T.W.I.B. 3-28-06

I know, a whole fucking week. What can I say, I had a lot going on. After the fire incident, I got a throat infection. I was worried it was strep so I went to one of those Instant Care facilities. I didn't want to go but my sister's wedding is on Saturday and I thought it would be a waste if I flew to Florida to be sick.

When I got in there, they made me fill out the paper work. Then they did the pre-scanning, which I don't really know why the do that because when the doctor comes in, he asks you the exact same question. I wonder if they do that to try to catch you in a lie.

The doctor came and asked me questions; What hurts? Does your nose run? Do you sneeze? All the stupid questions and I answered them all. He said that I had symptoms of Strep but as we all know, I had it last year and this wasn't Strep. So why do I know more than a doctor? Am I really that smart? No, I don't know why. He took a throat culture (I think that's what it's called) and said that he'd have the results in five to ten minutes. An hour later a nurse comes in and tells me that it is just a virial thing and there is nothing they can do. They told me to drink lots of water and rest and that will be 93 bucks. Yup, no insurance equals higher amounts paid but if you think about it, if I had to pay 15 bucks every other week, it would be way more money. This is how I justify being broke. Thank you Grandma and Grampa for the birthday money. I spent it on someone telling me to drink water. Well worth it.

Shit, I don't know why I called this post, "This Week In Blogging" when I only had one story to talk about. I have failed. I am going to do my best to keep this up to date while I'm down there.

I predict that the next couple of weeks are going to be huge. HUGE I say. What is it Dan, I'm dying to know? Tough luck, learn some patience and count down the days. I'll let you know when it happens.

Until that time...

Over and out!!!

Class C Extinguisher

Nothing like a good work out and Death facing you in the eyes to help you sleep a little bit better at night...

Tonight was Taco night. I have to say that this may be my favorite dinner. I love Mexican food, I love all food actually but I was really looking forward to this mean. I was in the kitchen browning the meat, warming up the oven so it would be ready for the taco shells. I'm standing there staring at the meat because quite frankly, there's nothing else to do in a kitchen. The sound of crackling, snapping was coming from inside the oven. I was a little confused because there was nothing in the oven. I opened it up and a bright, white light was flashing into my eyes, it was like staring into a sparkler. For some reason, this electric oven has become some type of fuse. The crackling light slowly moved from one end to the other. I closed the oven, thinking nothing of it at first. I went into the computer room to ask my brother about the situation.

"Um, I think there's something wrong with the oven. It's like sparkling inside."

He just looked at me because I said it in a non-threatening tone and he had just purchased the new game Oblivion for his computer. In a way, his lack of reaction to my lack of expression confirmed that it wasn't a problem.

I went back into the kitchen, browning the meat, opening up the oven ever couple of seconds thinking in my mind, "Yeah, it's still doing it." I mean what the fuck? How many times does this happen, it's not a normal sight and at the same time in it's future act of destruction, it was beautiful. Imagine how the A-Bomb looked when it first went off. That was really fucking cool and you couldn't help but stare. Knowing that the situation was worse than I really pretended it to be I went back to my brother.

"I really need a second opinion, could you please see this."

He followed me into the kitchen, opened the oven door and when I saw his facial expression, I realized that this was a bigger deal than I was playing it up to be. Unsure on what to do, and still making sure the meat wouldn't burn, we tried to figure out a solution to this problem. Luckily, we didn't have to wait long because the oven decided to freak the fuck out and smoke came everywhere.

The problem with an electrical fire is that you can't use water to put it out. I don't know if you've ever dropped a hair dryer in a tub filled with water but it's not a good idea. You can't blow it out, because it's electric. What do you do? There's only one real answer to that.

I grabbed a device you use to cork wine that's already been opened and ran outside to the front door where the fire extinguisher was displayed in it's glss case. For some reason I knew it didn’t have one of those little hammers you use to break the glass. "Break glass in case of emergency," so I did and glass smashed everywhere. I never really understood why glass was the choice considering when you break it, it falls everywhere causing another threat to people walking around.

When I got back into the kitchen the fire alarms were going off everywhere. The cats were running under beds. My brother's girlfriend was very alarmed because she did not know what was going on. I really don't understand how I can stay calm during fucked up situations because I just remember telling her that everything will be alright and to calm down.

