Murder Was the Case that they gave me

I was trying to think of something interesting to write about. I mean, I have felt that I haven't produced anything decent in the last two and a half months but what do I write about? What is the big welcome back article that will get people talking again, that will want people to come back to The Corner Bar after so long? Simple...DEATH!!!

When you talk on the phone with me I sometimes realize that it's a chore. My brain jumps from place to place, with very random ideas and thoughts. Today, today I feel like it went to a good place. I was chatting on the phone with The Doc about the usual; Zombies, Craig's list and my favorite topic...me. What really got my attention was when we talked about Death Row.

I've always had a problem with Death Row. I think the main reason is that all of the states don't support it. I understand the debate of letting people die who have done vicious acts to society but it's one of those things that if everyone doesn't support it, why even bother? It's like playing football with only eight people. So there isn't a running back but you have a left defensive tackle. This metaphorical team isn't complete. This metaphorical team sucks.

I realize that there are laws and legal systems that we go through but why does it take so long for the person to die? Should they sit around and wonder what they did? Maybe they'll feel bad about it and say sorry. Also, for their family. Granted they may have some family that's just as fucked up as he/she is but on the other side, they could be this decent family. To them, this is pulling the band-aid off slowly instead of ripping it off but what do I know?

The whole Death Row is a big contradiction to me. They did wrong, we punish. They get their deserved sentence, an act for an act but I don't understand this last meal. Is this some Catholic guilt? Why should he get a last meal? Oh, you're saying that since he will die in front of a group of witnesses, the least we can do for him is give him some Surf N' Turf. I think they should get a bowl of turds and razor blades and if they want it heated up, it's tough luck. I've heard of "Kill them with kindness," but this is going overboard.

"Sorry we are going to kill you but what would you like to eat? Anything you want."

"I'll have a nice warm glass of milk and some cookies please before I go to sleep."

I mean, that's what it comes down to. They kill this criminal but before they do it, they put them to sleep so they won't feel any pain. Who the fuck cares? You are killing him. Do we not understand the whole concept of killing? It isn't supposed to be a nice thing. If they raped and slit a females throat, I think the guy should be raped and have his throat slit. If the Death Sentence is ok in some states, why have we grown morals to care what this murderer, this rapist feels? It just doesn't make sense and is one of the main reasons why laws, politics is a real turn off.

I'm not really one for violence and I can't really say that if some guy killed my family that I wouldn't wish him dead. I do know that I think there should be a line. Either the death sentence is cool in all states where we just shoot the mother fucker and ask them later what they want for dinner, or have it not be cool in all states and pay some taxes to keep them behind bars. I don't know. I'm sure a million times it has been debated and I'm sure it will be a million more. All I'm asking is that if you do kill the guy, more civilized killing. They lost their right when they did their deed. Is that too hard to ask?

Rigamortus

It's been a weird two and a half months. In fact, I'd have to say that I haven't been myself. How do I know this? Well I think I'm myself again, but who is to really know for sure? Oh shit, I am. I'm supposed to know. The only comparrison I can think of is when you are dating someone that isn't for you. You basically spend a lot of time with your significant other and it seems perfect. The things that he/she does that are shitty don't really bother you because that's not important right now. It isn't until you are no longer spending time with that person until you can get a clear view of the situation. Your friends told you that he/she wasn't the one for you but you didn't really believe them and when you look back at it, you know that your friends were right. That's how I've been feeling. People told me that it's ok to be angry, it's ok to frustrated but I kind of ignored the whole situation. I bottled up all the emotions and put them on K-Mart Lay-A-Way. It wasn't until I got my car back, until I found my writing voice, until I spoke with my parents that I figured out that I wasn't the same person. In fact, if I see that guy again who's been living my life the last couple of months, I'm gonna kick him in his nuts. I just woke up from a coma and it's great to see that my friends and family are still here. Thank you. The way The Corner bar was before I left on a temporary hiatus will be back before you know it. Better than ever. So pull up a chair, get ready for a long night because drinks are on me.

addicted society

you don't realize you have an addiction until you stop cold turkey. it's the worst feeling one can imagine and then some. all you do is think about it; day, night, dreams, writing. it's all that's on your mind. one would think that it's worse to have in your life...thinking that it slows you down. that the addiction doesn't motivate you to keep going, to give it your all. addiction should be something that causes a problem in your life. it shouldn't be something positive. it should be a dark little secret that you go to at 3 a.m. when everyone's sleeping. it's something you buy in an alley way, looking behind your shoulders because you may get jumped. it's something you shouldn't be able to admit to so easily but i don't think it's the case here. for some reason, it's worse for me and i wonder that after the cold sweats, the restless sleep, the lack of appetite, that it will get better. that's all one has going for them...the hope. the hope that someday that after all is said and done there is that light. that warm sunshine on your face. that something wonderful. it's all i have going for me right now and if that's all i have, i'll take what i can get. i've already fired the jury in my head who've told me to stay stong and move along. what the fuck do they know? my gut tells me when it's right and wrong and it's telling me that i should not stop. so i won't. i won't stop until it fades away into nothing. i will continue with the addiction until it sweats itself out of my body. my body rejecting it's ever sweet goodness. acceptence is the first step to recovery...my name is dan and i have an addiction.

