I've been thinking. In a stream of consciousness sort of way. Assessing where and why I am, and most importantly, but as you will see, lease importantly; for how much longer? A couple of my friends are currently losing their grandparents. I'm sympathetic, but in a "I don't really feel your pain" way. I care, and I'm sad, but let me put it in perspective. I've lost three grandparents, and my remaining grandmother (my father's mother) waits patiently in a retirement community. Frail watching football and eternally hoping that one of her great grandchildren will run into her room falling over something and seeking comfort in her octogenarian arms. She has lived her life and she is looking for the big things. I was nine years old when my other grandmother died (my mother's mother). It was my first experience with close death that I remember. (I only remember images of the lives and deaths of two uncles, though their deaths have had a profound affect on my psyche.) When my maternal grandmother died she was 83 years old and I was devastated. I sobbed at the funeral as the congregation sang Amazing Grace, her favorite hymn. I hugged my cousin resting my face on her breast, I was inconsolable. My cousin is about 8 years older than me. She was a young woman at the time, but when I think about it she was at that time much older than I would be for another 15 years.
I didn't know pain until my dad died. Grandparent's deaths are hard, they love you, they don't judge you, they give you a crisp dollar bill when you visit, they rarely discipline you and they die. It's hard and you get over it as time goes on. I watched my father gurgle his own phlegm and struggle to breath. I begged my father to let go and I wished him dead. His pain so thorough that simply lifting his diseased arm would bolt him straight out of bed, wresting him from a morphine and cancer induced slumber somewhere between life and death. It was the only action that would bring a semblance of his former self to the surface of his face, but it was nothing you would do more than once. He died and I was relieved and I cried. I've never so fully grieved in all my life. I've never been so happy and angry and broken all at once. To think of it five years later, it still brings tears to my eyes. I miss my grandparents that have passed, but it is rarely a day that goes by when I don't wonder how my dad would resolve a situation in which I have found myself. It's rarely a day goes by that I don't wonder what he would think of my children, or what he would say when I do something stupid like hit a deer with my wife's Cadillac. He was always sarcastically comical when you needed it the most. I still needed him when he left, and I was not ready to let go. My grandmother simply stated that she would give anything to take his place so he could rise and be healthy.
I once pondered why my cousin was not nearly as upset as me when we buried my other grandmother. It dawned on me that three years before my grandma died, my cousin's dad died of Lou Gehrig's disease. She was sad to see our grandmother pass, but she knew the pain found in the absence of her father. She knew the pain my grandparents felt in the loss of their son. She was child when her dad died, orphaned at an age much earlier than I would ever be. My friend's grandfather was recently diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease. Strange for a man in his seventies. Most people die like Lou Gehrig did, in their forties or fifties. I lost two uncles to the disease, both died before their parents. I may be predisposed to developing a hereditary form of the affliction. Sometimes it bothers me. Sometimes when someone I know gets the diagnosis it really bothers me. When I allow my mind to take me to destructive self pity I can look 20 years down the road and imagine losing feeling in my thumbs and slowly succumbing as my muscles no longer respond to my commands. My grandparents all reached their eighties; I've always felt it was my duty and right to outlast them. A centurion is a proud and noble figure, but there is a simple 25% possibility that I have a gene mutation that will permit me to reach only half that age.
My point is not for you to care about me, or feel sorry for me, I surely wouldn’t and don’t. My point is that I watch my babies crawl around on the floor or run through the house screaming "dadda! dadda!" It warms my heart, and I know that they will never be ready for me to pass. But it is not my job to live forever for their comfort; it is my job to prepare them for life beyond my home. I am not the one who will leave them; it is they who will leave me. Off to school, love, and life. They will travel the world, smoke joints, drive a hundred miles per hour down a back country road. When my father died, I reacted to my grandmother's statement and realized she could never express her pain, she could never cry enough to ease her loss and sorrow. I wondered what I would give for my father's health, for his return. Of all the things that I contemplated, my own life was never bargained like she did with hers.
Every night at 9:30 I pick up my daughter and ask her if she is ready for "night, night" and she nods her head with an affirmative. I change her diaper and put on her pajamas, brush her teeth, and we give kisses to her mother and brother. We select a book to read and when it is finished I turn out the light, place her on my chest and rock her to sleep. She snuggles her little head into the space between my jaw and neck, and presses her body as closely as she can to mine. As she lays there sleeping on my chest I cannot help but realize that I don't care if I don't make it home from work tomorrow because I've already experienced more wealth and happiness in that simple nightly ritual than any one man deserves throughout his lifetime. I would die a thousand times to know that she and her brother would live long and happy lives. I would give my father's life a thousand times for their health. I long to dance at her wedding and throw her babies into the air. But I am pleased with what God has provided me to this point, and it has taught me that when your grandparents begin the long decent to death that they are happier to celebrate your life than to lament the loss of their own. Lou Gehrig was a man of talent and grace, I intend to borrow and live with some of that grace throughout my life, no matter how long it should last. With any luck at all my children and grandchildren will be devastated when I die, but not so devastated as at the simple thought of losing a child of their own.
Something else my grandmother said as we both sat in a guest bedroom and watched my father slowly die has remained with me. Blankly watching my father’s wasting body she mutter, “I’m glad your grandfather is not here to see this, he never would have lived through it.”
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Wanted Dead or Alive.
There is nothing like getting a phone call from a friend which simply says, "I'm just calling to see if you're dead yet." How does one react to this? I guess some would find that it is a bad thing. I know for a fact that most women would be crying right now because they don't understand why their friend could say such a mean thing.
We aren't talking about women, we are talking about me. I am not dead but would be such a bad thing to be dead. Of course it would be but here's the nerd thinking that goes on in my head. The first thing I thought of when Dave said that to me was, "I wish I was a Jedi Knight ghost." That would be pretty fucking cool, wouldn't you think? You could walk around and push people over. You wouldn't have to wait in any lines. The best thing is that you could go to a Sorority House and just hang out.
Oh yeah, I know Jedi Knights aren't supposed to be "involved" but could they have sex? Like one night stands with hookers? I sure hope they could or then there would have been many problems with the Younglings. I mean, that's what has been happening with the Catholic Priests.
I'm losing my train of thought. What's my point again? There isn't one. That's just a random thought I had. Dave, I would have called you back but it still hurts to talk and it's still painful to just chat with you period.
We aren't talking about women, we are talking about me. I am not dead but would be such a bad thing to be dead. Of course it would be but here's the nerd thinking that goes on in my head. The first thing I thought of when Dave said that to me was, "I wish I was a Jedi Knight ghost." That would be pretty fucking cool, wouldn't you think? You could walk around and push people over. You wouldn't have to wait in any lines. The best thing is that you could go to a Sorority House and just hang out.
Oh yeah, I know Jedi Knights aren't supposed to be "involved" but could they have sex? Like one night stands with hookers? I sure hope they could or then there would have been many problems with the Younglings. I mean, that's what has been happening with the Catholic Priests.
I'm losing my train of thought. What's my point again? There isn't one. That's just a random thought I had. Dave, I would have called you back but it still hurts to talk and it's still painful to just chat with you period.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane.
As you can tell, the Strep is slowing eating away at me inside. It's causing an anger that I didn't know was there before. In any case, I emailed The Doc and asked him if he could write me something, anything it didn't matter cause I was sick of posting about Strep Throat and in all honesty that's the only focus on my mind right now. This is a personal battle that I will eventually have it out with it and it won't be pretty.
A little prologue…
This weekend, the planets were supposed to come into alignment and I was supposed to head out to Sin City to romp with a young Dan McCockle, the proprietor of this blog. Alas, this was not meant to be. I wasted too much money prior to the purchase of a ticket, and Dan was infected with a temperamental stepchild of the ebola virus. Knowing that I wasn’t going to make my trip to Vegas, I decided to still keep the days I had requested off work, even if only to stay at home and catch up on some reading.
…
Last Monday, I received a call from an old friend from the military days. I hadn’t seen Sam Doster in about 2 years, but we’d spent a good chunk of our military service together. We’ve been known to drink a bit too much and cause a general sense of uneasiness in all those nearby.
Long story, short:
Doster: Get the Hell out here, Nate.
Doc: No can do. The shrapnel in my pocket won’t pay for the ticket.
Doster: Not a problem. I’ve got a voucher for an airline that has to be used by this weekend. You’re on a flight out of Kalamazoo Thursday morning and you’ll be here until Sunday. See you Thursday.
Doc: Apparently you will.
I scramble for the next few days to get work in order for my vacation and, as told, I hop on a Thursday morning flight, albeit feeling a little uneasy. I don’t know why I’m feeling nervous, but assume it’s simply because I’m flying. Of course, no flight has ever bothered me before, but perhaps a body changes after it hits 29. Regardless, I dismiss my apprehension with a Jack Daniels, the only whiskey that any airline seems to keep in stock. It’ll do the job though. I take my first drink of the day at 10:32 a.m., somewhere over Ohio, my least favorite state in the country. This trip was doomed from the start.
Most reunions are full of handshakes and smiles, and Doster’s and mine is no different. We make our way to Sam’s apartment and continue drinking. Apparently, Doster is living with a girl (Kim) that he’s madly in love with. She shows up. Introductions are made. I begin to feel uneasy again.
I learn a few things about Sam and Kim’s relationship during my first few hours there:
- Kim is going through a divorce.
- Sam is in love with Kim.
- Kim does not really want to rush into another relationship (naturally), but Sam is being kind enough to allow Kim to live with him.
- Sam is very much in love with Kim.
- Kim really has nowhere else to go.
- Sam is unhealthily in love with Kim.
- Sam is in love with Kim, and we will all be drinking a good chunk of alcohol this weekend.
Readers, I won’t waste your time with details. Lots of booze, some laughs, some stupidity. Much of it’s actually a haze. You get the idea. But I flew into Washington D.C. on Thursday morning with a return flight scheduled for Sunday, and by 3:00 a.m. Saturday I will be calling Northwest Airlines demanding a flight home immediately.
Friday night is a strange one. We’ve been drinking for a while, but Doster doesn’t seem to be having much fun. Anytime a guy stands near Kim, Sam whispers to me, “Watch this, Doc. I’ll bet you that guy talks to her.”
Now this kind of behavior is always troublesome to me, but it’s especially so when I’m on vacation and it involves the person that I am staying with. Perhaps it’s cowardice, but I always like to maintain an escape route out of any situation. Anyway, my partners in crime and I continue drinking and I start to get that knot in my stomach; the one that usually means the fun’s about to end.
We leave for Sam’s apartment around midnight because Kim’s a little drunk and she has to work in the morning. Sam’s angry and it shows by his driving: hugging corners and speeding most of the way.
We get back to the apartment and Sam continues drinking. I start watching T.V. and I can tell that Sam is itching for an argument with Kim. I imagine that she can tell as well, as she announces that she’s going to sleep on the pullout couch in the living room, rather than in bed with Sam. This only makes Sam angrier and voices are raised. The argument starts and I stay quiet. Sam tells Kim to get the fuck out. She begins to. Sam apparently changes his mind. As Kim tries to walk past, he grabs her arm, and she’s on the floor.
Now here’s the thing: I wouldn’t say that I’m a great guy. I imagine that there are a lot of people that consider me an asshole (and I promise that not all of these people are male). I’ve done my share of playing the insensitive boyfriend in many of my previous relationships. But I refuse to put up with any sort of violence toward women. It’s not chivalry. It’s not heroic. It’s simply a piece of some men’s character that disgusts me more than anything else on earth.
Doster is my friend. It is because of this that I’ll say nothing about the specifics of my intervention, but he grabbed her wrist only once.
Things get out of hand for a while, but eventually Doster calms down, drinks some more, and passes out. I call Northwest Airlines. After explaining my situation to an extremely understanding ticket agent, I have a flight that leaves D.C. in 2 hours. Kim drives me to the airport. She plans on moving back to her parent’s home for a while.
I get on my flight at 6:25 a.m., feeling more uneasy than I did when I came here. Around 7:00, I convince the stewardess to give me a Jack Daniels, though she gives me a wary look. I’m sure that I’m somewhere over Ohio when I have my drink. Makes sense.
Moral of this story: There’s a reason why “free” trips are free. Stay home and drink by yourself, or with friends that you know are absent of a predisposition of violence toward women.
A little prologue…
This weekend, the planets were supposed to come into alignment and I was supposed to head out to Sin City to romp with a young Dan McCockle, the proprietor of this blog. Alas, this was not meant to be. I wasted too much money prior to the purchase of a ticket, and Dan was infected with a temperamental stepchild of the ebola virus. Knowing that I wasn’t going to make my trip to Vegas, I decided to still keep the days I had requested off work, even if only to stay at home and catch up on some reading.
…
Last Monday, I received a call from an old friend from the military days. I hadn’t seen Sam Doster in about 2 years, but we’d spent a good chunk of our military service together. We’ve been known to drink a bit too much and cause a general sense of uneasiness in all those nearby.
Long story, short:
Doster: Get the Hell out here, Nate.
Doc: No can do. The shrapnel in my pocket won’t pay for the ticket.
Doster: Not a problem. I’ve got a voucher for an airline that has to be used by this weekend. You’re on a flight out of Kalamazoo Thursday morning and you’ll be here until Sunday. See you Thursday.
Doc: Apparently you will.