I busted the cap and aimed it towards the oven. I sprayed a little into the oven and the fire went out. It did it's job but that white snow was everywhere, in our lungs and all over the meat I was trying so hard to cook. The substance in the fire extinguisher doesn't taste too good, it's a bitter taste. It was in my mouth, in my nose, everywhere. The inside looked like the end scene from Time Bandits when the Firefighter came up with a toaster with a smoking, black piece of rock in it.

The touching thing was that our neighbor ran over with a fire extinguisher. He obviously had planned ahead on situations like this and was going to let us use his. I would have rather preferred some sugar or honey for my tea.

The night ended with us cutting off power to the stove and eating Taco Bell. It's one of those situations that make you wonder if you would have gotten a drink of water while this happened, or if you started dinner two minutes later if it would have been worse. It could have been better but I'll never know. All I know are two things right now; I won't be using an oven anytime soon and that Taco Bell seems to always fuck up the order (A story for another time).

"He's So Lonely Without Any Decent Friends Here."

You never really give it that much thought but the strength of a friendship can be compared to a t-shirt. I know you've owned shirts that you've worn once because you accidentally spilled something on it that creates a stain that won't wash out or you get it caught on something, tear it, finalizing it's fate into the rag bin.

You have t-shirts that your Boy/Girlfriend hates. It was that one shirt you'd wear each weekend for the last seven years but for some reason they don't approve of it. It's that one discussion that you really want to argue about but in the end, you feel that it's not worth it. That you shouldn't stand up and fight for this shirt because it's easier this way because there are certain compromises one must make. It's time to let it go and start with something new.

The color of the shirt is gonna fade...

It's gonna fade and get holes in it and it becomes the decision of throwing it away or keeping it. Throw away history to put on that brand new t-shirt or only to wear on special occasions.

When you put it on, it fits, it's comfortable, unlike the new shirts you get that shrink after the first wash or were a "bad decision" when you bought them.

It's the shirt that has modeled with your personality.

You have shirts from when you were ten that you still own. It's something that you would greatly miss if it were no longer there, always searching for something like it but knowing you will never find a t-shirt quite the same.

T-shirts describe the kind of guy you are; Is it a plain white one? Does it have a funny saying on it? Is it long-sleeved? Is it short-sleeved?

I have a 100 shirts I know I will never wear again but for some reason I won't throw them away. I store them in a big green duffle bag that stands at attention in the closet. I keep them, in their bruised, torn, stained, deformed state because I never know. One day I may want that back in my life. One day it could come back into the rotation. One day but in reality I keep them because I know that it's hard for me to let go. It's hard for me to accept the fact that those shirts will never be the same as they once were. No matter how many times I wash them with my hands, no matter how many times I sew them back together, those shirts are no longer part of my life.

Happy Birthday To Me.

These were the kinds of messages I was getting all weekend. I always find it funny that if I don't answer my phone I'm either sleeping or drunk...come on people you forgot about masturbating. DUH!!!

So it's my birthday, or close enough to it. I was actually born sometime in the morning on a Saturday. I was told by my siblings that they were ticked off because they weren't able to watch their Saturday morning cartoons and were forced to sit in the waiting room while I decided to come into this world.

I really don't know where the big celebration for Birthday's came from. People throw parties, you get gifts, you get to do whatever you want and for what? Your Mom got pregnant. In a way you are getting the gifts and credit for something you didn't even do. All you did was sit and grow. Made your Mom sick, made her crave weird foods, kept her up at night.

People also tend to give me shit for not really caring for this day. They get worked up that I don't really care too much for it and consider it another day. I like to spend it alone. I figured I grew up all by myself inside my Mother, why not celebrate it. I'll go see a movie, eat food and talk to people on the phone. Maybe it's the fear of a staff of waiters singing to me in public or maybe I really am that fucked up. I do know that even though I don't really consider it that big of a day...my friends and family do and they show it each year. So thank you and Happy Birthday to you all.

March 17th

It is that time of year again? No it's not the sale at the Shoe Carnival, the Shoe Carnival!!! It's the one day of the year that I proudly call, "My holiday." It's St. Patrick's Day Motha' Fucka's. Granted, I'm not a hundred percent Irish but the genes are in me; the reddish hair, the love of a fine stout, the desire to eat corn beef and cabbage and last but not least...the Irish Curse. This is the one day that everyone is a little Irish or gets a little in them, if you know what I mean. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about.

