Tomorrow by Nina

I just saw someone realize their incapacities. The look of their face was numbing. The body was nearly frozen, but the mechanics of the pained mind moved on at a pace that let you see a frenzied scattering for answers within their soul.

Was this true? Is there no way out? There has to be a solution

So they move just the slightest to regain eye contact.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah. I was just thinking"

Yeah, you were just thinking about where you go from here, and the thing is, you don't know. You have no clue. I can't help you, either, b/c the truth is, I am not so sure I'm doing what i'm supposed to be doing, either.

So we take a silent moment. A moment that is just a second too long. That second that holds the vulnerability of me knowing the terror that you've found within yourself.

You can't succeed at what you want to.

You'll try to forget that this just happened. That it all came to you in an epipheral moment of realization that shatters your dreams. Your idea of who you are. Your hopes for tomorrow.

You turn away from the mirror.

And you walk away.

Doc-Week 2

Dan...Week 2

Put Your Shoes on Hippie. By Dave M.

Some background: I'm at work. I work in an office building. There are several offices in the building. My wife happens to work in the office right next to mine, though she works for a different company than me. I just met my wife in the public hallway by happenstance. This is where I discovered something about my wife that I would rather not know. My wife doesn't like to wear shoes. She is barefoot about 80% of the time. (That is not new, I've known about that for a long time.) But when I just met her in the hallway she was barefoot. Come on, she is at work, you cannot wear shoes throughout the workday?! But it's ok, I can get past that. The problem is, she was headed to the bathroom. I asked her if she intended to go into the public restroom barefoot. She replied in the affirmative. I don't like the soles of my shoes touching a public restroom floor, let alone my naked skin. All I can think about is those disgusting germ infested feet in my bed, it makes my skin crawl. It is just not ok to go into a public restroom without shoes on. Am I alone in this? I'm grateful that I don't have a toe sucking fetish.

Trees Lounge

On the Road

If you ever get the chance to get on the open road, letting the wind blow in your hair...DON'T!!! It fucking sucks unless you like sitting in the same spot for hours, eating fast food all day and driving through such states as Nebraska and Iowa. States that you wonder if everyone living there is suicidal due to nothing around them. It's such a weird thing to be...on the road.

Back in the days it seemed like such a fantastic thing. Living off of apple pie and whiskey. Hanging out at on on ramp with thirty people, drinking and eating and playing music. Now a days there are physical signs with a thumb up in the air with a big red mark through it. Stating,"This era is dead. Move along there is nothing for you here."

I will have to state that driving in a car for such a long times forces you to deal with issues that you've put on hold. There are no distractions, no t.v. to watch (unless you are fucking rich and can afford a dvd player in your car) and you really can't get up and walk away. You are stuck staring, looking into your soul. I will have to say that as boring as I've made it seem, it's theraputic. I've never felt better, being in such a shitty situation. So fuck it. Grab your Atlas, gas up the car and get the fuck out of dodge.

A Long December

http://www.beaverislandtour.com/the_story.htm

"Captain Owen J. McCauley, now 79 (in 1948), who retired in 1936 after 38 years in the lighthouse service, tell the story of the tragedy which took place on December 14-15, 1900. Of which he was the only survivor. The Squaw Island light on the northernmost island in the Beaver group was closed the morning of December 14. At 12:30 the keeper, William H. Shields, his wife, her niece, Mrs. Lucy Davis, of Richmond, Indiana, first assistant keeper, McCauley and second assistant keeper, Lucien Morden of Montague, along with Shield's shepherd dog, Fids, launched the 22 foot sailboat which was to take them on the first lap of their journey home for the winter months.

The day was cold and dense vapor hung over the water making visibility poor. A moderate wind was blowing from the northeast which gave the craft a beam wind and from the speed the party estimated they would be at St. James harbor in two hours. In less than ten minutes, however the boat was becalmed for a short time before another breeze blew up from the east forcing them to haul the sails in close to hold their course. Just as quickly the wind died down and the boat was again rocking in the swells.