Strep Throat

I know I haven't written in awhile and the only reason (excuse) I can give you is that my voice is tired. Not my physical voice, but my writing voice. The last two and a half months I've been yelling so much on the inside that it's gotten really sore. It does not sound like an old jazz musician. The cool roughness that they have, the passion. It sounds more like I've been smoking for fifty years. The voice you'd hear from an old woman playing slot machines with an oxygen tank over her mouth...the death.

I know my voice is there and at times I've tried speaking. Words come out but not sentences and I sit and stare at the screen. "I wonder if I keep typing that eventually a sentence will form?" That thought runs through my head a million times a second only to find out that the answer is no. No matter how many times I try speaking, it's just a combination of jibber and jabber. I am like a toddler trying to speak his first words. The parents stare, encouraging me to speak and I stare back talking because I think it's what I'm doing. In reality, I'm just mashing sounds together because in my head, that seems like the right thing.

Sometimes I wonder if not using my voice is the right thing. Even when I know I'm bruised and beat down I want to say something but feel that it isn't the time. It's just not the time for my voice to be heard and so I store it away, thinking that I'll remember it only to find it in a pair of pant’s pocket a year later wondering why I never used it. Thinking that that was a good idea and how could I forget it, but I do.

I know my voice is just wanting to get better...it's sleeping. A big bear, dreaming. Dreaming of how powerful it will be once it opens it eyes from the slumber. It will eat fish, for energy and look to climb the biggest mountain in the woods. The air will be thin but the voice will span throughout the land like a storm sweeping in from the North, letting everyone and everything know that it's back. Letting them know that it wasn't forgotten, that it's not dead and that it is time to be heard again.

That is Correct...

I haven't written in a long time.

I Got A Good Feeling. By The Doc.

Cheapest Stuff You Got. By M. Nagle

Did I ask if I could post this? No. I just took it from his site. It's a couple of months old, plus I know him so I figured he wouldn't mind (My God complex).

http://everyoneisugly.blogspot.com/

Maybe there's something wrong with me. Did I ever tell you that I like the pain in my chest? The tightness that I sometimes feel, it feels good. Maybe it reminds me that I'm still alive. Or perhaps that I might be dying. Sometimes after the pain subsides, I breath different, trying to bring it back, trying to remember. Am I really too young to be having chest pains? Trying to remember why they are there. I've never asked a doctor about it, because it doesn't seem right. It feels private. My own reminder of a life lived. Still being lived. But the nights are getting shorter and the days seem to drag on.

"I'll have a scotch on the rocks, a double." The bartender looks at me carefully. Inspecting. Expecting.

"I'll need you're ID, buddy."

I want to tell him how old I am. I want to explain to him that, regardless of the years I've been alive, regardless of the lack of wisdom, lack of maturity, lack of everything that makes a person a grown-up, regardless. I pass him my ID. Regardless of the prematurely graying hair. The bald spot. The receding hair line. The wrinkles and dead eyes. Regardless of the chest pains. Just regardless.

"You want premium or just from the well?" An interesting question. I catch a look from a group of college age kids wearing Abercrombie and Fitch and smelling like high priced cat piss. Averting my eyes, I mutter, barely audible.

"Cheapest stuff you got."

He sets my ID on the bar and turns his back on me. Another cigarette crawls between my lips. The flame bends over backwards to help in my impending demise. Cancer. Emphysema. Birth defects. Who gives a shit anymore?

I cough as I inhale deeply, pleasingly. My eyes water up, I feel as though I am going to faint, but the feeling subsides. Someone drops a quarter in the juke box and Ray Davies begins to preach about what it takes to be a well respected man in this town. I feel goosebumps form beneath my tattered grey Carhart hoodie. It makes my skin crawl to listen to classic music when I am surrounded by people that can never understand what it means.

The bartender sets my drink down on the bar.

"Three seventy-five."

I reach into my pocket, retrieve a handful of crumpled one dollar bills, toss four on the table and wait for my change. I won't be leaving a tip, which probably means that I will die while waiting for a second drink.

While the color and aroma of the scotch is consistent, it taste like something that was wrung from the spoiled shorts of Johnnie Walker the morning after his private viewing of Braveheart. The first taste is spit back into the glass. Eyes closed, gearing myself up to drink, I stab my cigarette butt into the ashtray.

The bartender tosses my quarter on the counter. I down the acrid fluid in one gulp, and commence to fighting the urge to vomit. It takes only a couple of seconds for the feeling to pass.

I grab my quarter and give the frat boys a nod. It's time to go home. The empty house awaits. I haven't seen anyone I love in well over a year. I am too young to be divorced. Too young to have estranged kids, to be on the run from child support. Too young to have chest pains.

In His Lifetime. By Quaig.

Nicolas Copernicus offended the sensibilities of many people when he suggested the Earth revolved around the sun, and not vice-versa. People were outraged, and Copernicus and his theories became unwelcome in the eyes of many. After all, didn’t God make Man in his own image? And if God is perfect, then isn’t Man perfect? So, by that line of reasoning, why would He not put us in the center? The scientific breakthroughs that made Copernicus a social leper put forth the notion that the Earth, and the humans that inhabit it, are not that special. Our world and everything in it, in this context, will forever be associated with what is known as ‘The Mediocrity Principle.’ This principle states that everything about our planet, accomplishments and abilities is ordinary. There is nothing miraculous about us, or the world we live in. We are average at best in comparison to the rest of the Universe.