I scramble for the next few days to get work in order for my vacation and, as told, I hop on a Thursday morning flight, albeit feeling a little uneasy. I don’t know why I’m feeling nervous, but assume it’s simply because I’m flying. Of course, no flight has ever bothered me before, but perhaps a body changes after it hits 29. Regardless, I dismiss my apprehension with a Jack Daniels, the only whiskey that any airline seems to keep in stock. It’ll do the job though. I take my first drink of the day at 10:32 a.m., somewhere over Ohio, my least favorite state in the country. This trip was doomed from the start.
Most reunions are full of handshakes and smiles, and Doster’s and mine is no different. We make our way to Sam’s apartment and continue drinking. Apparently, Doster is living with a girl (Kim) that he’s madly in love with. She shows up. Introductions are made. I begin to feel uneasy again.
I learn a few things about Sam and Kim’s relationship during my first few hours there:
- Kim is going through a divorce.
- Sam is in love with Kim.
- Kim does not really want to rush into another relationship (naturally), but Sam is being kind enough to allow Kim to live with him.
- Sam is very much in love with Kim.
- Kim really has nowhere else to go.
- Sam is unhealthily in love with Kim.
- Sam is in love with Kim, and we will all be drinking a good chunk of alcohol this weekend.
Readers, I won’t waste your time with details. Lots of booze, some laughs, some stupidity. Much of it’s actually a haze. You get the idea. But I flew into Washington D.C. on Thursday morning with a return flight scheduled for Sunday, and by 3:00 a.m. Saturday I will be calling Northwest Airlines demanding a flight home immediately.
Friday night is a strange one. We’ve been drinking for a while, but Doster doesn’t seem to be having much fun. Anytime a guy stands near Kim, Sam whispers to me, “Watch this, Doc. I’ll bet you that guy talks to her.”
Now this kind of behavior is always troublesome to me, but it’s especially so when I’m on vacation and it involves the person that I am staying with. Perhaps it’s cowardice, but I always like to maintain an escape route out of any situation. Anyway, my partners in crime and I continue drinking and I start to get that knot in my stomach; the one that usually means the fun’s about to end.
We leave for Sam’s apartment around midnight because Kim’s a little drunk and she has to work in the morning. Sam’s angry and it shows by his driving: hugging corners and speeding most of the way.
We get back to the apartment and Sam continues drinking. I start watching T.V. and I can tell that Sam is itching for an argument with Kim. I imagine that she can tell as well, as she announces that she’s going to sleep on the pullout couch in the living room, rather than in bed with Sam. This only makes Sam angrier and voices are raised. The argument starts and I stay quiet. Sam tells Kim to get the fuck out. She begins to. Sam apparently changes his mind. As Kim tries to walk past, he grabs her arm, and she’s on the floor.
Now here’s the thing: I wouldn’t say that I’m a great guy. I imagine that there are a lot of people that consider me an asshole (and I promise that not all of these people are male). I’ve done my share of playing the insensitive boyfriend in many of my previous relationships. But I refuse to put up with any sort of violence toward women. It’s not chivalry. It’s not heroic. It’s simply a piece of some men’s character that disgusts me more than anything else on earth.
Doster is my friend. It is because of this that I’ll say nothing about the specifics of my intervention, but he grabbed her wrist only once.
Things get out of hand for a while, but eventually Doster calms down, drinks some more, and passes out. I call Northwest Airlines. After explaining my situation to an extremely understanding ticket agent, I have a flight that leaves D.C. in 2 hours. Kim drives me to the airport. She plans on moving back to her parent’s home for a while.
I get on my flight at 6:25 a.m., feeling more uneasy than I did when I came here. Around 7:00, I convince the stewardess to give me a Jack Daniels, though she gives me a wary look. I’m sure that I’m somewhere over Ohio when I have my drink. Makes sense.
Moral of this story: There’s a reason why “free” trips are free. Stay home and drink by yourself, or with friends that you know are absent of a predisposition of violence toward women.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
See You in a Bit
I'm giving everyone the heads up that there will not be any new posts for awhile. I'm sick and I may have tonsillitis. I'm going to give myself one more day before I go to the doctor just to make sure but it's not looking so good. To all the people that are chasing their dreams...this is when dreams aren't cheap. Insurance...what's that? Well maybe I'll just move to Canada. No stupid posts on you hoping I feel better...you are my friends...I know this...so please don't make those comments. I'll be back soon.
UPDATED on August 30, 2005. For some strange reason, people wanted to see a picture of me and how I look. I guess cause I told them how shitty and scary I looked. I have been known to take "funny" pictures and I wish this was the case. This is an honest to god's natural posed picture. You gotta love sickness. Oh yeah...FUCK YOU STREP THROAT.
UPDATED on August 30, 2005. For some strange reason, people wanted to see a picture of me and how I look. I guess cause I told them how shitty and scary I looked. I have been known to take "funny" pictures and I wish this was the case. This is an honest to god's natural posed picture. You gotta love sickness. Oh yeah...FUCK YOU STREP THROAT.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
I'm 5'10'', Blue Eyes and I'm Fucking Crazy.
These are the kind of people I tend to run into. I'm not saying sometimes, I'm saying the odds of this happening are high, it's a very common thing. This was on the last night in Kalamazoo. By then, I was on my third bar hanging out with some friends. The buzz was a success. I was taking some sweet ass pics of friends but mainly of myself (egotistical here) when someone tapped me on my shoulder. In my drunken brain I was hoping it was some hot ass girl, cute even, who had heard about me from someone in some time and had to meet me. Instead I got this guy.Now I don't remember his name but we'll call him Gary. He looks like a Gary doesn't he? Gary asked if I could take a picture of him to put on the net. He didn't ask where, he just wanted it on the net. He gave me his street address and said that he didn't care what kind of girl it was. Fat, skinny, ugly...as long as she came over. I took the picture without even looking at him. You can see to the left my hair. I didn't even see the final picture until later on that night when I was drinking on some railroad tracks (that's a whole different story)and realized that I'm a natural at taking pictures...of evil. He was happy and left me alone...or so I thought.
Gary tapped me on my shoulder again and asked if I was going to do it. I said yes. He then told me that if anyone showed up, he would give me fifty bucks. Now remember, he doesn't know my name, he doesn't know who I am but that's the face I have. I have the face of a trust worthy man, in fact I should run for President someday. Hmmm...I have suddenly become a pimp. I don't feel like a pimp on those rap videos. I don't feel pimp juice running through my veins.
I later found out that this guy is crazy. "No shit Dan, I mean look at him." No, I mean he really is crazy. After days of contemplating, I figured I better put this on my blog so he doesn't track me down and ask me why I didn't put it on the net. So if any of you ladies out there want to have a good time...go to the gutter slums of Kalamazoo and call out Gary. I'm sure he will come out from behind a dumpster, after finishing up on a freshly killed rat and show you a fantastic time. Take you dancing, to a Satan worshipping benefit, you get the drift. Oh yeah, when you do eventually do this, I mean you kind of have to cause he's so damn charming, tell him Dan sent ya...he'll know exactly who that is.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Monday, August 08, 2005
Access Equals Asses Hollywood
WARNING: Pandora's Box has been opened and what you are about to experience may shock some of you. It may abort some of your unborn babies and worst of all...you may just enjoy it.
I'm not the biggest fan of news. Ok, let me rephrase that. I love the news, but I'm not a fan of how biased it is. They say freedom of speech but in the long run, it's all run by big time money makers who want to turn a profit. Let’s spend twenty eight minutes on war and killing and fuck you and the other two minutes will show you a clown and some rainbows.
Peter Jennings passed away today of lung cancer. Yes he smoked and he could have prevented it but he didn't and he's gone on to a better place. Now, I'm not who sits down and watches the news but I knew who he was. I've grown up on knowing who he was and what he did for a living. Even though he was Canadian, he was American, like apple pie. I was watching TV. today...I tend to do that and I was watching Access Hollywood. In a way, it was nice to see that they were paying homage to him. Even a junk show like that is showing respect to someone like Peter Jennings but here's the catch. The segment lasted a minute...with more to come later. So what was more important? "Britney Spear's Baby Shower."
It seems like Britney's baby shower was the other day and what happened? One of those pieces of shit who likes to stalk people because they say it's an "honest living" was shot in the leg by a pellet gun. They showed his injury a thousand times and it was a little bloody. This fucking pussy had to have an ambulance and fire department called because he was shot in the leg by a fucking bb gun. Then he went on to say that he's going to sue who did this. Of course, Britney's security was blamed but the Malibu Police Department is going to run a full investigation on the subject. Oh thank you. Thank you Jesus for sacrificing yourself for all of our sins so I can put up with this shit. These are the same mother fuckers who sell pictures to US Weekly with quotes like, "They shop like us. They eat like us. They bleed like us. They murder like us and get away with it." I really don't give a fuck if these "photographers" claim that it's a legit job. It’s not and I'll tell you why. All of their exclusive pictures look like shit. They are always blurry and you can barely make out what's going on and they get paid a ton of money. A fucking bb gun. People are dying in a war that is done, or so they said, and this guy is crying about a cut.
I'm getting off the subject. I tend to do that. So in a state of shock, I finished watching Access Hollywood to see remainder of the Peter Jennings story and where did they put it? Oh, it was at the end credits. HA. At that time I picked up the TV. and smashed it over my head. Luckily my brother as a decent warranty on it.
I blame myself for thinking that this big as corn filled turd was going to show some respect to an anchorman who we've all had in your living room from one night to another. I'm tipping my forty for you homie. You will be missed.
I'm not the biggest fan of news. Ok, let me rephrase that. I love the news, but I'm not a fan of how biased it is. They say freedom of speech but in the long run, it's all run by big time money makers who want to turn a profit. Let’s spend twenty eight minutes on war and killing and fuck you and the other two minutes will show you a clown and some rainbows.
Peter Jennings passed away today of lung cancer. Yes he smoked and he could have prevented it but he didn't and he's gone on to a better place. Now, I'm not who sits down and watches the news but I knew who he was. I've grown up on knowing who he was and what he did for a living. Even though he was Canadian, he was American, like apple pie. I was watching TV. today...I tend to do that and I was watching Access Hollywood. In a way, it was nice to see that they were paying homage to him. Even a junk show like that is showing respect to someone like Peter Jennings but here's the catch. The segment lasted a minute...with more to come later. So what was more important? "Britney Spear's Baby Shower."
It seems like Britney's baby shower was the other day and what happened? One of those pieces of shit who likes to stalk people because they say it's an "honest living" was shot in the leg by a pellet gun. They showed his injury a thousand times and it was a little bloody. This fucking pussy had to have an ambulance and fire department called because he was shot in the leg by a fucking bb gun. Then he went on to say that he's going to sue who did this. Of course, Britney's security was blamed but the Malibu Police Department is going to run a full investigation on the subject. Oh thank you. Thank you Jesus for sacrificing yourself for all of our sins so I can put up with this shit. These are the same mother fuckers who sell pictures to US Weekly with quotes like, "They shop like us. They eat like us. They bleed like us. They murder like us and get away with it." I really don't give a fuck if these "photographers" claim that it's a legit job. It’s not and I'll tell you why. All of their exclusive pictures look like shit. They are always blurry and you can barely make out what's going on and they get paid a ton of money. A fucking bb gun. People are dying in a war that is done, or so they said, and this guy is crying about a cut.
I'm getting off the subject. I tend to do that. So in a state of shock, I finished watching Access Hollywood to see remainder of the Peter Jennings story and where did they put it? Oh, it was at the end credits. HA. At that time I picked up the TV. and smashed it over my head. Luckily my brother as a decent warranty on it.
I blame myself for thinking that this big as corn filled turd was going to show some respect to an anchorman who we've all had in your living room from one night to another. I'm tipping my forty for you homie. You will be missed.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
See You in Hell
A place I've never been
I'm dying to meet you here
Come break this skin
I'll let you sink right in
And show you everything
See you in hell
See you in hell
We'll gather around the fire
And I will lead the choir
Sing Farewell
See you in hell
Come break, my spell
Well down the wishing well
We'll find some time to time to kill
I'll be, right there
The buzz inside your head
The whole electric chair
See you in hell
We'll gather round the fire
And I don't need the choir
Sing farewell
See you in hell
One of the many reasons why I love the Foo Fighters. I swear to god that I've worked with women for so long that I've some how acquired a male version of P.M.S. I don't know how. You hear that when a group of women work together long enough that they all get their periods at the same time but what about the guys? Something must rub off on them...right? Besides the fact that allergies can suck out in a desert, I can't really explain it. I am so upset right now that I find it weird. The only thing that I'm not craving is some Ben and Jerry's ice cream and to watch Beaches while wearing my pink, bunny rabbit pajamas.
I'm to the point right now that everyone is on a very thin line. Well not everyone, because if that was the case I would have already burned a shit load of bridges tonight. I will say that I almost deleted someone's phone number because I like to over analyze things. Wow, I'm also noticing that this post isn't really about anything and it's just about me and what I'm feeling. Fuck, the next thing I'm gonna say is, "Today I woke up. I made some eggs. After that I went for a walk. It was a nice walk. After the walk I rammed my head into the wall so many times that I bleed and it made me smile because it made me realize that I'm alive." Ok, well most posts aren't like that, but they should be. Please, please. I know some of you guys are gonna ask me, "What’s wrong?" Please don't because there is no point. It's like asking me in the morning, "Are you in a bad mood?" Heck yes I am. Who actually likes getting up this early to go into a crappy retail job?
My point? There is no point. I thought I'd venture into a realm that I rarely go to. I figured I wouldn't bottle up this anger inside of me...just for one night and one night only. And until that day comes...I'll see you in hell.
