlessly flap about all day long. I’ve since developed a fondness for a commando style performance, but all in all, I am much more comfortable actually wearing something between my naked body and pants. I didn’t know quite what to do, but Dan had a solution. He let me to borrow a pair of his boxers. But Dan did one better than that even, he gave me a pair of Bram’s underwear. I didn’t ask him why it was that he had Bram’s underpants in his basement, and I didn’t care. I was just happy to get a fresh pair of pants, no questions asked.
Well I comfortably journeyed through the day, no problems. A fine pair of boxers these were. Soft cotton, a white base with vertical lines interspersed with shorter horizontal lines that constructed sort of open ended rectangular boxes pattern. They were comfortable, very comfortable. I suspect their comfort resulted from Bram’s gentle breaking in process coupled with further sessions of Dan wearing them once or twice as well.
As any gentlemen would do, when I returned home I removed the boxers, as nice as they were, and placed them in the laundry. Once they were laundered and folded in a very presentable manner I embarked to return them. I figured that because they belonged to Bram I would return them directly to him rather than take the time it would require to return them through Dan. It was just easier that way. Much to my surprise, when I called Bram to inquire about returning them he stated that he did not want them back. What was I to do? Bram didn’t want me to return the boxers. He said that I could keep them. He stated something about wearing boxers that had touched my ass making his skin crawl. Oh well I thought, his loss is my gain.
So in 1994 these boxers entered into my regular rotation. I adopted them as my own and loved them as such. Wearing them when clean, washing them when dirty, punishing them when bad.
Then 1999 rolled around. I found myself engaged to be married. The tuxedo was rented, the shoes were also rented. My good friend DJ gave me a white t-shirt to wear under the tux and God only knows where the socks came from. The panties however were more important. This garment that would cradle my most important member while I promised my life to the woman of my dreams would be none other than the white pair of Bram’s boxers that he gifted to me through Dan five years earlier. It was a momentous occasion and they performed extremely well. By this time I had worn my own ass grove into the pants. They were perfectly primed for the job. Five years they spent learning my shape, my moves, I had done almost everything in those pants. They traveled the world with me. Living on the shores of the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, Lakes Huron and Michigan, scuba diving the Great Barrier Reef, camping the outback, mountain climbing, hiking, sailing, Detroit, Windsor, Toronto, Buffalo, Boston, Washington D.C., Nashville, Charlotte, Chicago, Los Angeles, Sydney, Cairns, Alice Springs, and everywhere in between. These boxers were there, providing unmatched comfort through both rejection and conquest. Now I would commit myself to the only woman that mattered at all anymore and no other boxers would do. They of course flawlessly performed, again proving to me that these were special underpants, these were Bram’s panties.
After the wedding they went right back to work in the same rotation that they now commanded. No other boxers had worked as hard as these shorts, no other were worn as often or for as long. Another six year stint as Dave’s boxers and they gave of themselves like no other. They are still to this day in the general rotation. They longer direct the unmentionables drawer, they are getting old, but make no mistake they are there, and they don’t receive any special treatment above the others. They have the same job they undertook that spring day over 11 years ago when I needed a clean pair of pants and Dan was able to come through for me. They still magnificently perform their duty the same as they did in the beginning.
But one must keep in mind that I’ve been wearing these boxers for over a decade. I have no idea how long Bram wore them before they fell into my hands. I don’t really know if Dan ever wore them and if did, how many times. They are worn. They have begun to show their age. They have outlasted any other pair that I’ve ever owned, having long since watched each of their companions from the 90’s waste and pass away under the stress and brutal undertaking it is to perform as my underwear. Only to take in new companions and, over time, watch those pass as well. This pair of boxers have even outlasted countless pairs of jeans. It has been a long road, and only now in 2005 it is clear that the end is near. They have not torn, but the fabric is very thin, with light visible through multiple areas. The opening that allows access to my penis when my pants are unzipped has stretched and remains constantly open permitting my penis to flop out and bang against whatever outer garment I may be wearing at the time.