Recently, this way of thinking caused me to experience a major paradigm shift, altering my prior beliefs and thought patterns. The change was radical because I grew up believing in heroes and legends that possessed innate greatness. And, what’s more, I subscribed to the idea that those who possessed it were infinite and amazing. They were superior to you and me.

What that meant (to me and many others I know), was that value and worth was based upon accomplishments, achievements, wealth and status. Only a select few individuals with the “Right Stuff” occupied this upper-echelon of humanity; people such as Hemmingway, Picasso, and Ellington, who were triumphant in the arts. Or others like Einstein, Edison, and Ford, who made discoveries and advances in science and industry. And, of course, the likes of Babe Ruth, Muhammad Ali, Michael Jordan, all of which dominated in sports. All of these gentlemen were monumental heavyweights in their respective fields. Their names and legacies are etched in history and cared for by faithful historians. But I feel differently about these people now.

This change in thinking happened to me the other day. During lunch, I decided to wander through a museum of art. There was an exhibit that was displaying the various works of two particular Japanese artists. The modern exhibit was intriguing, but the other exhibit, by Ando Hiroshige, was stunning. It displayed woodblock watercolors from over a hundred years ago, depicting the peasant working class of Japan, toiling in their daily life. The work was gorgeous, the colors were still vivid and the images were striking. In pure Japanese fashion, the lines were simple and purposeful; there was not one wasted detail or unnecessary component to each image. It was simply breathtaking. My appreciation for Hiroshige’s work made him a superior artist in my mind. But, then it hit me. Why was I going to place another hero on a pedestal?

Furthermore, what did this mean about my feelings towards my own accomplishments? If I held all these people above myself, did that mean I would never achieve anything that I could be proud of? What of those around me? Couldn’t they be superstars, too? And if they were, would I have to resign to a life of jealousy and envy?

On further inspection (coupled with my mind-blowing revelation), a fair amount of the people I idolized were damaged and led dreadful lives. A lot of them were, sadly, human. I’ve slowly come to realize that just because these ‘legends’ managed to achieve on a level none of us ‘mere mortals’ could hope to, doesn’t mean they should be placed above us. I had spent my entire life doing the exact opposite. I had an empirical list of stars from all sorts of human endeavors, who were elite in their field, stored in my memory. This list contained the well-known names of those who had managed to strike at that ever-elusive moment where knowledge, resources, ability, and experimentation overlap. All of these people, in that moment, had (in my opinion) seized all the glory that their over-sized ego would ever need, and all the adoration little people would ever supply.

I started to run into trouble with this process as I got older, and began to realize that not only did I cling to misguided idealizations about these people as humans, but my idea of ‘great’ might differ from other peoples perception! I mean, Michael Jordan could be the best basketball player to have ever dribbled a Spalding on the hardwoods to one person, but to someone else he may have been a good player, but won his championship rings when the league was watered down from expansion teams full of undeveloped collegiate players. The real argumentative types could even retort by mentioning the prowess of Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, or even Wilt Chamberlain, during more competitive years. Still yet, others may insist NBA players aren’t that special at all! To some they’re overpaid felons.

As I stood in the museum and stared at one Hiroshige’s prints for awhile- one where villagers continue to work despite pouring rain- a couple of high school students meandered into the exhibit. They were boys: loud, arrogant, and oblivious to the art that hung in the gallery and the custom in which it’s admired. They smirked and laughed. Standing in front of one print, their goony murmuring elevated in pitch and volume, erupting into a shrieking laughter that reverberated off the high ceilings, hitting each wall, and bouncing out into the atrium.

The noise and laughter didn’t bother me; I can be just as obnoxious myself. No, what bothered me was when these kids started rating each print, judging and critiquing them, as if they held a doctorate in Art History! They weren’t simply mocking the exhibit; they were comparing it to their own abilities!

“I can do that.” said the tall, lanky one, carrying a skateboard under his arm.

“Yeah, anybody could do that! If you can stay in the lines in a coloring book, you can do that.” exclaimed the stocky one with really baggy pants, and a back-pack that barely clung to his arms.

I sat there enraged, conjuring all the strength and reserve I had at my disposal to restrain myself from turning to these kids and lashing out, saying something crushing and humiliating. You idiots could probably mimic one or two of these, I thought. But you could not make hundreds of quality prints like these with the original tools, nor would you be able to evoke the tribulations of eighteenth-century Japan’s working class! Who in the hell do you think you are?!?

I left in a huff and started back towards my office, disgruntled that these kids had ruined my solitude with their ignorance and noise. But as I ambled through the marble corridors, I had an epiphany: Who the hell did I think Hiroshige was? And who did I think I was?

It suddenly occurred to me that maybe those kids had every right to not feel inferior by the works of an obscure Japanese artist. And maybe I didn’t, either. But at the same time, I realized none of us-not me or the boys- would produce anything worthwhile in our lifetime, either. But did that matter?

Outside, in the crisp air of an unusual January thaw, I crossed through crowded courtyards displaying modern sculptures and statues of figures ensconced in regal poses. Large, brick buildings with classic architecture provided barriers that hedged off the wind. It all seemed striking, grotesque, and most of all: finite. These marvels of science and the arts, left unattended and without regular maintenance would crumble and collapse. Like, as the song goes, dust in the wind.