I'm dying to meet you here
Come break this skin
I'll let you sink right in
And show you everything
See you in hell
See you in hell
We'll gather around the fire
And I will lead the choir
Sing Farewell
See you in hell
Come break, my spell
Well down the wishing well
We'll find some time to time to kill
I'll be, right there
The buzz inside your head
The whole electric chair
See you in hell
We'll gather round the fire
And I don't need the choir
Sing farewell
See you in hell
One of the many reasons why I love the Foo Fighters. I swear to god that I've worked with women for so long that I've some how acquired a male version of P.M.S. I don't know how. You hear that when a group of women work together long enough that they all get their periods at the same time but what about the guys? Something must rub off on them...right? Besides the fact that allergies can suck out in a desert, I can't really explain it. I am so upset right now that I find it weird. The only thing that I'm not craving is some Ben and Jerry's ice cream and to watch Beaches while wearing my pink, bunny rabbit pajamas.
I'm to the point right now that everyone is on a very thin line. Well not everyone, because if that was the case I would have already burned a shit load of bridges tonight. I will say that I almost deleted someone's phone number because I like to over analyze things. Wow, I'm also noticing that this post isn't really about anything and it's just about me and what I'm feeling. Fuck, the next thing I'm gonna say is, "Today I woke up. I made some eggs. After that I went for a walk. It was a nice walk. After the walk I rammed my head into the wall so many times that I bleed and it made me smile because it made me realize that I'm alive." Ok, well most posts aren't like that, but they should be. Please, please. I know some of you guys are gonna ask me, "What’s wrong?" Please don't because there is no point. It's like asking me in the morning, "Are you in a bad mood?" Heck yes I am. Who actually likes getting up this early to go into a crappy retail job?
My point? There is no point. I thought I'd venture into a realm that I rarely go to. I figured I wouldn't bottle up this anger inside of me...just for one night and one night only. And until that day comes...I'll see you in hell.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Desperado Under the Eave. Written by the Doc
Another year.
Hiding out in an abandoned apartment is the only way to spend a birthday these days. With the newly-coined Global Struggle Against Extremism, it’s really the only safe place to celebrate the day you were crowned from mama’s birthing canal. It’s with this in mind – my deep respect for national security – that I hid this year’s annual unruliness from most interested (and some uninterested) parties.
Naturally, spending a birthday alone can be trying, at least for the first few moments. Most of us have grown accustomed to surrounding ourselves with pals, and then beating our livers to death. But there is a point to a celebration in solitude…
Some of us sputter through our years; take the safe bets, cover our bases, dot our i’s, cross our t’s. These folks walk the Right path. They will live long lives. They’ll spawn well-behaved children. They will eventually bask in the glory of a successful 401K. I have the utmost respect for these people.
But I am not one of them.
I’ve spit, shit, sucked, and fucked a good deal of the last decade away and – while it’s been a wild ride – a stiff night of self-contemplation (and strong liquor) was in order. Johnny Walker Blue sells for $212 a fifth, and since it’s my holiday, it was necessary to splurge. I recommend it highly to all of you. So, J.W. Blue in hand, I began to reminisce.
July 28th, 1976. At 3:42 a.m., an earthquake measuring between 7.8 and 8.2 magnitude on the Richter scale flattens Tangshan, a Chinese industrial city with a population of roughly 1 million people. As almost everyone was asleep in their beds, instead of outside in the relative safety of the streets, the quake was especially costly in terms of human life. An estimated 242,000 people in Tangshan and the surrounding areas were killed.
Less than an hour later, I was born. It was imperative that I came in with a bang.
What’s my point? Nothing. This was the kind of swill that I found myself daydreaming about with a head full of Johnny Walker though. Nasty thoughts…
Another one: With respect to its definition, why does the word abbreviation have so many letters?
I’m wandering here. Concentrate, Doc.
A birthday by one’s lonesome is not a necessity for everyone. The 401K posse that I mentioned earlier has no use for the solitude. But those of us with a little dirt behind our ears have to take stock in our years every once in a while. We have to attempt to right many of our previous wrongs, in our own minds if nowhere else.
So for one night, I rambled over all the toes I’ve stepped on, all the hearts I’ve bruised, all the knuckles I’ve broken, all the tears I’ve wept, and all the money I’ve spent. Most importantly, I reflected on all the people I’ve hurt over the years; some on accident, most on purpose… And for one moment, albeit a long one, I was sorry.
Of course, that was just the whiskey talking.
Cheers to my friends, my friends’ friends, and the rest of the drinkers that I respect. Screw the rest of you. Happy birthday to me.
Hiding out in an abandoned apartment is the only way to spend a birthday these days. With the newly-coined Global Struggle Against Extremism, it’s really the only safe place to celebrate the day you were crowned from mama’s birthing canal. It’s with this in mind – my deep respect for national security – that I hid this year’s annual unruliness from most interested (and some uninterested) parties.
Naturally, spending a birthday alone can be trying, at least for the first few moments. Most of us have grown accustomed to surrounding ourselves with pals, and then beating our livers to death. But there is a point to a celebration in solitude…
Some of us sputter through our years; take the safe bets, cover our bases, dot our i’s, cross our t’s. These folks walk the Right path. They will live long lives. They’ll spawn well-behaved children. They will eventually bask in the glory of a successful 401K. I have the utmost respect for these people.
But I am not one of them.
I’ve spit, shit, sucked, and fucked a good deal of the last decade away and – while it’s been a wild ride – a stiff night of self-contemplation (and strong liquor) was in order. Johnny Walker Blue sells for $212 a fifth, and since it’s my holiday, it was necessary to splurge. I recommend it highly to all of you. So, J.W. Blue in hand, I began to reminisce.
July 28th, 1976. At 3:42 a.m., an earthquake measuring between 7.8 and 8.2 magnitude on the Richter scale flattens Tangshan, a Chinese industrial city with a population of roughly 1 million people. As almost everyone was asleep in their beds, instead of outside in the relative safety of the streets, the quake was especially costly in terms of human life. An estimated 242,000 people in Tangshan and the surrounding areas were killed.
Less than an hour later, I was born. It was imperative that I came in with a bang.
What’s my point? Nothing. This was the kind of swill that I found myself daydreaming about with a head full of Johnny Walker though. Nasty thoughts…
Another one: With respect to its definition, why does the word abbreviation have so many letters?
I’m wandering here. Concentrate, Doc.
A birthday by one’s lonesome is not a necessity for everyone. The 401K posse that I mentioned earlier has no use for the solitude. But those of us with a little dirt behind our ears have to take stock in our years every once in a while. We have to attempt to right many of our previous wrongs, in our own minds if nowhere else.
So for one night, I rambled over all the toes I’ve stepped on, all the hearts I’ve bruised, all the knuckles I’ve broken, all the tears I’ve wept, and all the money I’ve spent. Most importantly, I reflected on all the people I’ve hurt over the years; some on accident, most on purpose… And for one moment, albeit a long one, I was sorry.
Of course, that was just the whiskey talking.
Cheers to my friends, my friends’ friends, and the rest of the drinkers that I respect. Screw the rest of you. Happy birthday to me.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Just a Taste Test.
Ok, so I'll get to writing in a bit. It's just been a crazy two weeks. I never thought one could drink so much but I totally threw that theory out the window. It was a much needed success. I have tons of good stories...TONS...but debating on when and where to tell them. In due time...be patient.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Friday, July 22, 2005
We Will Sleep When We're Dead!!!
It was a night of darts. It was a night of drinking. It was a night of "All Nickleback, all the time!" A night of friends. A night of enemies. All in all, it was a night of good times and good oldies.
Friday, July 08, 2005
We Could Be Hero's For Just One Day.
So grab my hand and take a walk with me into the past. I was working as a Production Assistant on location in Kalamazoo, Michigan. The hours were long, really long and the pay...well there was no pay but it's the price you “pay” to get into the biz. Got to start somewhere. There were many memorable stories from the shoot, but this one is my favorite.
We're going back one year, to the Summer of 2004. It was a humid, dark day. I know I was really worn out, mentally and physically. It was the same shit, different day, different night.
You see I never really understood the power the actor or actress has on the set until I witnessed it. Josie Davis was one of the stars of the movie. If you don't know who she is, imdb it mother fucker, we are straying from the story. She was going to read for a small role as Hot Nurse for a 20th Century Fox movie. She told me it was for a snowboarding movie. She needed a guy who was somewhat cute so she could get into the role. For some strange reason, she wanted to read with me. I don't know if it was my wit, my charm, my theater minor from college or the fact that she knew my name and when she needed to ask for me, she didn't have to say, "You know, that guy with the beard." All I know is that she was able to get me to not have to do my job, have a lighting guy do up an empty room, all while they were shooting on the floor below us. I know it doesn't sound like much but trust me, it was a big deal.
I found it exciting in a way. That some casting director was going to hear my voice. I know that doesn't seem like a big deal to some of you, but it meant the world to me at that time. Plus I didn't have to set up for Lunch and that sucks after awhile when you do it every day for two weeks in a row.
That day had been busy. They had me running around, doing the typical crazy shit you do as a P.A. but all I knew was that I wasn't going to miss out on this. Not this time. In fact, I almost did miss out on it. Josie was walking towards me with another guy from locations. She said, "I was looking for you but couldn't find you so I asked...him to do it instead." Are you kidding me? No way was I gonna be pushed aside. No fucking way. "I am free now. It's all good." Did I just say that? Who am I? But it worked. She went with me. I'm a big star now.
INT. A Small Bedroom. A small bedroom on the second floor of an old, Midwestern house. The floor is covered in plastic and is poorly lit. LOUIE, a smaller fellow, is setting up lights in the corner. MIKE MAHAR, who was shooting a documentary for the film, is setting up his tri-pod in the middle of the room to record the audition. JOSIE is rehearsing her lines, putting on the last stages of her make up. DAN, the handsome stud, is reading over his lines. Nervous and anxious, he pretends that he's done this before. LOUIE finishes up the lights and leaves the room. As he opens the door, three men from Locations have formed a human wall in the doorway.
LOCATIONS GUY 1
Hey Dan, what's going on in there?
DAN
Oh we're just shooting this thing for Josie.
JOSIE
We're shooting a porn.
DAN
No, it's not a porn.
DAN smiles and closes the door in front of him, knowing that they'll never know what went on in that room. The sex, the hardcore sex.
Ok, well there wasn't hardcore sex or even sex but I thought I'd put that last part in to boost the ratings...sex sells...remember?
When I looked over the lines, all I could think was, "This is really bad.” Josie is standing in front of the camera and Mike and myself are standing behind it. I read the lines to her but they come off as being this dirt ass snowboarding dude.
(Paraphrasing of course)
"Have you looked outside? Those are some of the sickest alps this side of the world."
So that's how I read it the first time. Josie told me to read it serious but the thing is, I was reading it the way it should have been read. Being the professional, I did what she asked me to do. I stood up a little bit straighter, deepened my voice a little bit more and said the lines.
We went on to do this a couple of more times. At least three different angles, each time I'm thinking to myself, "This will make a good story to tell." And to some extent it was a good story to tell...until now. Now, with an ending to the story...this story will be complete.
We jump back to the now. It is July 8th. It's a year after the movie is done shooting. I have forgotten the story I just told you above. I have a forgotten a lot of stories from a year ago. It's a hot summer’s night in Vegas. I'm a tad hung-over and don't feel like doing much. My friend John and I go to the movies. I haven't been to a Friday night movie in years. It's interesting to see how many people go to the movies on Friday. We waited in line and got our tickets. The theater was jam packed. I couldn't believe it. John and I could either sit together in the front row or go loner and sit in better seats. We chose to go loner.
The movie started and it turned out that I was enjoying it. The crowd was being good. The movie was loud and it was entertaining. Then it happened. It was as if someone caught me with a surprise jab. I was stunned to hear...
(Paraphrasing of course)
"Have you looked outside? Those are some of the sickest alps this side of the world."
Mother fucking Johnny Storm said that. THE HUMAN TORCH!!! Hot Nurse wasn't for some snowboarding movie, it was for the Fantastic Four. I laughed out loud. I mean, if you don't know me, I rarely do that and I was laughing my ass off. The minute I realized that these were the lines I read, it all came back to me. I even remembered the lines and was mouthing along with it.
I may never get my star on Hollywood Boulevard. I may never get to sleep with Jessica Alba. There are a lot of things I may never get to do but the one thing that you can never take away from me is, for one hour of my life, I was a Super Hero and in my opinion...that’s pretty fucking cool.
We're going back one year, to the Summer of 2004. It was a humid, dark day. I know I was really worn out, mentally and physically. It was the same shit, different day, different night.
You see I never really understood the power the actor or actress has on the set until I witnessed it. Josie Davis was one of the stars of the movie. If you don't know who she is, imdb it mother fucker, we are straying from the story. She was going to read for a small role as Hot Nurse for a 20th Century Fox movie. She told me it was for a snowboarding movie. She needed a guy who was somewhat cute so she could get into the role. For some strange reason, she wanted to read with me. I don't know if it was my wit, my charm, my theater minor from college or the fact that she knew my name and when she needed to ask for me, she didn't have to say, "You know, that guy with the beard." All I know is that she was able to get me to not have to do my job, have a lighting guy do up an empty room, all while they were shooting on the floor below us. I know it doesn't sound like much but trust me, it was a big deal.