I have come to an important crossroads with these boxers. This is where you come in dear reader. This is where I need your guidance. I don’t know what to do. My devotion to this pair of boxers has clearly clouded my strict adherence to old boxer policy of throw away and replace the utterly destroyed, but now with this pair at its end, my judgment wanes. I have always believed that boxers were intended to be worn, and no matter how special any certain pair may have been to me I continued to wear them, and when they finally completely disintegrated, or when the elastic broke and they would longer stay up, or when they tore to the point that they no longer served the purpose of keeping butt-hole stink from transferring onto my pants I have always without fail at that point thrown them away without much of a thought. But these pants are different. I can see the end coming and it troubles me. These pants rose above all the others, not just because they outlasted by years any other pair that have ever entered my life, but also because they were loaned to me by my good friend Dan and were given to me as a gift by my good friend Bram. These are a special and intimate pair of panties. They are comfortable, attractive, and helpful; in a word these are a magnificent pair of underpants.
So dear reader, what do I do? Should I wash and press them, seal them away in a plastic bag with my wife’s wedding dress, never to be worn again? I could easily do this. There is a dry cleaner close to here. But that doesn’t seem like the appropriate tack to take with an old work horse such as these, as dignified as they truly are. Should I return them to Bram, their true and rightful owner, with a thank you, explaining their importance and loyalty in order to impart their beauty on their original owner so that he may know the service they have provided to me all these years? Or should I simply continue to wear them, let them gently fade away while wrapped around my buttocks, so familiar to them that it must seem like their only true home?
Whatever the consensus of Dan’s faithful readership that atthecornerbar decides will be their fate. As I wait for your direction, I simply wish to thank Dan and Bram (if he is out there) for my favorite pair of boxers. My wife calls them, “Bram’s Panties.”
Monday, June 13, 2005
24 Hours of the Foo...
WARNING: Do to the amount of sleep I had and the Foo Fighters 24 hour show, this blog may either blow your mind or make you scratch your head. Either way, you will read.
On Saturday MTV2 had the Foo Fighters on for twenty four hours straight and even though there were times when they took a nap or a shower, they were in the studio the whole time. It's kind of fucked up in a way because while I was watching it for eight hours in a row, (I had to work...thank god for vcr's) I just figured that all bands do this...which they don't. So in a way it was yet another moment I shared with the band. I know it sounds stalkerish and it is. I won't deny that. You won't find me hanging out in front of their houses, with the rare Japanese single, asking for an autograph...well not anymore...not since the restraining order...long story.
My point being is that I really don't have one, but I can see why people can have that perspective of actually knowing the band or a movie star. They share intimate moments in their lives with you, a.k.a. as the audience and you can relate, connect. I'm tired...really tired...the 24 hour thing wore me out. Buy that shit on Tuesday...it will be good...I promise you and I don't give my approval on just anything or anyone. And for the record...they are not paying me to promote...it's just things I do when I believe in something. It's always good to have faith and believe in something or someone.
I guess what it comes down to is that people tell me that when they think of the robot (the dance) they always think of me. When they think of a very, passionate lover, they think of me (well I made that up). And when they hear the Foo Fighters, they think of me and I take pride in that cause that ain't such a bad gig to have.
On Saturday MTV2 had the Foo Fighters on for twenty four hours straight and even though there were times when they took a nap or a shower, they were in the studio the whole time. It's kind of fucked up in a way because while I was watching it for eight hours in a row, (I had to work...thank god for vcr's) I just figured that all bands do this...which they don't. So in a way it was yet another moment I shared with the band. I know it sounds stalkerish and it is. I won't deny that. You won't find me hanging out in front of their houses, with the rare Japanese single, asking for an autograph...well not anymore...not since the restraining order...long story.
My point being is that I really don't have one, but I can see why people can have that perspective of actually knowing the band or a movie star. They share intimate moments in their lives with you, a.k.a. as the audience and you can relate, connect. I'm tired...really tired...the 24 hour thing wore me out. Buy that shit on Tuesday...it will be good...I promise you and I don't give my approval on just anything or anyone. And for the record...they are not paying me to promote...it's just things I do when I believe in something. It's always good to have faith and believe in something or someone.
I guess what it comes down to is that people tell me that when they think of the robot (the dance) they always think of me. When they think of a very, passionate lover, they think of me (well I made that up). And when they hear the Foo Fighters, they think of me and I take pride in that cause that ain't such a bad gig to have.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Baby, Come Back To Me. By Dave M.