Hero worship is hard for me to let go of. It’s easier to do when I think of all those famous musicians, artisans, authors, and athletes as people who met their goals and imposed their will on others. I like that better than “seers of beauty and truth” or “genetic prodigies”. No one is that great or all that bad. It’s all about being honest, relevant, and in context, while showing appreciation for the effort of those who have preceded you.

It may seem pessimistic at first glance, but, really, it’s a mechanism I’ve adopted to survive in my own lifetime. You see, if the human race isn’t that special in the grand scheme of things, I don’t have to argue anymore about whom I think is the greatest this-or-that. Nor do I have to endure and contend with the arrogance of others that are the supposed heirs to the thrones of these so-called gods. I won’t let their egos fool me; the young and talented that show great ambition, and wish to follow in the well-trodden path of imitation, are merely hacks who will cannibalize each other. If, universally, Hemmingway was mediocre, it really doesn’t leave much hope for them, or us.

Many hundreds of years after Copernicus, somewhere in the middle of the last century, Ukrainian born physicist George Gamow (pronounced Gam-Off) added another log to the ‘Mediocrity Principle’ fire. He proved that even though it may seem that our galaxy, the Milky Way, is the center of an ever-expanding universe, every point in outer-space suffers from the same perspective. Maybe even a lot of us do, too.

My Shoot Interview

Ever since I was a young kid I've been a fan of Professional Wrestling, a.k.a. Sport's Entertainment. There was something about it that grabbed my attention, my interest. I still keep up with the events that are going on even though it currently sucks, but I'm still drawn to it as I was when I was such a young child. The thing that's funny is that it's not the fireworks, the drama or even the wrestling that I enjoy. I enjoy the fact that there are “Heels” (bad guys) and “Faces” (good guys). I like the idea that a “Face” can turn “Heel” overnight and the crowd will hate it. They hate it because the night before he was a “Face”; They cheered for him, they wanted him to win and all of the sudden he's turned his back on them and they can't do anything except feel used.

I sometimes wonder if I enjoy it because all of my life I seem to do the right thing, or try to. Be good, don't do that, help this person. As satisfying as it may be, there is always something deep down in my gut that wishes I had the ability to pick up a chair and slam someone over the head with it. No trouble with the law, just a "I'll see you next week at the Pay-Per-View." I don't think that it's an urge to hurt, I think it's an urge to be hated for a night. To say, "Fuck you. Like it or leave it." As strange as it may sound, I sometimes want to be hated so things I say, views I have will be more accepted because that's who I am. I'm the guy who called out your girlfriend and body slammed her through a table because she made a joke about me. I'm the guy who comes in and screws you out of your only chance to have a match against the champ because I want that opportunity.

I just want to hear the boos. Take them in like fresh air after a Spring Shower. I want to have the freedom to go where I want, to not hold back anything I have to say because it's the right thing to do. I want the mental freedom, to not have to lie in bed at night, not being able to sleep because I'm trying to figure out what's the right choices I have to make in life. I'm so sick of doing what's right that sometimes I wonder if it's literally eating me up inside. It starts with my Stomach, goes to my Lungs and saves the Heart for last because that's the thing that defines the man. It's the only thing that keeps him going. I want to fail, I want to lose because that's what “Heels” do. “Heels” run and hide and complain when things aren't given to them, especially when they don't deserve it.

There are so many things wrong with a “Heel” that it's the reason why I can't be that. That even when I'm being eaten alive inside, I keep going because that's what I do. As much as I want to be hated, to ruin any friendships I've formed in the past, I can't do that because I strongly believe in the path that I've walked. It's not the fact that I believe in God, Buddha or even George Clooney...it's the fact that I believe. Belief is what keeps the “Face” going each night. Belief that tomorrow is a new day, things will get better. It's a warm blanket on a cold night, it's a dry shirt after a storm. “Heels” can blame others for their problems but “Faces” accept their destiny and go with the cards they've been dealt. I must continue walking down that dark road, waiting to be attacked when I'm not looking because I know that people are waiting to take me down because of who I am and that's fine with me because I know I'll get back up and start walking again. Even though I say I want to be a “Heel” for a day, I know I never will be one. I'll always be “Dan” for life and in my eyes, in the eyes of the millions and millions of fans out there, that's not such a bad thing.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful

How could I not write about this? The only problem that I have right now is writing about this wonder of science and miracle story or being a complete asshole. Why can't I combine the best of both worlds? I can...we all win.

Isabelle Dinoire, a 38 year old mother of two, made her first public appearance today after her face transplant six weeks ago. I mean look at her...she's so beautiful. Dinoire stated in her appearance, "I want to have a normal life again." I'm sorry but you will never live a normal life again. Look at you...you have the face...the face of a model. The paparazzi will now follow you everywhere, seeing what hot spots you are hitting. You'll never have to pay for anything again and thank god George Clooney is still single. You have a chance...you really do. Yeah right, and then she woke up from her drug induced state.

If you don't know the whole story, apparently she took some "pills" to help her sleep better because she was having a hard time. That must have been some good shit if she didn't wake up while her dog was eating her face. I mean, what makes a dog eat someone's face? Did she put peanut butter on it? Did she just go the tanner and instead of putting on lotion, she put on butter? She didn't even know this happened. She woke up to have a smoke (fuck eating breakfast first) and realized something was wrong when the cigarette wasn't staying on her lip. I can only imagine that when she looked in the mirror, she looked like the black guy from Poltergeist when he was hanging out in the bathroom. The lights get really hot and he starts ripping his face off. I'm sure that's what she thought of when she looked in the mirror...that is if she had ever seen the movie.