I found it exciting in a way. That some casting director was going to hear my voice. I know that doesn't seem like a big deal to some of you, but it meant the world to me at that time. Plus I didn't have to set up for Lunch and that sucks after awhile when you do it every day for two weeks in a row.
That day had been busy. They had me running around, doing the typical crazy shit you do as a P.A. but all I knew was that I wasn't going to miss out on this. Not this time. In fact, I almost did miss out on it. Josie was walking towards me with another guy from locations. She said, "I was looking for you but couldn't find you so I asked...him to do it instead." Are you kidding me? No way was I gonna be pushed aside. No fucking way. "I am free now. It's all good." Did I just say that? Who am I? But it worked. She went with me. I'm a big star now.
INT. A Small Bedroom. A small bedroom on the second floor of an old, Midwestern house. The floor is covered in plastic and is poorly lit. LOUIE, a smaller fellow, is setting up lights in the corner. MIKE MAHAR, who was shooting a documentary for the film, is setting up his tri-pod in the middle of the room to record the audition. JOSIE is rehearsing her lines, putting on the last stages of her make up. DAN, the handsome stud, is reading over his lines. Nervous and anxious, he pretends that he's done this before. LOUIE finishes up the lights and leaves the room. As he opens the door, three men from Locations have formed a human wall in the doorway.
LOCATIONS GUY 1
Hey Dan, what's going on in there?
DAN
Oh we're just shooting this thing for Josie.
JOSIE
We're shooting a porn.
DAN
No, it's not a porn.
DAN smiles and closes the door in front of him, knowing that they'll never know what went on in that room. The sex, the hardcore sex.
Ok, well there wasn't hardcore sex or even sex but I thought I'd put that last part in to boost the ratings...sex sells...remember?
When I looked over the lines, all I could think was, "This is really bad.” Josie is standing in front of the camera and Mike and myself are standing behind it. I read the lines to her but they come off as being this dirt ass snowboarding dude.
(Paraphrasing of course)
"Have you looked outside? Those are some of the sickest alps this side of the world."
So that's how I read it the first time. Josie told me to read it serious but the thing is, I was reading it the way it should have been read. Being the professional, I did what she asked me to do. I stood up a little bit straighter, deepened my voice a little bit more and said the lines.
We went on to do this a couple of more times. At least three different angles, each time I'm thinking to myself, "This will make a good story to tell." And to some extent it was a good story to tell...until now. Now, with an ending to the story...this story will be complete.
We jump back to the now. It is July 8th. It's a year after the movie is done shooting. I have forgotten the story I just told you above. I have a forgotten a lot of stories from a year ago. It's a hot summer’s night in Vegas. I'm a tad hung-over and don't feel like doing much. My friend John and I go to the movies. I haven't been to a Friday night movie in years. It's interesting to see how many people go to the movies on Friday. We waited in line and got our tickets. The theater was jam packed. I couldn't believe it. John and I could either sit together in the front row or go loner and sit in better seats. We chose to go loner.
The movie started and it turned out that I was enjoying it. The crowd was being good. The movie was loud and it was entertaining. Then it happened. It was as if someone caught me with a surprise jab. I was stunned to hear...
(Paraphrasing of course)
"Have you looked outside? Those are some of the sickest alps this side of the world."
Mother fucking Johnny Storm said that. THE HUMAN TORCH!!! Hot Nurse wasn't for some snowboarding movie, it was for the Fantastic Four. I laughed out loud. I mean, if you don't know me, I rarely do that and I was laughing my ass off. The minute I realized that these were the lines I read, it all came back to me. I even remembered the lines and was mouthing along with it.
I may never get my star on Hollywood Boulevard. I may never get to sleep with Jessica Alba. There are a lot of things I may never get to do but the one thing that you can never take away from me is, for one hour of my life, I was a Super Hero and in my opinion...that’s pretty fucking cool.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Over and Out
I really don't have anything to write about. I mean, I do, but it's not just flowing out like it usually does. Surprise, surprise. I don't sit in front of the computer and spend time on my blog all day. I'm sure you could tell that in some of my posts. They were random and made no sense. I try to write when I'm pissed off about something or need questions to answers I have in my mind. In a way, it's sad that this is my post. It's like watching a blind man crossing the street. You really don't want him to get hit by a car but in the back of your mind you kind of wish he would, just to tell the story. When he makes it across safely, you realize that it was a waste of time because you spent five minutes watching a blind man cross the street...with no punch line. I'm sure in your busy day, you come here to break the boredom, or maybe just enjoy what I write but I'm sure you are finding yourself looking at your watch right now wondering when it's time to take a break from this blog. The thing is, I can't stop writing. The thing is, I can't make paragraphs. The thing is I'm not sure if this is something brilliant or a science experiment gone horribly wrong. Though, I might add that's how penicillin was discovered. I'd like to say that's how I happened...a mistake, but my parents let me know that I was the child that they actually planned on having. In a way, it's a planned accident. I'm not sure they thought I'd turn out like the way I did. Some what neurotic, talking to myself, questioning everything and everyone I encounter. Then again, I know a lot of things people want to happen don't turn out the way they expect it to. A surprise planned accident. There is no need for proper punctuation in this post. There is no use for ProPER usage of the Caps Lock button. It's free. After lots of debate of what to write about, I've set it free. Just for the night. To let it roam where ever it wants. It could go as far as it wants or sleep beneath the cold, bright screen. Freedom is about a choice and my choice of freedom is to end.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Happy Fourth
A day of celebration. A day when we appreciate what the people from our past have done to make this country what it is today. The trials and tribulations. The death and struggle. A day of remembrance. Or..a day off when we can drink beer, eat hot dogs and watch magical "snakes" come from the warm concrete.
I've always wondered about holidays like this. How we can forget about the meaning because we are too worried about finding the perfect spot for the fireworks and making sure that we get the special musical tribute on the radio of "God Bless America."
Today's write up will be short but to the point. I don't want to come across as bashing the American way because lord knows that I'm not a perfect one. Maybe it is the true American way. That this is what our fore father's would have wanted us to do to remember them. To get trashed somewhere on a boat, hoping to get a blow job from your friend's cute ass cousin. In fact, I know that's how they would have wanted us to celebrate. The hot dog is a perfect representation of our country. Put in as many different and unique things into one small area to create something wonderful for the masses to enjoy and appreciate. GOD BLESS AMERICA!!!
I've always wondered about holidays like this. How we can forget about the meaning because we are too worried about finding the perfect spot for the fireworks and making sure that we get the special musical tribute on the radio of "God Bless America."
Today's write up will be short but to the point. I don't want to come across as bashing the American way because lord knows that I'm not a perfect one. Maybe it is the true American way. That this is what our fore father's would have wanted us to do to remember them. To get trashed somewhere on a boat, hoping to get a blow job from your friend's cute ass cousin. In fact, I know that's how they would have wanted us to celebrate. The hot dog is a perfect representation of our country. Put in as many different and unique things into one small area to create something wonderful for the masses to enjoy and appreciate. GOD BLESS AMERICA!!!
Monday, June 27, 2005
Friend of a Friend
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.
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.
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.
Monday, May 30, 2005
A Once in a Life Time Moment.
Ok...so I'm giving you a once in a life time moment. I know, you are eagerly waiting on the edge of your seats. Ask me anything...ANYTHING and I'll answer it. I figure, or I should say I know a lot of people read this but never post, so if you want to know something about me. Why I fucked you over? Why I didn't go out with you? Why I own all of the Britney c.d.'s? Well, just ask and I'll answer. If no one asks, then of course I'll move on to other subjects and you will have missed your one time chance.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Save a Horse...What the Fuck am I Talking About?
So here I am. It's a late night on...well I guess early Saturday morning. Looks like I won't be getting up for cartoons today. What a night it was. I won money on penny slots so I could keep drinking Gentleman Jack. He was so nice to me.
Now don't get any thoughts of me drinking all the time, alone. I think it was just a special night. Sometimes we all need those nights and instead of staying at hope eating Ben and Jerry's ice-cream, watching Beaches I went out and enjoyed a couple of drinks. I went to bar to bar, and for some strange reason I avoided the strip clubs. By the end of the night, after drinking in a small irish type pub (who by the way hooked me up with drinks) ended up at a country western bar. This is what I had to say...I hope you enjoy.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Let Go. By John Doe
I'm sitting here in a dark room listening to music. I've emailed everyone I know, even people I don't know but saw their names on forwards received by people who think that I'd enjoy them...even though I hate them. I'm sitting here sweating, like I always do in this room. I've had ten thousand glasses of water and the quench is still there. I would try drinking something else but I know I would get the same results. So what do I do? Do I stay up all night asking myself hypothetical questions? Questions I ask but don't really want an answer? Why don't I want the answer? Is it something that I know I want to hear? Is it something I don't want to hear? Six questions into it and I'm still at the same place. I still haven't passed go to collect the two hundred dollars I need to get out of this jail that I'm in right now. That's all I need, but it seems that when you need it the most, it's always the hardest to get. I don't get that. I guess if it was easy, everyone would be doing it and then it wouldn't be that special. If we all did the same thing where would the innocence be? I'm sure it would be sitting in the jail cell next to me, but the only thing is, it's blind and deaf and I don't have the patience to teach it to speak. So I’ll sit here and wait. Waiting for someone, anyone to bail me out of jail, marking the days on the cold, concrete wall with a broken piece of metal.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
The End of an Era...Or is it???
It is now 3:27 in the a.m. I know it's late because I'm listening to Stern... first run (they re-air it at six). That's always a bad sign. The next bad sign is when I can see the sun begin to shine through my window. Luckily, that won't be for a couple more hours.
Being born in 1977, I was never able to see all of the original Star Wars movies in the theater. I do remember seeing Return of the Jedi with my mom and brothers. I didn't know what was going on, but I loved it. Tonight marks the end of the new, original trilogy. It was everything that I had hoped for and more. Why? Well the main reason is that I was so sick of hearing people, mainly older friends, complain how badly episodes I and II were, that this one will hopefully put their foot in their mouth. With any story, there is an act I, II and III. I don't know what people expected. I'm sure they wanted Lucas to jump right to Darth Vader. When you look at it in the long run, everything makes sense. Lucas had his mind set and whether you want to accept it or not, they are there.
I could go on all night but I'm not. You can tell me that Jar-Jar Binks was a fucking waste of space. The love story was pointless. But this guy's not hearing it. So go out, enjoy the third movie. Don't fear it. Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. I sense much fear in you. So stop it already. Why are you still reading this? GO!!!
Being born in 1977, I was never able to see all of the original Star Wars movies in the theater. I do remember seeing Return of the Jedi with my mom and brothers. I didn't know what was going on, but I loved it. Tonight marks the end of the new, original trilogy. It was everything that I had hoped for and more. Why? Well the main reason is that I was so sick of hearing people, mainly older friends, complain how badly episodes I and II were, that this one will hopefully put their foot in their mouth. With any story, there is an act I, II and III. I don't know what people expected. I'm sure they wanted Lucas to jump right to Darth Vader. When you look at it in the long run, everything makes sense. Lucas had his mind set and whether you want to accept it or not, they are there.
I could go on all night but I'm not. You can tell me that Jar-Jar Binks was a fucking waste of space. The love story was pointless. But this guy's not hearing it. So go out, enjoy the third movie. Don't fear it. Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. I sense much fear in you. So stop it already. Why are you still reading this? GO!!!
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Dave Chappelle, You So Crazy.
Wow...that was one of my more popular posts. In fact, I think it is the most popular one. Wow, the pressure. Now people are going to expect that kind of quality out of me each and every time now. What should I do? Will I break down? Can I handle the pressure? I'm not sure...I may have to commit myself into a mental health facility in South America...wait...somebody already did that. Dave Chappelle. Did you like that lead in...I am quite proud of myself.
Comedy Central has postponed season three of the Chappelle Show…twice. Apparently there is no say on whether or not it will ever see the light of day. It is not certain on why he did this. Of course the rumors are flying; drug rehab, mental break down, etc. I mean a fifty million dollar check would put a lot of pressure on anyone. I put pressure on myself to make people laugh and I do it for free…sometimes I even pay them to laugh at me. But do you want to know my theory? I think he is sick. I really do… sick of people coming up to him and saying, “I’m Rick James, bitch!” or asking “So do you like to piss on your wife too, just like you sang about when you made fun of R. Kelly?” I’d get sick of that too.
In all honesty, I see celebrities as people. So when I see them out in public I don’t go up and talk to them. Why? Because I don’t know them. I wouldn’t want random people I didn’t know coming up and talking to me. Why? Because I don’t know them. The press says that it’s part of their duties as being a celebrity. To please their fans and their audience. Nobody forced them to become actors and yes that is true, but they found something that they really enjoy doing. I know it's not brain surgery, but it's a job. I really don't care if "Britney washes her own car," or "Brad drinks coffee just like us." No shit, ya think, because I do the same thing. I'm just like them.
My point being is that pressure can be good, pressure can be bad. It's like drinking...a beer or two is good for the heart, but if you drink ten beers every day for a month, not so good. So Dave, I'm sure everyone and their mother has given you advice and suggestions...but fuck em. What do they know. If checking yourself into a mental institution is what floats your boat and will help you find peace, more power to you...bitch!
Comedy Central has postponed season three of the Chappelle Show…twice. Apparently there is no say on whether or not it will ever see the light of day. It is not certain on why he did this. Of course the rumors are flying; drug rehab, mental break down, etc. I mean a fifty million dollar check would put a lot of pressure on anyone. I put pressure on myself to make people laugh and I do it for free…sometimes I even pay them to laugh at me. But do you want to know my theory? I think he is sick. I really do… sick of people coming up to him and saying, “I’m Rick James, bitch!” or asking “So do you like to piss on your wife too, just like you sang about when you made fun of R. Kelly?” I’d get sick of that too.