For some reason this is the one holiday that I truly enjoy. There is no stress about what to wear, where to go, who to hang out with. All I care about is drinking me a 40oz of Mickey's, a pint of Guinness and having some Corn Beef. It's very simple.

This is my real version of Thanksgiving. I really do sit and look back at the things, people, places that I'm grateful for. It's the day that makes me appreciate where I've come from, who my family is, why it's so wonderful to get up and feel the sun on my face. Don't get me wrong, it's not like this is the one day out of the year that I do this, but it's just multiplied by 10.

So enjoy your St. Patrick's Day weekend (even if your town celebrated it last week) and don't forget to fuck, I mean kiss the Irish. We are lonely, slightly delusional but always in need of some P.D.A.



Danny Boy

Peckerwood, peckerwood, tell me your tale
Please do explain why your skin's so pale
And you're so funky, now how can that be
Like a bird in a tree on the TLP
It's the Irish intellect, no one disrespected
My shit'll get hectic real quick
This is the House Of Pain (pain)
And pain is one thing we're not
Cause we know we've got
Style and fashion, smoke some hash and
I'm smackin' up girls like cars were crashin'
Danny Boy, Danny Boy, the pipes are callin'
Thought you was a winner, ya was, now you're all in
That's right, damn skimpy, ya can't get with me
I run the whole track and leave ya three laps back
Chop seuy don't do me no good
I gotta have corn beef and cabbage, if I wanna manage
I never eat pig, but I'll fuck up a potato
I'm not a dago, but pasta's all that
My pockets stay phat, so step the fuck back
You wanna move on me, you better bring an army
I rip shit daily, ask my man Tom Baily
I'm rockin' the clock like if I was Bill Hailey
I'm cockin' my glock, and I got my shileighly
So watch your lady, because I'm

(Danny Boy!) Danny Boy
(Danny Boy!) You know it's Danny Boy
(Danny Boy!) 'S Danny Boy
(Danny Boy!) You know it's Danny Boy
(Danny Boy!) 'S Danny Boy
(Danny Boy!) You know it's Danny Boy

(Da ney Boy, Da Da ney Boy)
Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside

Was I Write?

The quest for work continues. I will probably end up being a street sweeper but there's nothing wrong with that. It's an honest living. I have been going to Craig's List looking for writing gigs, crew work, anything. I came across this post which I wish I had the link to it, but I don't. To sum it up, it was a post asking for a screenwriter to adapt a book to a screenplay. It said it paid a $100.00 and a bonus if it was done fast. Well I thought I'd try to contact this guy/girl even though something didn't seem right. I knew something was way off when I got an email from this person...the name being freeky2night. Yes, it was spelled with two e's. Granted, I had one with the name tunamix in it, but that is because I didn't want this fucker having my real email address. You'd figure that if this is a published author, someone who would want them to take themselves seriously, you'd have a better name than that.

This is my on going email exchange. I did not alter anything, the way it was written to me was the way I put on here. Even though I had no intentions on doing this, I still couldn't help but try and write this screenplay. It's just how my brain works but the more emails I wrote, the more I realized that this would never happen.

I saw on Craig's List you were looking for someone to adapt a book into a screenplay. I'd like to say I have a good knowledge of doing this and I also have Movie Magic Screenwriter, which is an added bonus.

I am not certain on what kind of book it is, how much you are willing to pay and the time frame in which you need it. If you could please send me back some information, I would greatly appreciate it.

Thank you,

Dan McCauley

AUTOGRAPHED COPY OF BOOK.....$100.00.....AND BONUS DEPENDING ON HOW QUICKLY THE SCRIPT IS COMPLETED.

HELLO DM,

I AM IN LAS VEGAS SO I AM LOOKING FOR SOMEONE THAT IS ALSO IN VEGAS.. HOWEVER, LIKE THE AD SAID COMPENSATION IS AN AUTOGRAPHED BOOK, $100.00, AND BONUS DEPENDING HOW QUICKLY THE SCRIPT IS COMPLETED. BUT, THIS COULD BE AN ONGOING POSITION FOR THE SIMPLE FACT, I HAVE THREE OTHER BOOKS THAT WILL NEED TO BE DONE IN THE IMMEDIATE FUTURE. SO IF YOU ARE INTERESTED GET BACK TO ME

SHAWN


P.S. I ALSO FORGOT TO MENTION THAT YOU WOULD GET SCRIPT ACKNOWLEDGEMENT AS WELL...