The thing that I found funny was that the transplant's face was from a woman who killed herself. Even though Isabelle denies she was trying to kill herself, let me remind you that a DOG ATE HER FACE!!! The best part about this is this woman's got a second chance and she's already fucking it up. Dr. Dubernard, one of the doctor's who did the surgery said, "In hiding, she smokes cigarette after cigarette." Apparently she loves to smoke, so much that if she continues, it could cause complications. At this point in time, I really don't think she cares.

What have we learned about this whole experience?

1. Science is a strange thing.
   
2. Drugs are a strange thing.
   
3. She won't get work now because she's got the face like the bottom of a dumpster.
   
4. She will never get laid again unless the guy is blind or she puts a paper bag over her head.
5. The only thing she's got going for her is that she will never have to pay for another Halloween costume.
   
6. The last and final thing...never...EVER own a dog.

Middle Fingers to You All

I have given up on you lost souls and have deemed none of your entries the winner. This contest was a huge failure. I would have to say that only two people were kind of close to what I was going for on here but the rest of you...shame, shame, shame. Also, sending me pictures that I already sent you, that's not a good sign of the whole original theme I was going for. So in a sense, not only do I find these three pictures to be amusing, I also feel it sums up
this whole contest.

Without knowing these people, the pictures could come across as a guy flipping off another guy. That's still funny since I'm such a fan of the middle finger but there is something more to these. A sense of innocence being tainted. A sense that right when you think that everything's gonna be alright, someone is giving you the bird behind your back. A deep metaphor for society today (that sounds like an answer I would give on a English exam).

These were taken last year when I went back to Kalamazoo to visit
my grandparents, also known as the two week binger. The guy in the orange shirt, Brett, is one of my oldest and closest friends. I've known him since the days of AYSO soccer. He's probably one of the nicest and innocent guys out there. When I say innocent, I
mean that his personality is very relaxed and chill and that when
people do mean things to him, you can't help but laugh because
it's such a terrible act.

The other guy doing the flipping is my friend Mike. He too is a nice guy but with a real dark side. I won't dare describe his dark side in fear that one day something evil will happen to me, like falling down and spiders crawling down on my face and those spiders start eating my face and I can't move. Oh the humanity.

When you put these two together, the hilarity ensues. In one night, I was able to catch three acts of Brett being viciously attacked by the middle finger. Brett's love for life or ignorance to it, allowed him to not become a victim to such a terrible thing. I of course paid close attention, watching the Lion prepare to strike on it's next meal. Brett doesn't even know. Look behind you Brett!!! Turn your head!!!

These were pictures that I was looking for. Capturing experiences with your friends at a bar. Not the "Ok, everyone smile," pictures, but the random acts. I am not a huge fan of posed pictures and if you have ever taken one with me, I'm sure I fucked it up on purpose. Hopefully in the future, if I ever attempt a contest again, I hope that you, the readers have a better understanding of what I was going for. Until that time...middle fingers to you all.

Toothbrush

Watching a relationship grow between two people is a fantastic thing. Call me a sap, call me a sucker but I really enjoy hearing about it. The other day I was having a conversation with one of my friends about his relationship (Don't worry, it's nobody on this because I know I'd get in trouble for talking about it). Apparently he really likes this girl but they won't officially say that they are dating. I can respect that until he said he was going to the store to buy a toothbrush. I asked him if it was for her place and he said that it was. I went on to tell him that leaving your very own toothbrush over at her place is a HUGE step, and that is something that you do when you two are dating. In my opinion, this is how the dating scale works.

1. I'm hanging out with this girl/guy.
2. I'm kind of seeing this girl/guy.
3. I'm dating this girl/guy
a) Getting your own drawer.
b) Having your own toothbrush.

You see on my list, the toothbrush is a division of the girlfriend/boyfriend scenario. I did think of the possibility of "friends with benefits" but those "friends" don't stay over. They get the fuck out of there because staying over is something that is part of a relationship. Unless you are sick like Quentin Hunt, a man who will use anyone and everybody’s toothbrush because he doesn't see anything wrong with it, the toothbrush is that next level in dating.

Now I am not saying that I know anything when it comes to relationships. In fact, I'd say that I have the least experience out of anyone in that situation but I do have to say this...I pay attention. You are dating her, it's true. Denial ain't a river in Egypt(The Nile is if you were confused); it's what my friend is in right now and is sinking fast. The faster he can accept this, the better and stronger that the relationship will be. Dr. McCauley...OUT!

At The Corner Bar Greatest Bar Picture in the World.

Did someone say contest? Did someone say there's a chance to win an awesome prize? Well no one has really said it yet, but I will right now...Contest. For one week and one week only I ask you the readers to find the best bar related picture...ever. This could be a picture of you, a picture of a friend, picture of a bar or a picture you found on the internet. It really doesn't matter as long as it is bar themed. What am I look for? Something that grabs my eye...grab it I say and yank that son of a bitch out. You must send all or any pictures to...

atthecornerbar@yahoo.com

There is not a limit of how many pictures you can send in so I'm giving some of you bored ass mother fuckers at work something to help waste your time.

What is this prize? Well, I won't say because I want this to be a un-biased competition. Some may like it, some may hate it but I promise you that all will be jealous of the winner. Good luck and God speed.