In all honesty, I see celebrities as people. So when I see them out in public I don’t go up and talk to them. Why? Because I don’t know them. I wouldn’t want random people I didn’t know coming up and talking to me. Why? Because I don’t know them. The press says that it’s part of their duties as being a celebrity. To please their fans and their audience. Nobody forced them to become actors and yes that is true, but they found something that they really enjoy doing. I know it's not brain surgery, but it's a job. I really don't care if "Britney washes her own car," or "Brad drinks coffee just like us." No shit, ya think, because I do the same thing. I'm just like them.
My point being is that pressure can be good, pressure can be bad. It's like drinking...a beer or two is good for the heart, but if you drink ten beers every day for a month, not so good. So Dave, I'm sure everyone and their mother has given you advice and suggestions...but fuck em. What do they know. If checking yourself into a mental institution is what floats your boat and will help you find peace, more power to you...bitch!
Sunday, May 08, 2005
The Atkins-Friendly Diet is No “Friend” of Mine.
“Why don’t you go on a diet?”
“Because I like to eat. Is that such a crime?”
Jack Black – School of Rock
I was at a friend’s place the other night and he offered me some ice cream. Having a sweet tooth I took him up on it. Mint Chocolate Chip, one of my favorites, but after the first bite I started looking for the hidden cameras. This is not Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream, this is not even food. The chocolate chips tasted like chalk and even though the ice cream was frozen, it tasted room temperature in my mouth.
“What’s wrong with this ice-cream?,” I ask in a confused state of mind.
“Oh, it’s Atkins-Friendly ice cream.”
“Why does it taste so bad?”
“It’s not that bad.”
Oh but it was that bad. In fact ladies and gentlemen, it was terrible. Why would they want to make ice cream taste bad? Why would they want to make it look like ice cream was good for you? And this event opened my eyes. It was like I was in a slumber for a very, very long time and I started to notice other things around me.
I was at Burger King waiting in line, waiting to buy a nice greasy chicken sandwich and some onion rings (because that’s what you do at a fast food place). It was when I looked to my right and saw that they had an Atkins-Friendly burger.
First of all, it’s taboo to eat a burger without the bun. Second, it’s a burger from Burger King. I doubt that it’s the cream of the crop of meat so just because there are no carbs in it, it doesn’t mean that it’s gonna be great for the ol’ ticker
There was another time I was sitting on the couch drinking a delicious Coca-Cola when I saw a commercial on t.v. for the new C2, which is a new Coke product that has half the carbs of a regular Coke. It had people jumping out of their cars, with “I Want to Break Free” by Queen in the back ground, revolting from the harsh days of regular Coke and it’s “evil” carbs.
They are trying to make C2 look healthier then Coke, which I guess in some weird way it is, but in the long run people, IT’S STILL SODA. This isn’t something that your body needs to survive. You can either have a really sugary soda with lots of carbs, or you can have a really sugary soda with half the carbs. It’s your choice.
And the list goes on and on and on of junk food type related items. They even have low-carb beers. The last thing I’m thinking about when I drink a beer is my carb intake. It is as pointless as buying non-alcoholic beer.
So why am I seeing these junk food items presented to me in an Atkins healthy manner? This was starting to look like one of those get rich scams. You know the type where they say, “It’s really easy to do, there is little work involved and the final results will amaze you.” In all honesty I have seen people lose some weight on it. So it can’t be that bad can it? So I emailed my good friend Bram Spitael and asked why we needed carbohydrates and why is the Atkins diet so popular and this is what he replied,
“In a nutshell, your body NEEDS carbohydrates because it's our number one source of energy. But maybe even more importantly, if you don't care about having energy, you will have one heck of a hard time getting the proper nutrition (i.e. vitamins, minerals, fiber, etc.) from a predominantly protein rich diet. It's your fruits, veggies, legumes, beans, whole grains that contain most of the bulk of these all important nutrients that you simply can not replace by popping a multi-vitamin/mineral supplement while on the Atkins diet. A balanced diet helps your immune system, metabolism, reduces heart disease, lowers risk of certain cancers, energy system,
The problem with the Atkins diet is that it works. People LOVE results and will sacrifice the above mentioned benefits from a balanced diet for the quick fix Atkins diet. Who doesn't LOVE a breakfast of eggs, ham, bacon every morning? A cheeseburger for lunch and a big juicy steak for dinner? See ya in the hospital in about 5 years when all that artery clogging saturated fat finally blocks your arteries!
Bottom line, get OFF your LAZY FAT ASS and do some MODERATE exercise, EAT healthy 5 or 6 days a week, and PIG OUT once or twice a week and vegetate.”
And that paragraph did it for me. There is a difference between eating good and dieting. Eating good is a nice chicken breast, some rice and some steamed vegetables. Dieting is something people do as a New Years resolution or right before it’s time to go to the beach for the Summer. It’s something that you kind of want to do but not put the time into it and this is why the Atkins diet is such a big craze. That’s why it hasn’t faded away like other things such as tight rolling jeans and parachute pants.
The Atkins diet is the lazy man’s diet and that’s why they are gearing it towards people who like to eat. These big time corporations distribute these “friendly” foods for you. The Atkins diet allows you to eat whatever you want, as much as you want, just as long as you don’t eat carbs.
So why do I hate this Atkins diet so much? Well besides the fact that it’s not good for you and is totally going against the Four Food groups that everybody learned in first grade, remember the one that told us to eat our fruits and vegetables, dairy, meat and oh yeah, grains? It’s tainting one of the last pure things that I have left in my life, and that is junk food. It’s one of my guilty pleasures and I want to enjoy a Snickers bar from time to time and don’t want to worry about how many carbs are in it.
I’m not one to preach but you got to open your eyes America. It’s time to take back what is ours. It’s time to say, “I got to break free,” from this Atkins diet and come back to reality. You can’t have both. You can’t have junk food that’s good for you. It’s time to make a choice. I don’t care what they say to you, no matter what, you can’t have your cake and eat it too, even if it is Atkins-Friendly.
“Because I like to eat. Is that such a crime?”
Jack Black – School of Rock
I was at a friend’s place the other night and he offered me some ice cream. Having a sweet tooth I took him up on it. Mint Chocolate Chip, one of my favorites, but after the first bite I started looking for the hidden cameras. This is not Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream, this is not even food. The chocolate chips tasted like chalk and even though the ice cream was frozen, it tasted room temperature in my mouth.
“What’s wrong with this ice-cream?,” I ask in a confused state of mind.
“Oh, it’s Atkins-Friendly ice cream.”
“Why does it taste so bad?”
“It’s not that bad.”
Oh but it was that bad. In fact ladies and gentlemen, it was terrible. Why would they want to make ice cream taste bad? Why would they want to make it look like ice cream was good for you? And this event opened my eyes. It was like I was in a slumber for a very, very long time and I started to notice other things around me.
I was at Burger King waiting in line, waiting to buy a nice greasy chicken sandwich and some onion rings (because that’s what you do at a fast food place). It was when I looked to my right and saw that they had an Atkins-Friendly burger.
First of all, it’s taboo to eat a burger without the bun. Second, it’s a burger from Burger King. I doubt that it’s the cream of the crop of meat so just because there are no carbs in it, it doesn’t mean that it’s gonna be great for the ol’ ticker
There was another time I was sitting on the couch drinking a delicious Coca-Cola when I saw a commercial on t.v. for the new C2, which is a new Coke product that has half the carbs of a regular Coke. It had people jumping out of their cars, with “I Want to Break Free” by Queen in the back ground, revolting from the harsh days of regular Coke and it’s “evil” carbs.
They are trying to make C2 look healthier then Coke, which I guess in some weird way it is, but in the long run people, IT’S STILL SODA. This isn’t something that your body needs to survive. You can either have a really sugary soda with lots of carbs, or you can have a really sugary soda with half the carbs. It’s your choice.
And the list goes on and on and on of junk food type related items. They even have low-carb beers. The last thing I’m thinking about when I drink a beer is my carb intake. It is as pointless as buying non-alcoholic beer.
So why am I seeing these junk food items presented to me in an Atkins healthy manner? This was starting to look like one of those get rich scams. You know the type where they say, “It’s really easy to do, there is little work involved and the final results will amaze you.” In all honesty I have seen people lose some weight on it. So it can’t be that bad can it? So I emailed my good friend Bram Spitael and asked why we needed carbohydrates and why is the Atkins diet so popular and this is what he replied,
“In a nutshell, your body NEEDS carbohydrates because it's our number one source of energy. But maybe even more importantly, if you don't care about having energy, you will have one heck of a hard time getting the proper nutrition (i.e. vitamins, minerals, fiber, etc.) from a predominantly protein rich diet. It's your fruits, veggies, legumes, beans, whole grains that contain most of the bulk of these all important nutrients that you simply can not replace by popping a multi-vitamin/mineral supplement while on the Atkins diet. A balanced diet helps your immune system, metabolism, reduces heart disease, lowers risk of certain cancers, energy system,
The problem with the Atkins diet is that it works. People LOVE results and will sacrifice the above mentioned benefits from a balanced diet for the quick fix Atkins diet. Who doesn't LOVE a breakfast of eggs, ham, bacon every morning? A cheeseburger for lunch and a big juicy steak for dinner? See ya in the hospital in about 5 years when all that artery clogging saturated fat finally blocks your arteries!
Bottom line, get OFF your LAZY FAT ASS and do some MODERATE exercise, EAT healthy 5 or 6 days a week, and PIG OUT once or twice a week and vegetate.”
And that paragraph did it for me. There is a difference between eating good and dieting. Eating good is a nice chicken breast, some rice and some steamed vegetables. Dieting is something people do as a New Years resolution or right before it’s time to go to the beach for the Summer. It’s something that you kind of want to do but not put the time into it and this is why the Atkins diet is such a big craze. That’s why it hasn’t faded away like other things such as tight rolling jeans and parachute pants.
The Atkins diet is the lazy man’s diet and that’s why they are gearing it towards people who like to eat. These big time corporations distribute these “friendly” foods for you. The Atkins diet allows you to eat whatever you want, as much as you want, just as long as you don’t eat carbs.
So why do I hate this Atkins diet so much? Well besides the fact that it’s not good for you and is totally going against the Four Food groups that everybody learned in first grade, remember the one that told us to eat our fruits and vegetables, dairy, meat and oh yeah, grains? It’s tainting one of the last pure things that I have left in my life, and that is junk food. It’s one of my guilty pleasures and I want to enjoy a Snickers bar from time to time and don’t want to worry about how many carbs are in it.
I’m not one to preach but you got to open your eyes America. It’s time to take back what is ours. It’s time to say, “I got to break free,” from this Atkins diet and come back to reality. You can’t have both. You can’t have junk food that’s good for you. It’s time to make a choice. I don’t care what they say to you, no matter what, you can’t have your cake and eat it too, even if it is Atkins-Friendly.
Dead? To Be Continued...
Like Pogs and Slammers and Fruity St. Ides...my blog has lost the powerful force that drove it. Why is this?
Friday, May 06, 2005
Route 66
You know what's really weird is seeing someone you haven't seen in a long time. You know what's weirder then that? Seeing a girl you haven't seen in a long time. And do you want to know what tops that? What tops it all? It’s seeing a girl, that you used to sleep with, that you haven't seen in a long time, and meeting her finance for the first time two days before their wedding.
The countdown has begun. They are coming to Vegas to get married. They have a kid together. They are happy and for some strange reason, all I can think of is that I was the last person she slept with before the guy she's going to marry. I’m the last representation of her single life. Now call me egotistical. Call me paranoid. Call me Dan. All I'm saying is that it's going to be an interesting situation. I don't know how open their relationship is. I don't know what he knows about me. All I know is that he doesn't know me, he's big and strong and I don't know what kind of guy he is after a couple of drinks.
I can say that we didn't date (well she may tell you a different story, since women tend to think differently then men), she's a great person (I mean I wouldn't still chat with her if she wasn't) and that they are getting married (that is self explanatory) And It's not that I wasn't important in her life, it's that there's another 1,897,446,000,984,322,400 miles left on her journey and I'm just a big, fat, juicy bug on the windshield, not slowing her down, but just a reminder of the previous miles she's traveled.
The countdown has begun. They are coming to Vegas to get married. They have a kid together. They are happy and for some strange reason, all I can think of is that I was the last person she slept with before the guy she's going to marry. I’m the last representation of her single life. Now call me egotistical. Call me paranoid. Call me Dan. All I'm saying is that it's going to be an interesting situation. I don't know how open their relationship is. I don't know what he knows about me. All I know is that he doesn't know me, he's big and strong and I don't know what kind of guy he is after a couple of drinks.
I can say that we didn't date (well she may tell you a different story, since women tend to think differently then men), she's a great person (I mean I wouldn't still chat with her if she wasn't) and that they are getting married (that is self explanatory) And It's not that I wasn't important in her life, it's that there's another 1,897,446,000,984,322,400 miles left on her journey and I'm just a big, fat, juicy bug on the windshield, not slowing her down, but just a reminder of the previous miles she's traveled.
Monday, May 02, 2005
A New Recipe For Preparing Eggs. by Dave
Alright gang, I'm back from L.A. I have some good stuff for you but we'll have to wait until I catch up on some beauty sleep. Lord knows I need it, a lot of it. So until then, enjoy this delicious recipe by a good friend of ours here At The Corner Bar.