I am game if you are interested but I am curious what an Autographed copy of a book means...is that the name of the book? What is the genre of the book? How long do you want the screenplay to be?

DM,

I GUESS THE BEST WAY FOR ME TO DISCRIBE MY BOOK TITLED "COMING OUT OF THE DARK" BY LA SHAWN LOGAN YOU CAN GO TO Click here...I've made it easier for youand pull it up, just to get an idea. when you get there if you scroll to the bottom of the page an click read inserpt you can read the first three pages. the genre is hmm! well the book is about a young lesbian girl that overcame life's obsticle set fourth by an abusive aunt that said she'd never amount to shit....check it out and tell me what you think

Shawn,

Ok, I was confused earlier because I thought Autographed Book was the name of it and I didn't get it. Yeah, I can see this being a challenge considering it's mainly through the voice of the woman but it is doable. I could use voice over to help describe the siatuion but I've also only read the first three pages. I also live in Las Vegas. I live in Henderson. I wasn't quite sure what part of town you were in. Also, not that it matters but the pages that I read, I saw the wrong usage of threw. It said on "My fifteenth birthday I through a party". Not that it matters but I thought I should point it out.

Dan

dm,

looks like you are making a good start, but as it stands i have about twenty people that want this position. i need to narrow it down to five and choose at that point. but if i choose you, how soon could you have this done. you just do the script, i have a professional editor to do the job right this time. whereas i did not before.

Shawn,

Well here's the trick about writing a good screenplay...I could have a rough draft done in two weeks but it's just a rough draft. I don't care what you are going to hear from anyone, it's not as easy to write it as one would think. Well a good one anway.

I seem to have more questions because just because it's a paying job, I like to know what I'm getting myself into. What is the purpose of the screenplay? Do you plan on making it? Selling it? Why do you want it done at such an accelerated pace?

hello d,

if you could, i would like for you to send me a few things....your first and last name.... a resume of your work a sample of a feature length script, a stageplay, and a 30minute sitcom. i would like it if your references are verifiable. along with a number where you can be reached.

thank you,
shawn

There are just so many things wrong with this situation that has my Spidey Senses tingling. Why do you need a screenplay, play and a 30 minute tv pilot? You see that's where it doesn't make sense. usually people will ask for writing samples, because they don't want to read the whole thing. They want a taste of what you can produce and they don't ask for a full-length screenplay, play and 30 minute sitcom. Do you see where I can be hesitant on the situation. I'm not sure what the other 20 candidates have said about this and I'm sure I may be the only one that has emailed you this but what is up with this? Please explain. Also, why would you need references if I would be adapting a screenplay? Shouldn't the writings be good enough for you? Help me out here.

IT SOUNDS TO ME LIKE YOU HAVE DEALT WITH SOME UNCOOL PEOPLE OR SOMETHING. I ASKED FOR REFERENCES FOR MY OWN PEACE OF MIND. I ASKED FOR A SAMPLE OF A SCRIPT MAINLY TO MAKE SURE YOU KNOW WHAT THE HELL YA WERE DOING, THE SAME THING FOR THE SPEC. I ASKED THE SAME OF THOSE THAT I WAS INTERESTED IN HIRING FOR THE JOB...REMEMBER, THIS WAS A JOB OFFER. SO MUCH FOR YOUR SPIDEY SENSES. BESIDES, I HIRED SOMEONE TODAY THAT WAS'NT SO, SO WELL ANYWAY NO NEED FOR ME TO FIND A WORD.....SO TUNAMIX, THANK YOU FOR RESPONDING, HOPE WHEN YOU GET ANOTHER OPP. NO MATTER HOW SMALL YOU WON'T BE SO UNNCESSARILY FILLED WITH SPIDEY SENSE STUFF.....

SHAWN


Shawn,

Thank you for your time. In all honesty, I had no intentions on working with you on your screenplay after your second email and after reading a sample of your 79 page book. It isn't that I have dealt with uncool people, I think it is the fact that I've dealt with more professional people. I usually don't have to write two times to get a simple yes or no answer.

I do have to admit that I did misread your request for a sample. I did, in fact think you asked for the whole thing. That was my mistake.

Call me sick, call me having too much free time on my hands but I thought that this would make an interesting story which it has so good luck with that.