R.I.F.

I just got done watching Oprah (I've been spending too much time in this damn apartment if I'm watching Oprah now) and it was probably the best hour of comedy for a non-comedy show I had ever seen. If you haven't already read, this author, James Frey, wrote a book called A Million Little Pieces. In this book it talks about his courageous fight from drug and alcohol abuse. It was number one on the New York Best Seller List and it was on Oprah's book club for the longest time. I had people telling me that I had to read it because it changed their lives but I would tell them that I don't have those problems so why should I read it? If it was about a guy who was broke and found the courage to fund a movie...I would read it.

The thing that was so shocking was that this guy apparently had lied about some of it. This website called The Smoking Gun found information on him that he had lied about the time he had spent in jail. They called him out, they called Oprah out James Frey went on Larry King Live to defend himself and who was there in his corner? Oprah. She called in saying that the message behind the book is all that mattered and blah, blah blah.

So now I'm watching this show and Oprah says she is wrong for saying this. She said she was wrong on National TV and all I can think is that who gives a fuck? I really don't care and why am I still watching this but I go on. The author comes out and Oprah asks him what he lied about. The guy tells her that there were times that were changed around. He realizes now that he was wrong.

Ok...so as I'm writing this I'm realizing that I can just sum it up in one paragraph.
This madness, this book. Why God why? How could he do this to us? Will we ever trust anyone again? Oprah you are so courageous to say you were wrong on National TV. Why the fuck is that guy sitting in the audience when everyone else is on stage? I mean, this happens all the time on this show...they have a panel of people talking and out of nowhere they go to the audience and there's that one loner man/woman sitting there. I can't believe I actually sat and watched this whole thing. I really wish Oprah was going to cry, it looked like she was. She said she was so embarrassed. I'd be really embarrassed too if I had a billion dollars and I read a book that wasn't true. Why does it seem like this guy got caught smoking pot at a Church social and now his parents, priest and neighborhood watch are lecturing him why he was wrong? Oprah you are so courageous. Why did I watch this and pass on Cathouse: The Series?

I found this quite amusing because it really didn't mean anything. Will this do anything to Oprah? Fuck no...she's still gonna be rich. Is this going to do anything bad for James Frey? Fuck no...he's still rich and there's that old saying that "Any publicity is good publicity." After watching this show and hearing about the lies, people are going to rush out to read it just to see what he lied about. It's such a strange fucking world we live in.

In a sense, life is the distortion of truth. I may see one thing one way and the guy sitting next to me could see the exact same thing and have a totatlly different memory. Now I'm not defending this guy and I'm not calling him an asshole because as a writer we tend to extend the truth, polish it up to make it seem like the worst/best thing that has ever happened. It's what we do. It's what you, the readers, want us to do. If this was something that was done in the newspapers, ok I would be fucking pissed but in the long run, we read for entertainment. To have something to talk about at the dinner table so you can ask,

"Have you read any good books lately?"
"Yeah, there was this book about this guy who had a drug problem. You should check it out."

We read to escape to a different place. We do read to give us courage and if you find courage in a book that are filled with lies and exaggerated truth(I wasn't referring to The Bible), I don't see any harm in it. If it gets us out of bed, if it keeps us walking towards the silver lining...go to it. Read away.

Oh yeah...I lied about this whole thing. It never really happened.

T.W.I.B. (This Week in Blogging)

I just realized that I haven’t written anything in a week. A whole week. What was I thinking? I guess I wasn’t but I’m back and better, just like Coke 2. Shit, they don’t make that anymore. I know my life may be too exciting for you to handle but if you drink a couple of beers, run a marathon, sit in a hot tub for an hour and drink a couple of more beers, the excitement may have worn off…well maybe 1% of it but that should be just enough to finish this.

• American Idol--I have to admit that I watch this show. Ok, let me make something clear…I watch the auditions of the show. Once they have it down to where you can vote and all that dumb shit, I stop watching. I love watching complete and very delusional people think that they can sing. How do they know they can sing? Either their parents and friends have told them or they can actually tell themselves that they are great singers. It’s quite amusing to see someone with no talent what so ever have whatever little hope they have left in life get destroyed on national TV.

• Treatment--I finished writing a treatment this week for a low-budget movie. What’s a treatment? Well apparently this isn’t a common term because no one really knew what I was talking about. My brother thought it was the name of the movie and was confused to see that it was only four pages long. It’s really just a shortened version of a movie, describing the movie. Some people use this to pitch to big wig Hollywood types or people with lots of money. It’s a way to say, “Hey look, this is the story…give me money.”

• Foo Fighters--I know I always talk about this band but I really have to say that I don’t get sick of this album. At first, it was an ok album. Dave Grohl said in numerous interviews that he wanted this to be an album that people would tell to the younger generation, “You have to own this album.” The more I listened to it, the more it grew on me. I am still not sick of it and I think that’s a wonderful thing.

• Weight Watchers Diet--My brother’s girlfriend has started the Weight Watchers Diet. In all honesty, I hate diets because they want to give you fast results. I actually approve of this diet because it trains you to eat in a way where you aren’t pigging out, teaching you to eat serving sizes. You’d be surprised what your version of a serving size is and a real serving size. It will blow your mind. This system is all based on a point system…you get a certain amount of points a day and a certain amount of “free” points for the week. By doing this, it helps you balance your diet and it doesn’t shock your metabolism when you stop eating. Even though I am not participating in it, all I see are numbers now when I eat something. “This steak is three points. These chips are two. This beer is two points.” I’ve become John Nash (The guy that A Beautiful Mind was based on). Numbers, numbers, numbers! Make the madness stop.