Everyone has eaten eggs before, everyone knows how to prepare eggs for a tasty “anytime” treat. Simply crack an egg into a hot pan and let it cook until the “white” becomes solid, and depending on your personal preference, it can be flipped or simply removed from the pan without any need to turn it over and cook its top side. These egg preparation techniques are called “over easy” and “sunnyside” up respectively. Or, depending upon how long left to cook after flipped, “over medium” and “over hard.”
Well, I must report that I’ve discovered a new way to prepare these tasty little menstrual cycle byproducts. I don’t simply throw the little lost hopes of life into a hot frying pan. First I pull out a bowl and crack the egg and put it, yoke and all, into the bowl. The great thing about this recipe is that you can use as many eggs as you desire. Simply include in the bowl a tablespoon of milk per aborted chicken fetus. I really don’t know how much milk to include, I just poor from the gallon until it feels right. But I’m guessing that equals about a tablespoon, or quarter cup per egg.
Then take out a fork and vigorously stir the eggs and milk together. Don’t go to long or it will turn to butter. You didn’t know that every time you enjoy a slice of butter you are contributing to the deaths of untold numbers of unborn baby chickens? Did you, you heartless bastard.
Now for the first time you heat up your frying pan and poor the concoction of death inside. Grab a spatula, and as the flesh begins to cook scrap it off the pan’s bottom. Don’t worry about damaging the eggs, they are dead anyway. Just mix those little snuffed out beating hearts up while they cook in the pan. They will slowly begin to turn from the yellow blood like liquid into a light chunky mass. When done they look like fluffy yellow clouds on a clear summer day.
Your eggs are ready to enjoy. Remove them from the pan, placing them on a small dinner plate. They are best served with a slice of toast. You may want to add some salt and pepper.
I call them, “mixed up eggs,” you heartless, baby killing, fuck.
Enjoy!
Everyone has eaten eggs before, everyone knows how to prepare eggs for a tasty “anytime” treat. Simply crack an egg into a hot pan and let it cook until the “white” becomes solid, and depending on your personal preference, it can be flipped or simply removed from the pan without any need to turn it over and cook its top side. These egg preparation techniques are called “over easy” and “sunnyside” up respectively. Or, depending upon how long left to cook after flipped, “over medium” and “over hard.”
Well, I must report that I’ve discovered a new way to prepare these tasty little menstrual cycle byproducts. I don’t simply throw the little lost hopes of life into a hot frying pan. First I pull out a bowl and crack the egg and put it, yoke and all, into the bowl. The great thing about this recipe is that you can use as many eggs as you desire. Simply include in the bowl a tablespoon of milk per aborted chicken fetus. I really don’t know how much milk to include, I just poor from the gallon until it feels right. But I’m guessing that equals about a tablespoon, or quarter cup per egg.
Then take out a fork and vigorously stir the eggs and milk together. Don’t go to long or it will turn to butter. You didn’t know that every time you enjoy a slice of butter you are contributing to the deaths of untold numbers of unborn baby chickens? Did you, you heartless bastard.
Now for the first time you heat up your frying pan and poor the concoction of death inside. Grab a spatula, and as the flesh begins to cook scrap it off the pan’s bottom. Don’t worry about damaging the eggs, they are dead anyway. Just mix those little snuffed out beating hearts up while they cook in the pan. They will slowly begin to turn from the yellow blood like liquid into a light chunky mass. When done they look like fluffy yellow clouds on a clear summer day.
Your eggs are ready to enjoy. Remove them from the pan, placing them on a small dinner plate. They are best served with a slice of toast. You may want to add some salt and pepper.
I call them, “mixed up eggs,” you heartless, baby killing, fuck.
Enjoy!
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Will This Make Your Blog? by Jeff
Ok people, here's the first of many that I've gotten. I hope you enjoy. Keep sending them in to atthecornerbar@yahoo.com.
I've always wanted to know why Martha Stewart was
treated so well by the media, but Ken Lay, CEO of
Enron, was practically skewered. Is that a
double-standard or what? They're both crooks. They
should both be punished.
So why does Martha get a slap on the wrist? She
defrauded people, too.
I'll tell you what I think it is: Martha is part of
the popular clique. She's famous. She gives money to
Democrats. Therefore the media loves her.
Ken Lay? Oh no. He ran a big evil corporation. He's
associated with *gasp* Republicans. He must be the
devil. And he got dragged over the coals.
It's a double-standard.
I've always wanted to know why Martha Stewart was
treated so well by the media, but Ken Lay, CEO of
Enron, was practically skewered. Is that a
double-standard or what? They're both crooks. They
should both be punished.
So why does Martha get a slap on the wrist? She
defrauded people, too.
I'll tell you what I think it is: Martha is part of
the popular clique. She's famous. She gives money to
Democrats. Therefore the media loves her.
Ken Lay? Oh no. He ran a big evil corporation. He's
associated with *gasp* Republicans. He must be the
devil. And he got dragged over the coals.
It's a double-standard.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Guest Writers Needed
Feel like you have something to say but don't feel like keeping it updated daily? Something on your mind and need to get it off? Have topics you want to touch base on, but don't feel like posting them on your blog? At the Corner Bar welcomes you with open arms, and then some. Contact me at atthecornerbar@yahoo.com with your stories or suggestions. If this doesn't work, I won't cry...much. God speed.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
I'll Have to Look Into this More.
So the other night I was at the drive through ATM. This is when I noticed that there was Braille on it. I found this odd because I wasn't sure that blind people could drive, but as soon as I got done with that thought, a blind man drove up to the ATM next to me. How do I know that he was blind? He rolled down the window and said,
"Hey can you see where the ATM is, I'm a little blind?" in a very condescending voice.
To which I could only reply,
"Yeah, it's to the left of you."
"Oh hey...thanks there buddy," he said as he took a swig from a forty of Mickey's he had in his other hand.
I wasn't sure what was going on but I knew something was up. I knew a chance like this would never happen again so I yelled over to the guy.
"I don't mean to be rude or anything, but it appears that you are blind...and drunk."
"Yeah, isn't it great?"
"Well if you don't mind me asking, how do you know where to go? I mean, how can you drive?"
"Did you ever read Daredevil? All blind people are like that. Ha, just kidding there buddy," he said as he took another swig and mumbles, "That never gets old."
All of these questions ran through my mind; How did he know if they were the right bills he was getting back? Did he really have Daredevil-like powers or was it just blind luck? Why was he drinking and driving? Why am I drinking and driving?
And then it dawned on me. I wasn't drinking and driving. I was laying, passed out in a trunk of a car pissing my pants. I must have had one too many shots and dared someone that I could sit in the trunk of a car. I don't remember now. I don't even remember how I got here. I don't even remember having to piss, but these are things that I don't ask the questions too because I'm still trying to figure out why there is Braille on the drive through ATM's.
"Hey can you see where the ATM is, I'm a little blind?" in a very condescending voice.
To which I could only reply,
"Yeah, it's to the left of you."
"Oh hey...thanks there buddy," he said as he took a swig from a forty of Mickey's he had in his other hand.
I wasn't sure what was going on but I knew something was up. I knew a chance like this would never happen again so I yelled over to the guy.
"I don't mean to be rude or anything, but it appears that you are blind...and drunk."
"Yeah, isn't it great?"
"Well if you don't mind me asking, how do you know where to go? I mean, how can you drive?"
"Did you ever read Daredevil? All blind people are like that. Ha, just kidding there buddy," he said as he took another swig and mumbles, "That never gets old."
All of these questions ran through my mind; How did he know if they were the right bills he was getting back? Did he really have Daredevil-like powers or was it just blind luck? Why was he drinking and driving? Why am I drinking and driving?
And then it dawned on me. I wasn't drinking and driving. I was laying, passed out in a trunk of a car pissing my pants. I must have had one too many shots and dared someone that I could sit in the trunk of a car. I don't remember now. I don't even remember how I got here. I don't even remember having to piss, but these are things that I don't ask the questions too because I'm still trying to figure out why there is Braille on the drive through ATM's.
I'll Have to Look Into this More.
So the other night I was at the drive through ATM. This is when I noticed that there was Braille on it. I found this odd because I wasn't sure that blind people could drive, but as soon as I got done with that thought, a blind man drove up to the ATM next to me. How do I know that he was blind? He rolled down the window and said,
"Hey can you see where the ATM is, I'm a little blind?" in a very condescending voice.
To which I could only reply,
"Yeah, it's to the left of you."
"Oh hey...thanks there buddy," he said as he took a swig from a forty of Mickey's he had in his other hand.
I wasn't sure what was going on but I knew something was up. I knew a chance like this would never happen again so I yelled over to the guy.
"I don't mean to be rude or anything, but it appears that you are blind...and drunk."
"Yeah, isn't it great?"
"Well if you don't mind me asking, how do you know where to go? I mean, how can you drive?"
"Did you ever read Daredevil? All blind people are like that. Ha, just kidding there buddy," he said as he took another swig and mumbles, "That never gets old."
All of these questions ran through my mind; How did he know if they were the right bills he was getting back? Did he really have Daredevil-like powers or was it just blind luck? Why was he drinking and driving? Why am I drinking and driving?
And then it dawned on me. I wasn't drinking and driving. I was laying, passed out in a trunk of a car pissing my pants. I must have had one too many shots and dared someone that I could sit in the trunk of a car. I don't remember now. I don't even remember how I got here. I don't even remember having to piss, but these are things that I don't ask the questions too because I'm still trying to figure out why there is Braille on the drive through ATM's.
"Hey can you see where the ATM is, I'm a little blind?" in a very condescending voice.
To which I could only reply,
"Yeah, it's to the left of you."
"Oh hey...thanks there buddy," he said as he took a swig from a forty of Mickey's he had in his other hand.
I wasn't sure what was going on but I knew something was up. I knew a chance like this would never happen again so I yelled over to the guy.
"I don't mean to be rude or anything, but it appears that you are blind...and drunk."
"Yeah, isn't it great?"
"Well if you don't mind me asking, how do you know where to go? I mean, how can you drive?"
"Did you ever read Daredevil? All blind people are like that. Ha, just kidding there buddy," he said as he took another swig and mumbles, "That never gets old."
All of these questions ran through my mind; How did he know if they were the right bills he was getting back? Did he really have Daredevil-like powers or was it just blind luck? Why was he drinking and driving? Why am I drinking and driving?
And then it dawned on me. I wasn't drinking and driving. I was laying, passed out in a trunk of a car pissing my pants. I must have had one too many shots and dared someone that I could sit in the trunk of a car. I don't remember now. I don't even remember how I got here. I don't even remember having to piss, but these are things that I don't ask the questions too because I'm still trying to figure out why there is Braille on the drive through ATM's.
Banana Split Anyone?
My brain is sweating right now. I mean, inside...it's sweating. I need Gatorade for my brain. Why do you ask? I'm trying to write. It's not coming out right. I got the late night going on. I got Gwen whispering, "The shit is bananas. B, A, N, A, N, A, S."
I'm trying Gwen. I guess I just don't understand what you are trying to tell me. I really am trying to figure it out. I know you can slip on banana peels. You can also cut them up and put them in Cheerios. But what the fuck is your shit being like bananas mean? That's almost as bad as the time when I was hanging out on the North side of Kalamazoo and these two white girls came up to the porch we were hanging out at and started calling us, "fruit." Is fruit coming back as a "hip" word? Is fruit good or bad? Man I'm so out of the loop and my TRL isn't helping me at all, it's only encouraging it. Someone help me please?
"I got my orange all up in your kiwi. Back the fuck up or I'll slap you with my pineapple. I AM THE SHIT! I AM THE GRAPE!"
Does this make me hip and cool now? Because all it's really doing is making me hungry and not only am I hungry for fruit...but for knowledge. Delicious.
I'm trying Gwen. I guess I just don't understand what you are trying to tell me. I really am trying to figure it out. I know you can slip on banana peels. You can also cut them up and put them in Cheerios. But what the fuck is your shit being like bananas mean? That's almost as bad as the time when I was hanging out on the North side of Kalamazoo and these two white girls came up to the porch we were hanging out at and started calling us, "fruit." Is fruit coming back as a "hip" word? Is fruit good or bad? Man I'm so out of the loop and my TRL isn't helping me at all, it's only encouraging it. Someone help me please?
"I got my orange all up in your kiwi. Back the fuck up or I'll slap you with my pineapple. I AM THE SHIT! I AM THE GRAPE!"
Does this make me hip and cool now? Because all it's really doing is making me hungry and not only am I hungry for fruit...but for knowledge. Delicious.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
I Give Myself (10-13-97)
My heart to a boxer because it is always getting some sort of beating My chest to Pandora My knuckles to a sandwich My eyes to a blind man My bones to an old dog to chew on My smile to a dark room My personality to a magician because now you see it, now you don't My stomach to an ulcer so it will have a place to live My heels to Achilles My ears to Van Gogh My hands to a sinner, these hands have sinned at least once a day My blood to a vegetarian My back to you My flesh to the father, the son and the Holy Ghost My spine to a jelly fish My mouth to a black hole My tongue to taste My arms to a newborn baby to cradle in My mind to my money and my money to my mind My nose, nails and any left over parts to bologna My body to the ground which made me
Trouble, Oh No Trouble Writing a Catchy Tune
Even though Cat Stevens was denied access into the United States a couple of months ago and he is on the F.B.I.'s "to watch" list(http://www.blogsofwar.com/archives/2004/09/21/cat-stevens-denied-entry-to-us/) it doesn't mean that he doesn't mean that he couldn't write a fantastic song back in the day.