DM

smile....no problem....as i am still new at all this hopefully,i will get better from those that have more exp...thx for being honest dm, u tak care

shawn




I can't believe that this person had insulted me. It's kind of funny because some reason it got turned around on me. I find it funny that Shawn couldn't find a word to describe me. I find it funny that Shawn pretty much told me that I shouldn't trust my gut instincts. Oh well, I guess I blew my chance. What ever will I do? (saracasim)

Well I thought it was nice for him or her (I still don't know if it's a man or woman. I know it said female but she sounds so manly. I guess it's cause she's a lesbian?) eto tell me to smile. Apparently s/he thought I was really stressed out that I didn't get his job. I'm still not sure if Shawn was trying to say I was difficult because I was asking questions. They would not say...they could not find a word.

The thing that I found funny about this whole experience is that this person was trying to find a writer, trying to find someone who would write a screenplay because they had a published book. Who has published books with grammatical errors? Who the fuck responds to someone in all caps? How come I used my name in the beginning but always responded to me as DM? There are so many questions to this whole expeirence and it's my fault. I'm the one who dragged it out but as a writer, you look for things to write about.

This person is a perfect expample why it's hard to get movies made, to get books published. Everyone in L.A. has a story, everyone in Vegas has a book to write, everyone in the world has a voice. Now granted, I'm not one who can judge, but I'm going to anyway. I like to think it's one of the things I do best. I only judge after I am provided with evidence that allows me to think one way. This is the reason why people don't take writer's seriously, because there is so much crap out there, that their eyes are filled with so much shit that when a good peice of work does come around they don't want to read it because they assume it's like the rest.

Am I frustrated because someone like this can get a 79 page book published? No, but it does make me want to work twice as hard and even if I never get published, I'll have that peace of mind to know that I did all I could. I wrote until my finger's bled blue.

I Do Things That I Fear

Very few have seen this movie, even less have heard the song by Hayden with the same name. I saw it once many, many years ago but it was way before my time of truly understanding this movie or even appreciating it. It wasn't until two years ago when I was out here in Las Vegas that I saw this movie, that I was ready to see this movie. I won't get into the explanation of this movie because you are either going to see it, seen it or have no plans to ever watch it.

We (John, Bram and myself) had all just gotten back from watching The Blue Man Group down at the Luxor for free. I had to mention that free part because everything in Vegas is either too fucking expensive or free, there is no middle mark.. We walked into their rented home to see The Doc watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas in High Defintion. He had earlier broken up with his girlfriend, in fact, he was supposed to see the show with us but decided that he should do his own thing. We all respected his decision but it was obvious that it had taken it's toll on him. I wasn't quite sure how bad it had hit him until I saw John's gallon of Vodka on top of the refrigerator, half gone. John had just bought that earlier in the week at Lee's Discount Liquor (That's another story my friend) and it wasn't open until that night when The Doc thought it was his time to drown himself in it with no Life Preserver. Now you must remember that it wasn't a pint, a fifth but a fucking gallon. Milk comes in a gallon. That is a lot. It was an amazing sight to have seen because he continued drinking and I did the only thing I could think of...I joined him. How could I not? He was in pain and the only way to show him that I supported his actions was to dive in head first.

He put in Trees Lounge and told me that I had to see it. Drinking glass after glass. Staring at the screen, watching the story unfold in front of me. An hour and a half of drinking Vodka. I became drunk, seeing the world in a new persepctive. One that usually occurs after a night of drinking. Things become clearer, things you hold in come out with a vengence. Watching a movie about a man who loves drinking, the story focusing on a hole in the wall bar called Trees Lounge, reminding me of home. Reminding me of The Corner Bar. This was a place that I needed to be.

The movie had finished but we weren't done. They had the video for the song on the DVD and he played it. I swear we had watched the video at least ten times in a row, standing up and drinking along with the music. It was one of those bonding experiences you share with someone. One of those moments that Bram and John will never understand because they went to bed. I can't say they went to bed because they were afraid to have experiences like that or the fact that they had to get up in the morning to work. That doesn't matter. Anyway you look at it, it doesn't matter.

It was one of those moments that no matter how hard I try to explain it to you, in as much detail and description, you will never truly understand it. This is why you will never understand that when I hear this song play, I feel that I have to have a beer. I don't know if it's in honor of that moment but it seems that the puzzle isn't complete. I feel that I'll always be looking for my own Trees Lounge and it's not that I'm looking to get drunk. It's that I'm looking for that peace, that happiness I had for those two hours of my life. It's that ever going quest of something that you may or may not ever find again, but the search. The search is what keeps you going.