• Boom Boom Mancini--Yes…the mysterious Boom Boom Mancini. Who could he be? Who could she be? There hasn’t been this much of a stir since I posted the pictures of me having sex on here. Ok that didn’t happen but you could imagine the conversation at the water cooler the next day, “Did you see those pictures of Dan having sex?” “Yes.” It would have been amazing. I used to care. It was like I was living out real life version of Clue but now I’ve come to terms that I am not as excited as I once was. It’s either someone we know who won’t reveal themselves or it’s someone we know on here, pretending to be someone else. In the end, it’s another reader and I can’t complain about that.

A whole week of catch up in less than two minutes. I hope your body hasn’t gone through too much shock but don’t worry…I’m back. I hope you enjoyed this little thrill ride. Please step to your right and follow the exit signs.

Thanks for the Ride. By Dave M.

Doc’s a great guy for those of you out there who don’t know, or who may question that fact. He has always been a little off, but in a good way. Doc and I share a common ancestry, which makes him that much more trustworthy in my mind. At least I assume that we share a common ancestry, I’ve never really discussed it with him. We don’t look alike or anything, I just think that when they were passing out surnames our ancestors were European countrymen…Damn, I stray when I’m unfocused. Back to the proof, Doc is a great guy.

Many years ago I sat in my house on a late summer night. Clearly bored, but essentially sober I decided that the best thing I could do was go for a run. This wasn’t a twilight run, or even a midnight run. This was an approximately 2:00 in the morning run. My only explanation for running at such an hour is to request that you realize and accept that sometimes young men will make rash, seemingly nonsensical decisions to prove their own prowess to themselves. I can only assume that going for a several mile run in the middle of the night was probably the result of some such determination on my own part.

As I ran down the essentially deserted street I saw, projected on the street in front of me, the lights of an approaching vehicle coming from behind. I may have hugged the shoulder of the street a little closer to the trees on the side of the road and left the driver the entirety of his lane, but I otherwise made no thought for the pickup truck that quickly passed me by and slipped out of my view into the nighttime road ahead.

I thought more of it a minute or two later when another vehicle appeared down the street traveling towards me. This vehicle was moving much slower than the last, and as it got closer I noticed a familiarity to the truck. I did not recognize the approaching pickup truck, but as it got closer to pass, it slowed to a near crawl as the driver careened his head and watched me pass. It was dark and I could not see well. I was a little spooked at the truck, and my mind tried to process what the driver’s thoughts could be. Obviously the most logical explanation for such an action is that the driver had to slow down to properly contemplate why a jackass was running down the road in the middle of the night. But as the truck passed, I became a little more unnerved realizing or at least believing that it was the very truck that passed me only minutes before going in the other direction. At this point all logic escape my thought processes. This guy passed me going East and turned around to pass me going West as well. I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t the same truck that passed me twice, but simply a coincidence that two white pickup trucks of the same make and model just happened to be the first two vehicles to pass me on my now clearly ill-conceived late night run.

This theory was quickly disproved as within another minute I could see and hear another vehicle approaching from behind. I turned around to determine what and who was approaching me, and I soon discovered that it would be same truck passing me for the third time. Now, clearly being stalked, I panicked. I turned and ran directly into the trees along the side of the road. I hide among these trees while the truck pulled up to where I departed the street and came to a stop. Left to my own thoughts for the next few seconds, I was certain I was headed for some trouble, and really only contemplated my best route for escape, and the closest house in which I could find refuge from the madman that at this point surely desired only to beat and murder me.

As I crouched there, looking about for the path that must surely be there, the passenger window of the truck rolled down slightly as the driver leaned across the bench seat and in a confused and yet truly inquisitive voice, questioned to the trees in which I was hiding, “David, is that you?”

To this point I had been utterly unable to recognize the driver of the truck. The darkness prevented me from seeing anything beyond a general shape of a person in the driver’s seat of the vehicle. But the voice, the voice was none other than the good Doctor’s.

As I stumbled out of the brush into the open I replied out, “Yeah Nate, it’s me.”

You should know that the Doctor was quite concerned that I needed some help, and knew that I definitely required a ride. He insisted that I permit him to return me home, or help with some car trouble I must have certainly encountered. I simply explained that I had embarked on a late night run and would return home by foot at its conclusion.

I don’t remember if Nathan convinced me that I was being a dumbass and drove me home, or if he decided to acquiescence to my desire to continue the run, but in any event I appreciated the thought and concern. And for that thought and concern so many years ago, I thank you Doc.

Again. By Dave M.

The song “Again” by Lenny Kravitz reminds me of Cape Cod Massachusetts. The little swath of land jutting into the Atlantic Ocean creates a wonder vacation haven for greater New England, it is the site of one of my best and most memorable summers. Unfortunately there are too many people connected to that cape that I will never see again. There is no need to wonder as Lenny does throughout his song, I just know I will never see most of those people again. I have even called some just to say “hi” but there was never a response to the message I left. Some, I’ve never called, but should. I even promised one friend that I would not return without stopping in to see him. But seven years later I did. I drove by his house and I didn’t stop. I drove by a lot of houses on my return trip, but I didn’t stop at any of them, except for one. Uncle B is getting old, but he is still there. After I explained to him who I was and how I knew him he just blankly stared at me. He lived across the street from me in West Dennis, Mass. He is the great uncle of one of my best friends and we spent some time talking to him. He is probably in his eighties, he is permanently bent at the waist and he limps. It was an amazing occurrence, standing on his front stoop.