That's the beauty of writing a song, or a movie, or even a child's book. You can be fucking crazy, high on drugs or straight edge. All that matters is that when a reader reads something, or hears it or feels it, he/she can relate. It's that connection, that special bond that the artist makes with his or her audience.
I know I've gotten sidetracked from my normal rants and raves, but for the moment I'm in right now, at one thirty five in the morning on a wednesday, listening to Sheryl Crow's "I Shall Believe," I feel that it is important to continue passing on the good word. Keep it up my children and fight the power.
Trouble
Trouble oh trouble set me free
I have seen your face
And it's too much for me
Trouble oh trouble can't you see
You're eating my heart away
And there's nothing left of me
I've drunk your wine
You have made your world mine
So won't you be fair
So won't you be fair
I don't want no more of you
So won't you be kind to me
Just let me go where
I have to go there
Trouble oh trouble move away
I have seen your face
And it's too much for me today
Trouble oh trouble can't you see
You have made me a wreck
Now won't you leave me in my misery
I have seen you eyes
And I can see death's disguise
Hanging on me
Hanging on me
I'm beat I'm torn
Shattered and tossed and worn
Too shocking to see
Too shocking to see
Trouble oh trouble move from me
I have paid my debt now
Won't you leave me in my misery
Trouble oh trouble please be kind
Don't wan't no fight
And I haven't got a lot of time
That's the beauty of writing a song, or a movie, or even a child's book. You can be fucking crazy, high on drugs or straight edge. All that matters is that when a reader reads something, or hears it or feels it, he/she can relate. It's that connection, that special bond that the artist makes with his or her audience.
I know I've gotten sidetracked from my normal rants and raves, but for the moment I'm in right now, at one thirty five in the morning on a wednesday, listening to Sheryl Crow's "I Shall Believe," I feel that it is important to continue passing on the good word. Keep it up my children and fight the power.
Trouble
Trouble oh trouble set me free
I have seen your face
And it's too much for me
Trouble oh trouble can't you see
You're eating my heart away
And there's nothing left of me
I've drunk your wine
You have made your world mine
So won't you be fair
So won't you be fair
I don't want no more of you
So won't you be kind to me
Just let me go where
I have to go there
Trouble oh trouble move away
I have seen your face
And it's too much for me today
Trouble oh trouble can't you see
You have made me a wreck
Now won't you leave me in my misery
I have seen you eyes
And I can see death's disguise
Hanging on me
Hanging on me
I'm beat I'm torn
Shattered and tossed and worn
Too shocking to see
Too shocking to see
Trouble oh trouble move from me
I have paid my debt now
Won't you leave me in my misery
Trouble oh trouble please be kind
Don't wan't no fight
And I haven't got a lot of time
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Finding Yourself From the Past
You know in a way it's been hard for me to find inspiration to write. Some say wait for the moment and when it comes, pour your soul out. Others say that you should always write. At least when you are writing, you have things to fall back on. To correct. To make better.
I...I find myself somewhere in the middle. A limbo of both views. It wasn't until recently, when one of my oldest friends, after a span of fives years of not talking with each other found ourselves on the same path again. And it wasn't that we got in a fight, or that we stopped finding things in common to talk about, it was just one of those instances where we both walked in complete opposite directions. Many years of us just doing our own thing.
And then out of nowhere, Dave's sister missed her flight from San Diego to Kalamazoo and ended up in my backyard called Las Vegas. From there I had his number and swore to call him that week and three months later, I did. And with that phone call, I found something clicking in my brain again.
With anything, a strong foundation is what will make or break whatever you are building. In my case, I only had part of my foundation built, that being my friend Nate. Through thick and thin, through good times and bullshit, Nate and myself have always been there for each other, whether we liked it or not. A bond of brothers. But as I started to build, it seemed that my building always leaned to the left. It wasn't quite centered. This of course was always something that ate at me.
Others always considered myself as a writer but I wasn't buying into the hype. I had always thought that it was something I was decent at. Putting letters to form words. Putting words to form sentences. Putting sentences together to form paragraphs. Until eventually I had a story.
It wasn't until I started talking to Dave that we came to the subject of they type of writers we were many years ago. He gave me a compliment saying that I still had the same voice and that he seemed to have lost his. That he didn't write as good as he once did, but this where he was wrong. In those sentences he wrote to me, I saw the Dave that I grew up. The Dave that pushed me to be a good writer. That gave me back something that I had been missing. And with our friendship, along with Nate, I find myself builing to the heaven's above. Beyond the sun, to places that have yet to be discovered. And I will keep on building and building and building until my hands start to bleed because I know I have the friends to pick me up and put that pen back into my hand.
I...I find myself somewhere in the middle. A limbo of both views. It wasn't until recently, when one of my oldest friends, after a span of fives years of not talking with each other found ourselves on the same path again. And it wasn't that we got in a fight, or that we stopped finding things in common to talk about, it was just one of those instances where we both walked in complete opposite directions. Many years of us just doing our own thing.
And then out of nowhere, Dave's sister missed her flight from San Diego to Kalamazoo and ended up in my backyard called Las Vegas. From there I had his number and swore to call him that week and three months later, I did. And with that phone call, I found something clicking in my brain again.
With anything, a strong foundation is what will make or break whatever you are building. In my case, I only had part of my foundation built, that being my friend Nate. Through thick and thin, through good times and bullshit, Nate and myself have always been there for each other, whether we liked it or not. A bond of brothers. But as I started to build, it seemed that my building always leaned to the left. It wasn't quite centered. This of course was always something that ate at me.
Others always considered myself as a writer but I wasn't buying into the hype. I had always thought that it was something I was decent at. Putting letters to form words. Putting words to form sentences. Putting sentences together to form paragraphs. Until eventually I had a story.
It wasn't until I started talking to Dave that we came to the subject of they type of writers we were many years ago. He gave me a compliment saying that I still had the same voice and that he seemed to have lost his. That he didn't write as good as he once did, but this where he was wrong. In those sentences he wrote to me, I saw the Dave that I grew up. The Dave that pushed me to be a good writer. That gave me back something that I had been missing. And with our friendship, along with Nate, I find myself builing to the heaven's above. Beyond the sun, to places that have yet to be discovered. And I will keep on building and building and building until my hands start to bleed because I know I have the friends to pick me up and put that pen back into my hand.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Vagina Pack
Living in Las Vegas I get the courtesy of seeing many things; People passed out on the side walk at three a.m, homeless men throwing back change at people because it wasn't enough. But the one thing that I wish I didn't get to see are those damn fanny packs.
I see them on everyone. I see them on hot women, fat guys, little kids. It just won't end. And all I'm thinking to myself is, "Why are you wearing that?" In all honesty, I really don't see why they are that popular. Trust me, it's not that they look fucking stupid. I really don't see that little pouch holding a lot.
"Ok here hunny, we have our camera, our wallets, this mace, our keys, our coupon book, our sun tan lotion, our drugs, our beer, our car, our brains."
This is something that I thought would die out, like Pogs and Slammers, but it just wouldn't fade away. And then, I found something out about the word fanny. Something magical. Apparently in the United Kingdom, the word fanny is another word for Vagina. All of these years, we've been calling these things Vagina Packs. All of these years I've found these things stupid but once I found out the TRUE meaning, I fell in love with them. How could you hate fanny? I mean, fanny is what drives all men. I mean, you can never have enough fanny...or can you?
I see them on everyone. I see them on hot women, fat guys, little kids. It just won't end. And all I'm thinking to myself is, "Why are you wearing that?" In all honesty, I really don't see why they are that popular. Trust me, it's not that they look fucking stupid. I really don't see that little pouch holding a lot.
"Ok here hunny, we have our camera, our wallets, this mace, our keys, our coupon book, our sun tan lotion, our drugs, our beer, our car, our brains."
This is something that I thought would die out, like Pogs and Slammers, but it just wouldn't fade away. And then, I found something out about the word fanny. Something magical. Apparently in the United Kingdom, the word fanny is another word for Vagina. All of these years, we've been calling these things Vagina Packs. All of these years I've found these things stupid but once I found out the TRUE meaning, I fell in love with them. How could you hate fanny? I mean, fanny is what drives all men. I mean, you can never have enough fanny...or can you?
Monday, April 04, 2005
I'll Take Two Adults and One, Two Month Old Baby Please...
I love nothing more then to go watch a movie by myself. Call me a loner, a rebel, but it's just what I like to do. There are a couple of things I don't like about going to a movie theater. The first thing I don't like is that I get there early and I will be the only person in the theater and then a couple will walks in. Out of all the seats in the theater, they decide to sit right behind me, pop corn asses and all. Not a row or two behind me...right behind me. I'm afraid that sometimes people don't feel comfortable unless they sit in groups, which is understandable. They aren't loners like me, and who wouldn't want to sit by me? I mean, come on, I reek of awesomeness.
The second thing I absolutley hate. HATE! HATE!! HATE!!! I hate when people decide it's a good idea to bring a baby to the movies. It's one thing if you have a two year old and a new born when you go see something along the lines of Shrek, cause lord knows there's going to be a ton of little kids running around and talking throughout the movie. It's expected, it's a kid's movie. What I don't like is when they bring a new born into a rated R movie. The funny thing is, they don't give a shit if the baby's crying throughout the movie. It's apparent that they don't really think much of other people or they wouldn't have brought the baby in the first place, so when it cries, why would they bring it out of the theater?
I don't understand why theater's allow this either. If it's because it would discriminating, then it's fucking stupid. It's not as if they had an immaculate consumption. They chose to make love, or fuck or whatever the kids call it these days. I don't feel bad if they've been at home for two weeks straight. Get a fucking babysitter. Put it up for adoptoin. Leave the baby in a cage. I don't care. Just don't bring it to the theater.
The second thing I absolutley hate. HATE! HATE!! HATE!!! I hate when people decide it's a good idea to bring a baby to the movies. It's one thing if you have a two year old and a new born when you go see something along the lines of Shrek, cause lord knows there's going to be a ton of little kids running around and talking throughout the movie. It's expected, it's a kid's movie. What I don't like is when they bring a new born into a rated R movie. The funny thing is, they don't give a shit if the baby's crying throughout the movie. It's apparent that they don't really think much of other people or they wouldn't have brought the baby in the first place, so when it cries, why would they bring it out of the theater?
I don't understand why theater's allow this either. If it's because it would discriminating, then it's fucking stupid. It's not as if they had an immaculate consumption. They chose to make love, or fuck or whatever the kids call it these days. I don't feel bad if they've been at home for two weeks straight. Get a fucking babysitter. Put it up for adoptoin. Leave the baby in a cage. I don't care. Just don't bring it to the theater.
Friday, April 01, 2005
I RETIRE!!!!
I am done writing. I want to thank everyone who has had a voice in my life. Who has read my stuff and has encouraged me to keep on truckin' but I am done writing after this. I have found that this has just made me feel empty inside. That I worry too much on what people think about my views and my voice that it keeps me up at night, that I can't sleep all over some stupid fucking words. So I wanted to thank you for a great couple of months and I hope you all get what you want in life. Even if it's something impossible, go for it and reach it. Thanks again. Dan.
If you believed that shit. Stop reading my blog mother fucker. April Fools.
If you believed that shit. Stop reading my blog mother fucker. April Fools.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
The Fucking Easter Bunny Did This?
How crazy is Easter? I mean, besides the fact that Jesus rose from the dead (a.k.a. as a zombie), but that there's a bunny rabbit that lays fucking eggs. Colored eggs even. I can understand Santa, because he's got elves building toys for him and he's got a list that he checks twice and reindeer that fly. So we've got the whole backstory to that, but the fucking Easter Bunny?
Is he some strange Government project gone wrong? Is he a freak accident when a chicken and a bunny breed? Oh yeah, while you got me on that, we all assume that the Easter Bunny is a guy but yet, chickens are females, so is he a hermaphrodite of the chicken/bunny breed? Why are the eggs colored? Is it due to a poor diet or does he have some type of internal bleeding?
These are all valid questions. I'm not overthinking things. Someone today said that I'd be bad if I had kids because I over thought things, but she was way wrong. These are the right questions to ask because when kids talk about the Easter Bunny they should all be talking about the same thing, or the Easter Bunny "story."
"Well my dad told me that the Easter Bunny comes at night time."
"You're dad is a fucking liar. In fact, you don't even have a dad."
Do you see the problems that the inconsistency of a story could cause a young, impressionable child? Especially of something like the Easter Bunny. All I'm saying is that we should get the story straight, it may not be believable, but at least have the backstory set up, or else next time I see you Easter Bunny...instead of eating ham...I'm going to eat you.
Is he some strange Government project gone wrong? Is he a freak accident when a chicken and a bunny breed? Oh yeah, while you got me on that, we all assume that the Easter Bunny is a guy but yet, chickens are females, so is he a hermaphrodite of the chicken/bunny breed? Why are the eggs colored? Is it due to a poor diet or does he have some type of internal bleeding?
These are all valid questions. I'm not overthinking things. Someone today said that I'd be bad if I had kids because I over thought things, but she was way wrong. These are the right questions to ask because when kids talk about the Easter Bunny they should all be talking about the same thing, or the Easter Bunny "story."
"Well my dad told me that the Easter Bunny comes at night time."
"You're dad is a fucking liar. In fact, you don't even have a dad."