In gazing about, McCauley recalls, he noticed a puff of wind coming from the north with great force and cautioned Shields who was at the helm and Morden who was where he could handle the fore sheet to be on the lookout. Instantly the squall hit the canvass and as the boat had no head-way it was laid over by the force of the wind. The boat was over balanced and slowly laid over until the sails were flat on the water. The women screamed and were helpless. When McCauley saw the boat tipping, he jumped on the side of it to avoid going in the water but when the others went in the icy water, he went to their aid. They pulled Mrs. Shields up on the upturned boat and tied her to the centerboard. Morden tied Mrs. Davis with the fore sheet and when McCauley saw that that would not hold he went down in the water and cut apart one of the sail halyards. After that the articles were thrown and shoved from the capsized boat to give it buoyancy.

Shortly after the accident they sighted a fish tug coming around the northeast point of Beaver Island but they were too far away to be seen by the fishermen although the squall had cleared the air. They had hopes however, that they would drift into the path of the tugs as the latter returned from the fishing grounds in the evening. About this time the dog, Fids, became exhausted and sank, the first victim. As darkness hovered over them they saw the lights of the returning tugs but they were too far away to make themselves heard by the men aboard the boats chugging along to their home ports.

Mrs. Davis, realizing that all was hopeless, wept bitterly and then seemed to sleep. She died about 6:30 p.m. Mrs. Shields kept asking for her niece and was told she was sleeping. She later became delirious and died about 8 p.m. McCauley, in relating the story said, 'It is beyond my ability to describe the horrible agonies suffered by the women before they died.' Morden then remarked that he would be the next victim. 'I tried to encourage him,' McCauley related, ' and told him that we were drifting toward High Island where the Indians would help us. But his hands were even numb and puffed by the cold. He was sitting erect, holding the jib sheet when suddenly he shuddered, losing his grip on the rope and slid into the water. I caught his arm and tried to help him but he pulled away. I heard splashing for a few seconds and then he sank.'

As dawn appeared and objects became visible McCauley and Shields found their boat still far from land. The Beaver Island fish tugs again appeared but they passed the northwest point of the island, and closest point was three miles from the overturned boat. As they continued to drift the two survivors knew they would miss Trout Island also. Their only hope was to drift into the steamer channel. Cold and hunger were already preying on them and a southeast wind which had started at sunrise had brought occasional snow squalls making conditions even worse.

The body of Mrs. Shields lay in the water under the gaze of her distracted husband. Shields moved about on the boat and retied himself and McCauley did the same, allowing a little slack so he could move about in an effort to keep from freezing. About the middle of the morning McCauley saw smoke to the east and after another snow squall a steamship was in sight. Shields could not even look up but McCauley managed to stand up and wave. He was sighted, the steamer swung towards them, lowered a small boat and they were carefully taken aboard. The ship was the Manhattan of the Gilchrist Steamship Company bound for Manitowoc with a cargo of coal. After the ice covered bodies of the two women were removed the ship continued to Manitowoc.

The next morning at Manitowoc the two men were taken to Holy Family Hospital. Shield's hands and feet were badly frozen but McCauley was in better condition. He was discharged from the hospital and arrived home at Beaver Island December 26th. Shields remained at the hospital for six months and one of his legs had to be removed at the knee. Following his dismissal from the hospital, Shields was appointed Keeper at the newly constructed lighthouse depot at Charlevoix where he served until his retirement in April 1924. He died in September 1925."

So why did I put this on? I'll tell you why. I've been down lately, depressed even. I know this may sound strange but there was a time when I thought about giving up on writing. Giving up on society and moving out to a log cabing never to talk to anyone again, becoming that old scary guy that lives at the end of the road. I had Strep throat for a good seven days, a week to recover, then I get almost a $900.00 bill to fix up my car. These are all things that came out of nowhere. They overwhelmed me to the point that my brain couldn't take it. I honestly thought I was going crazy and the thought of that...well it was driving me even more insane. I questioned everything that I have ever done. Yes, I know, I was over thinking but it's really hard to stop when you are in this slump.