“Hey uncle B! How are you doing?”
“Huh, who are you?”
“It’s David, DJ’s friend.”
“DJ? Yeah. But who are you?”
“I’m DJ’s friend, remember we worked here for a summer, I’m from Michigan. I came back for DJ’s wedding.”
“Michigan?...I remember you, you’re a lawyer now aren’t you?”
“Well, yes that’s true.”
“I remember you, how are you doing? What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for DJ’s wedding. Can I come in and introduce you to my wife and daughter?”
“DJ’s wedding is next week in Falmouth.”
“I know that, but I’m here to visit you.”
“Oh. Well, Come in then!”

Sometimes it takes a while for him to comprehend, but if you are persistent you can get to the point with ole’ Uncle B. The fact that he didn’t remember me until I mentioned Michigan flabbergasted my sensibilities. It’s as if I’m the only person he ever met from Michigan likening it to some exotic South American rain forest village, so strange and far off that one would never forget the one inhabitant of the land that he met through some chance encounter years previously. The fact that he knew I had become a lawyer was interesting too. When I knew this man I was a drunk college student with no better sense than to drive a 10 year old Camaro across the country simply for the hope of securing employment only because I had nothing better to do. An accurate prediction of my eventual career path in 1997 would have garnered all the probability of picking the winning Mega Millions lottery numbers. Maybe that’s how he remembered. I can see DJ’s mother mentioning that DJ’s friend who lived across the street for a summer had become a lawyer and Uncle B’s jaw dropping to the ground as he no doubt thought to himself, “That crazy son of a bitch is a lawyer! What the fuck is going to happen next, the Red Sox winning the World Series?” As far as I can tell Uncle B’s life activities consist of talking to his nieces and watching the Red Sox. I wonder what he does in the winter.

But Mr. B is a side note to this story. He is just the one that I made the effort to actually visit. The others, the other drunks and dope heads that were and probably still are my friends, that’s a different story. It’s amazing how four months and constant contact can forged friendships that would last a lifetime if they were not broken by distance and lost phone numbers, by carelessness really. But that’s a lost point. The one I lament the most is my friend Ellie. And I don’t miss her the most simply because we never had sex or even kissed. If anything I helped her pursue her homosexual tendencies into a full fledged lifestyle change. I miss her the most because she was friendly and lovely; she liked to get high, sit around talking and reading poetry. Our connection was obviously facilitated by our mutual recreational drug use, but we carried an understanding of each other that I would pray lasts to this day. I would like to carry on that connection, if only I could ever encounter her again. Unfortunately, she seems to be gone.

I Don't Care. Chewing On a Cookie.

It took me long enough to figure this simple equation out but now I can leave your drunk voice mail messages to me on here. Thank you technology. Also, if you want to hear some samples of the newest sensation across the nation please go to...

The Moice Vail Album

Saving Grace

Three Cheers for Success

What's the best thing to do at a bar? Drink? Check out hot ladies? Did I say drink? Ok...I have to rephrase that question because the first three are all really important when going to the bar. I wanted to say that finding a good bar is hard to do in today's society. So what are the ingredients to finding one of these bars?

1. Jack Daniels. It has to have Jack Daniels in the bottle (If you don't drink, some bars/casinos think it's wise to put the J.D. in a dispenser, like a fountain dispenser and I hate that. It defeats the purpose of tipping the bartender well because there is no exchange for it because they click a button and a certain amount comes out.) To some of you non-drinkers you may think that this isn't a big deal, but it is. It really doesn't taste the same. Some people may like it because I’ve found people to like soda from a fountain over soda from a can. Those people are crazy.
2. Jukebox. It must have a great Jukebox. Most bars play music but it's got to be the right kind. Some have c.d.'s that are c.d's that not even I would own but yet they keep it in there, with the rare chance that a multi-millionaire will come in and want to listen to Aaron Carter's "Oh Aaron." I'm finding out these days that many are switching to the kind where you can download but even these are a bit shady because not all of them will allow you to download certain songs. If a bar has one of these downloadable machines which allows you to download "Trees Lounge," go and never leave. It's a gem and it probably means you will find the man/woman of your dreams.
3. Dart Board. The third and final step in finding a great bar is if it has a dart board. Doc got me into darts a long time ago. I wasn't really a big fan but after playing with him I realized how much fun it can be. You drink more, you get loud and for some reason you feel like you own the place because you are throwing plastic tips (I like the electronic boards because I don't like keeping score) at a board. For all of you non-dart playing mo-fo's...I suggest you start. It's addicting and once you play it, you will not care about pool or Game-A-Tron 2000. It's the bar game of champions.

These are the three things that make up a successful trip to a bar. Three things that will guarantee you a great bonding experience with your friends. I must also add that two of the three are non-drinking related so you can bring your Mormon and Straight Edge friends too…everyone wins. If you think that a bar is great because you get laid all the time...get the fuck out of this Corner Bar. You don't belong here because that's not what it's all about. It's all about the community, the stories, the friendships.