Do you see the problems that the inconsistency of a story could cause a young, impressionable child? Especially of something like the Easter Bunny. All I'm saying is that we should get the story straight, it may not be believable, but at least have the backstory set up, or else next time I see you Easter Bunny...instead of eating ham...I'm going to eat you.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Monday, March 14, 2005
The First Ever Contest Winning Blog
Well the contest is over. I was happy to see the turn out for this wonderful contest. So here are the winners...
Third Place goes to cowboys with sad songs. I would have actually given this one the first place prize if it was November but since it's March, I just didn't feel like I could touch on the subject.
Second Place goes to miami mike. I know he likes to be slapped around and.
And here it is, the moment we've all been waiting for...
First Place goes christine. I read this and I thought of a story as a child. As you read further I'm sure you will think that I over reacted but it really fucked me up as a child. So enjoy this Contest Winning Post.
I love movies. If you know me, you know that I have seen just about any type of movie made. There are even times when I know the studio that distributed the movie.
I'm the youngest in a family of four children. The age difference between my brother's and my sister is between five and ten years. When I was growing up, I was always too young to hang out. Too young to know any better. Needless to say I spent a lot of time by myself. As the years went on I'd say I developed something called the "Only Child Syndrome." You get it when your age difference is so great that you literally feel like an only child. My imagination grew. It started off small until it became a huge blob in my brain.
I watched a lot of movies dealing with aliens as a child. Hell, The Last Starfighter is one of my all time favorite movies, but the day finally came when I saw this awesome, kid friendly movie made by Steven Speilberg called Close Encounters of the Third Kind. In my eyes, this was neither awesome nor kid friendly. It freaked me the fuck out. The scene that disturbed me the most was when the aliens took the kid away from his mother. I can still invision it. How scared shitless I was when I saw that. Knowing that if it could happen to that kid, it could happen to me.
After seeing that movie, I couldn't sleep alone for about a year. I would stare at my closet, waiting, anticipating for the aliens to come and take me away. I know my brother Brian, who shared a room with me, got annoyed with me at times. I would stay awake until he went to bed. There was a Friday when he wasn't going to bed. I went downstairs and sat on them watching the t.v. through the windows in the door that led to the living room. Almost falling asleep, but staying awake knowing that if I got caught up past my bed time I would be in trouble. When the show he was watching was done, I ran upstairs and pretended I was there the whole time.
I know what you are thinking, "Dan, those aliens weren't evil." The thing is, nobody told me that. So I just assumed that sooner or later they would come for me, since I believed they were real.
A year went by and eventually I just said fuck it. If they come for me, they come for me. What's a blanket covering my head going to do? It's not like it would make me invisible and if they flew billions of light years just for me, they aren't going to be fooled by a kid hiding under the sheets.
Needless to say I was way over this until Speilberg fucked with my head again. I saw E.T. with my two older brothers and my mom at the movie theater. I didn't realize that my brother's wanted to sit in a different place then us, so when the movie was done I looked over to see my mom. My brother's were gone. I had flashbacks, bad ones, from the earlier alien conspiracies. I ran up and down the movie aisle, crying because I knew that E.T. took them away. This of course was not true. Brian and Mike got up from their seats and started walked towards the exit door when the credits began to roll. I stopped, and saw them. It was at that point in time that I would never fall for Speilberg's evil tricks again.
To this day though I sometimes look in the closet and see things moving. I don't know what it is, or who it is, but I now just raise my middle finger and roll over to my side, and go to sleep, knowing that one day it might happen, and if it does, I'll be ready.
Third Place goes to cowboys with sad songs. I would have actually given this one the first place prize if it was November but since it's March, I just didn't feel like I could touch on the subject.
Second Place goes to miami mike. I know he likes to be slapped around and.
And here it is, the moment we've all been waiting for...
First Place goes christine. I read this and I thought of a story as a child. As you read further I'm sure you will think that I over reacted but it really fucked me up as a child. So enjoy this Contest Winning Post.
I love movies. If you know me, you know that I have seen just about any type of movie made. There are even times when I know the studio that distributed the movie.
I'm the youngest in a family of four children. The age difference between my brother's and my sister is between five and ten years. When I was growing up, I was always too young to hang out. Too young to know any better. Needless to say I spent a lot of time by myself. As the years went on I'd say I developed something called the "Only Child Syndrome." You get it when your age difference is so great that you literally feel like an only child. My imagination grew. It started off small until it became a huge blob in my brain.
I watched a lot of movies dealing with aliens as a child. Hell, The Last Starfighter is one of my all time favorite movies, but the day finally came when I saw this awesome, kid friendly movie made by Steven Speilberg called Close Encounters of the Third Kind. In my eyes, this was neither awesome nor kid friendly. It freaked me the fuck out. The scene that disturbed me the most was when the aliens took the kid away from his mother. I can still invision it. How scared shitless I was when I saw that. Knowing that if it could happen to that kid, it could happen to me.
After seeing that movie, I couldn't sleep alone for about a year. I would stare at my closet, waiting, anticipating for the aliens to come and take me away. I know my brother Brian, who shared a room with me, got annoyed with me at times. I would stay awake until he went to bed. There was a Friday when he wasn't going to bed. I went downstairs and sat on them watching the t.v. through the windows in the door that led to the living room. Almost falling asleep, but staying awake knowing that if I got caught up past my bed time I would be in trouble. When the show he was watching was done, I ran upstairs and pretended I was there the whole time.
I know what you are thinking, "Dan, those aliens weren't evil." The thing is, nobody told me that. So I just assumed that sooner or later they would come for me, since I believed they were real.
A year went by and eventually I just said fuck it. If they come for me, they come for me. What's a blanket covering my head going to do? It's not like it would make me invisible and if they flew billions of light years just for me, they aren't going to be fooled by a kid hiding under the sheets.
Needless to say I was way over this until Speilberg fucked with my head again. I saw E.T. with my two older brothers and my mom at the movie theater. I didn't realize that my brother's wanted to sit in a different place then us, so when the movie was done I looked over to see my mom. My brother's were gone. I had flashbacks, bad ones, from the earlier alien conspiracies. I ran up and down the movie aisle, crying because I knew that E.T. took them away. This of course was not true. Brian and Mike got up from their seats and started walked towards the exit door when the credits began to roll. I stopped, and saw them. It was at that point in time that I would never fall for Speilberg's evil tricks again.
To this day though I sometimes look in the closet and see things moving. I don't know what it is, or who it is, but I now just raise my middle finger and roll over to my side, and go to sleep, knowing that one day it might happen, and if it does, I'll be ready.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
The People Shall Choose...
At the Corner Bar is looking for a good topic to write about. This is where you, the people, have a chance to win the "You Pick the Topic" contest. Third place winner gets shit. Second place winner gets a slap in the face. First place winner gets the chance for me to write about your topic. So wipe off your dusty, original ideas and post them down below. Winner will be announced on March 12, 2005. Good luck assholes.
Friday, March 04, 2005
How Much Damage Could I Do With A Pen?
"A lot of people ask me stupid fucking questions. A lot of people think that what I say on record, or what I talk about on a record that I actually do in real life, or I believe in it. Or if I say that I want to kill somebody that I'm actually going to do it or that I believe in it. Well shit, if you believe that then I'll kill you. You know why? Cause I'm a criminal."
Eminem
I've been feeling a lot of heat from people the last three days. When they post it, or even when they don't post it, I've been under attack. At work, at home, on my phone, on a boat, on a goat. Luckily I have a bomb shelter built into my brain so I can go hide in it until the fire has ceased. But fuck it. Why do I need to hide? It's not my style.
People, people, people, listen the fuck up because I'm only going to say this once. This is my place. I go here to write. I'm not writing for the New Yorker, L.A. Times, U.S.A. Today or Mad Libs. I'm writing for myself because I'm easily entertained. Do you think that everything I write I stand behind? Fuck no. This is supposed to be fun. Do you really think that I sit around all day and dwell about the things I write about? That I really think that pet names are the equivalent to slave names? That the lady who corrected me is a shitty English teacher, who had no friends growing up? That I'm really arrogant and lazy and that I'm all high and mighty? That all personalized license plates are fucking stupid? (Bad example because they really are stupid) NO!!! It's a character I get into when I write, because if I wrote like "Dan" then it'd be sugar coated goodness and if you really wanted that then you'd go and watch an episode of Davey and Goliath.
You are supposed to read it and laugh because we are "At The Corner Bar." So you can either be someone who comes here, sits back in your chair, have a drink (non-alcoholic if you choose) with some friends and talk about your day or you can be that guy who comes here looking for a one night stand and to start a fight just because you are "in the mood." Which one are you? Think about it, get back to me, but until then...next rounds on you so buy me a fucking drink.
Eminem
I've been feeling a lot of heat from people the last three days. When they post it, or even when they don't post it, I've been under attack. At work, at home, on my phone, on a boat, on a goat. Luckily I have a bomb shelter built into my brain so I can go hide in it until the fire has ceased. But fuck it. Why do I need to hide? It's not my style.
People, people, people, listen the fuck up because I'm only going to say this once. This is my place. I go here to write. I'm not writing for the New Yorker, L.A. Times, U.S.A. Today or Mad Libs. I'm writing for myself because I'm easily entertained. Do you think that everything I write I stand behind? Fuck no. This is supposed to be fun. Do you really think that I sit around all day and dwell about the things I write about? That I really think that pet names are the equivalent to slave names? That the lady who corrected me is a shitty English teacher, who had no friends growing up? That I'm really arrogant and lazy and that I'm all high and mighty? That all personalized license plates are fucking stupid? (Bad example because they really are stupid) NO!!! It's a character I get into when I write, because if I wrote like "Dan" then it'd be sugar coated goodness and if you really wanted that then you'd go and watch an episode of Davey and Goliath.
You are supposed to read it and laugh because we are "At The Corner Bar." So you can either be someone who comes here, sits back in your chair, have a drink (non-alcoholic if you choose) with some friends and talk about your day or you can be that guy who comes here looking for a one night stand and to start a fight just because you are "in the mood." Which one are you? Think about it, get back to me, but until then...next rounds on you so buy me a fucking drink.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
To Be Or Not To Be, Don't Correct My Question.
At times I find it tough working in retail again. Nobody loves working in retail and if they say they do, they are a fucking liar. One of the benefits of working where I do is that I work in a mall on the Vegas strip. For the most part, I talk to people from all over the world. The other day when I was ringing up a customer, I found that I was having problems talking with her. You see she was a dud when it came to talking and so I was forcing my way into her small little world. I eventually found out that she was from Arizona and the reason why she was down here was that her husband was participating in a skeet shooting competition.
"How long has your husband been doing that for?" I asked in the nicest way.
"You know you shouldn't end a sentence with a preposition. You should say, 'How long has your husband been doing that?' I'm an English teacher, I should know."
Now, this of course pissed me off. Ok, first of all she was so boring that I've had better conversations with myself. Second, she thought she had some type of power outside of her class. The nerve of her.
"I'll remember that the next time I write a paper for you," I said in the most sarcastic way possible. In a way where I was standing at the customer service line of good manners with a middle finger in the air, but yet, still not crossing it. Lets just say we stopped talking after that.
So I did end it with a preposition, but do I really fucking care? Fuck no.
Yes, I'm an English major but do I always talk proper? No. I said I was an English major, not English.
I'm sure when she was younger she had no friends. She was an only child that would stare outside of her window, looking down at the other kids laughing and playing, swearing to herself that one day she will make them all pay. She swore to become a crappy English teacher who would always correct you every chance she got.
It's those teachers that really make students not want to write. That make them dread going to class. I understand the need for structure because if we didn't have it, people would be talking "all crazy n' shit." But lets worry about getting those creative juices out first. Lets worry about having interesting conversations with strangers. Lets worry about the nature of the flow and not having it blocked by a "damn" of rules. Bend the rules. Bend them, don't break them. Oh fuck it. You got my panties all up in a bunch. Next thing you know it, I'll be up on stage with a man behind me playing the bongos. I'm done writing now. If you don't like it, what else do I have to write for?
"How long has your husband been doing that for?" I asked in the nicest way.
"You know you shouldn't end a sentence with a preposition. You should say, 'How long has your husband been doing that?' I'm an English teacher, I should know."
Now, this of course pissed me off. Ok, first of all she was so boring that I've had better conversations with myself. Second, she thought she had some type of power outside of her class. The nerve of her.
"I'll remember that the next time I write a paper for you," I said in the most sarcastic way possible. In a way where I was standing at the customer service line of good manners with a middle finger in the air, but yet, still not crossing it. Lets just say we stopped talking after that.
So I did end it with a preposition, but do I really fucking care? Fuck no.
Yes, I'm an English major but do I always talk proper? No. I said I was an English major, not English.
I'm sure when she was younger she had no friends. She was an only child that would stare outside of her window, looking down at the other kids laughing and playing, swearing to herself that one day she will make them all pay. She swore to become a crappy English teacher who would always correct you every chance she got.
It's those teachers that really make students not want to write. That make them dread going to class. I understand the need for structure because if we didn't have it, people would be talking "all crazy n' shit." But lets worry about getting those creative juices out first. Lets worry about having interesting conversations with strangers. Lets worry about the nature of the flow and not having it blocked by a "damn" of rules. Bend the rules. Bend them, don't break them. Oh fuck it. You got my panties all up in a bunch. Next thing you know it, I'll be up on stage with a man behind me playing the bongos. I'm done writing now. If you don't like it, what else do I have to write for?
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