I had come home one day from work and I ask my brother if he had the link to this article. I mean, it was the weirdest thing cause I hadn't thought about it at all and then it just came out. He opened it up for me and I read it. I mean I really ready it, hardcore feeling and all. My great grandfather went through hell and back. I know not everyone who reads this is from Michigan but the winters there can be brutel. Colder then Hoth...way colder and things kind of clicked in my brain. It was as if the weight of the world had been lifted off of my shoulders. This man, my ancestor didn't fight for his life through the cold, Michgigan winter for me to be stressed out about being sick, or having to pay money to fix my car or not sure if I was a good writer or not. He fought to live so I could live. That I could enjoy the things around me. I know this is sounding very "cheesey" and all. Like a fucking made for t.v. movie on Lifetime but it's not. It's just the way it is and when the future starts getting dark and hard to see, I'll look for that light house, that guiding light to bring me back to shore.

I Think This One is a No Brainer.

Hello fellow readers. I'm currently writing to bigger articles and trying to organize a two month stay in Michigan...oh yeah, also trying to work on the website so it's been busy to keep up with everything. I know your taste buds are watering for new material so I'll give you this to ponder on. Even though I HATE hypathetical questions, I found this one to be interesting. Why? Well the main reason was of the response I got.

I was at work today, counting down the minutes until I'm free and I thought of this question, "Would you eat a piece of human brain for a million dollars." I of course thought that was a no brainer...pun intended and said yes. People at work said no they wouldn't. They gave me reasons that it wasn't enough money. That it wasn't the right thing to do. I was shocked. I mean it's just a piece of brain and in my hypathetical question, the brain is from a human body, of someone who had passed away in their sleep, no diseases and said it was ok for someone to eat a part of their brain. Why do I feel like I'm the only one that said they would do it?

Big Trouble, With Little Jerry.

I am not a huge fan of donating money. Why do you ask? Well the main reason is that I don’t know where it's going. Sure, they say it's going right to the victims or it's going to help buy toys for little children but is it really? I think for the most part people donate because they feel guilty. Maybe they donate because they still believe in the system. I'll donate a buck or two from time to time hoping that it will make a difference, that is, if I'm donating to what I want to be donating to.

I'm driving home from work. I had a very bad case of Strep throat and my Service Engine Soon light just came on in my car. It seems that when it rains it pours, but then again it happens to the best of us. I'm driving up to one of the major intersections...it's the last one right before my brother's apartment. As I pull up to it, I see these firefighters walking in between the lanes with a boot in their hands. They are asking for donations. In my mind, I assume that it is for the victims that were hit by Katrina.

Finally receiving my debit card and having some extra cash on me, I figure that my life has been crappy...why not help out someone whose life is worse off then mine. I pull up to the stop and throw in five bucks. The firefighter thanks me and hands me a sticker. I feel good inside. I feel like if I don't do anything else for the rest of the day, that at least I did some good. I'm hoping that the five bucks goes to help buy a blanket, or helps feed someone. I'm hoping all of this until I look down and see, "Thanks for donating to Jerry's Kids." Mother fucker! Not that those kids don't deserve money but I didn't want them to have my money. Yes, I know, I am coming across as an asshole but it's true. I have friends who love watching the telethon. I am not one of those people. I remember as a child getting upset cause I can stay up late watching TV. but nothing is on because of the stupid telethon. Oh well, what can ya do? It's not the money is going to help support terrorists organizations or even to the "shitty people" foundation. So you may have one this battle Jerry, but you have not won the war.

Written by Dave M.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

Will You Marry Me?

No.

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.

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.

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.