“Don’t ever let your dreams die”
--famous person quote
I made that up, that is not a quote, it’s bullshit. Someone, everyone, has put the same sentiment into words before, I’m just too busy to find an especially clever one to compliment my current musings. Here I am acting the part of “The Man” reaping all the benefits of my sale to the Devil. I never thought I would miss the soul, but I failed to negotiate my dreams into the deal and now they are lost. New dreams arise, but you can see it there among the riches of my life the original lies dead, unburied, decaying. The rot is unavoidable; it reeks, choking me as I go. Jesus has forgiven me, the Bible tells me so, I got my soul back, but the Devil kept the dream. He and I still collect on the deal. I refuse to let go…
--famous person quote
I made that up, that is not a quote, it’s bullshit. Someone, everyone, has put the same sentiment into words before, I’m just too busy to find an especially clever one to compliment my current musings. Here I am acting the part of “The Man” reaping all the benefits of my sale to the Devil. I never thought I would miss the soul, but I failed to negotiate my dreams into the deal and now they are lost. New dreams arise, but you can see it there among the riches of my life the original lies dead, unburied, decaying. The rot is unavoidable; it reeks, choking me as I go. Jesus has forgiven me, the Bible tells me so, I got my soul back, but the Devil kept the dream. He and I still collect on the deal. I refuse to let go…
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Text Messages
I know I'm going to sound like an old timer but "back in the day" I remember that technology was advancing so fast. The internet, c.d.'s and parachute pants. Each year everything seems to be getting more and more advanced. The one thing that I really don't understand and keeps holding us back from advancing is text messaging. Without any poetic words or fancy build up I'll get right to the point...it is fucking stupid.
With that statement I'm sure the question of why? "Why Dan why?" I'll tell you why...oh don't you worry...but first a word from our sponsor (unofficial).
Don't forget to pick up the Foo Fighter's new double-disc album, "In Your Honor," on June 14th and now back to our irregularly scheduled program.
Text messaging is lame to the extreme because there is no real use for it. If you needed emergency help, you wouldn't send a message to 911, you would call them...unless you were knocked out. If you needed to find out how much flour goes into your mother's home made apple pie, you wouldn't text her, you'd call. The only point to text messaging is when you are bored to the max but don't really feel like chatting with someone. Even when it comes to that point, you still have to punch in the letters.
"Ok, I need a w. I have to hit 9. Alright now where's the h? K, I have to hit four twice. Oh man, I hit it three times, now I have to hit it another two more times to back to the h."
Now this goes on for at least ten minutes until you've finally typed, "What's going on?" Now you have to wait another ten minutes for the person on the other end to type back, "Not much. You?" And this vicious cycle continues until nothing was really determined. To me, this seems like a big fucking waste of time. Time that people are always complaining that they never have enough of. Well, lets micro-manage here and eliminate text messaging. It's lame, it's stupid and it's...oh crap...where's the d...I can't seem to...oh here it is...dumb.
With that statement I'm sure the question of why? "Why Dan why?" I'll tell you why...oh don't you worry...but first a word from our sponsor (unofficial).
Don't forget to pick up the Foo Fighter's new double-disc album, "In Your Honor," on June 14th and now back to our irregularly scheduled program.
Text messaging is lame to the extreme because there is no real use for it. If you needed emergency help, you wouldn't send a message to 911, you would call them...unless you were knocked out. If you needed to find out how much flour goes into your mother's home made apple pie, you wouldn't text her, you'd call. The only point to text messaging is when you are bored to the max but don't really feel like chatting with someone. Even when it comes to that point, you still have to punch in the letters.
"Ok, I need a w. I have to hit 9. Alright now where's the h? K, I have to hit four twice. Oh man, I hit it three times, now I have to hit it another two more times to back to the h."
Now this goes on for at least ten minutes until you've finally typed, "What's going on?" Now you have to wait another ten minutes for the person on the other end to type back, "Not much. You?" And this vicious cycle continues until nothing was really determined. To me, this seems like a big fucking waste of time. Time that people are always complaining that they never have enough of. Well, lets micro-manage here and eliminate text messaging. It's lame, it's stupid and it's...oh crap...where's the d...I can't seem to...oh here it is...dumb.
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