You have a pretty name,
Pretty like your name,
Let's play a drinking game.

And if I win I get to
Take you home
And if you
Win you go home with me.

Cause I need something to forget,
Got me in this mess,
Feeling less and less.

My judgement is not clear,
I do things that I fear,
I would never do.

Judd Doolittle: The Myth, The Living Legend.

Do I really need to explain this picture? Look at this bad ass mother fucker. I've known Judd since Kindergarten. How many people can you say that you've known that long, I mean, that you can say you are still as good as friends as me and this guy (Improper sentence structure but it sounds oh so good)?

He is the reason why our short lived show on Cable Access, C.A.W.F. (Cable Access Wrestling Federation) ever exhisted. He was the brains behind the whole operation. This is the guy that will call me and randomly make up fake wrestling matches between wreslters from the 60's and 70's and laugh about it because he knows that I love it.

He's one of my best friends, one of my closests friends. I feel honored to know this kid, this guy who loves Bill Laimbeer and has a fucking knowledge of 80's music like no other. I'm dead serious. You may think you know your 80's music but I KNOW for a fact that he knows twice as much.

Judd is the guy who bowls 300 games like it's a common thing. Look at those rings. He didn't just buy them off the street corner, though I'm sure anyone could buy them on Ebay if they wanted to, but they wouldn't mean as much.

Give him two drinks and he's drunk. A cheap date but very entertaining.

I could write forever, I really could but that old saying, "A picture is worth a million words," couldn't be more right. I should be rich off of this picture. For the record, I'm not sure if that's the exact quote, but in my world...it is.

So come to Vegas soon with your fucking coupon book ass and let's have a beer. Let's talk about people from high school I haven no idea about, let's talk about Sega wrestling games you get from Japan, let's do it how we do it.

Write Me: (I’m lonely, confined and waiting for the chance to respond) By Dave M.

As far as I can tell my high school graduating class was unable to muster the drive to stage a ten year reunion. Not that I am disappointed. I am not sure that I would have attended anyway. The concept of a reunion is interesting, but in reality I can only imagine that it is a bunch of drunk old acquaintances exchanging new phone numbers and empty promises to get back together, “just like the old days.” I don’t mean to be cynical, I would have had a good time; I know I would have, but I am in a way relieved that the reunion seems to have never produced itself. I was not, however, able to avoid attending my wife’s high school reunion. I cried, I kicked and I screamed, but in the end I acquiesced to her wishes and accompanied her to the ritualistic gathering of high school mates. Instead of lamenting the passing of ten years without my own gathering I will tell you of my experiences as a reunion husband.

Part of the reunion protocol is to bring your spouse along. The purpose of the spouse is obvious so I won’t go into the details. But the spouse’s experience is a subject seldom broached or even considered. It is such an interesting premise that it seems that I should be composing these thoughts for “Good Housekeeping” or “Cosmopolitan”. This article should be titled “How to properly show off your husband at your upcoming high school class reunion.” The inset side article would be: “What he wants you to suck afterwards. Hint: It will be just like Prom.”

What does a husband do at his wife’s high school reunion? This was a question that would haunt me for months beforehand. I could only imagine how I was going occupy my time hanging off my wife’s shoulder as she introduced me to droves of individuals that would pass before my eyes and just as quickly pass from my memory until we are introduced again in another ten years. It was daunting and yet my greatest fear was the shear boredom that was sure to dominate the evening.

My wife has a married high school friend that we visit frequently. I assumed that her friend’s husband and I would simply hang out and drink all night. That was an easy out; our wives would descend into a night of great memories while her buddy’s husband and I further forged our bond as the spouses of two best friends. But this best friend was too pregnant to attend, leaving another of my hopes and dreams dashed. In short, I just wasn’t very excited about this particular upcoming event.

We arrived at the country club in the heart of the bedroom community of suburban Detroit where my wife was reared. The town is filled with middle class/middle management workers that make the drive into the city, but decided to raise their families an hour away in general seclusion and safety of white suburbia. As we pulled into the parking lot I immediately noted a shining purple Ford F-250 elevated several feet off the ground by oversized monster truck tires. I don’t mean to stereotype people, but I was beginning to envision a night of red neck drinking, and some serious Garth Brooks sign alongs. There is nothing wrong with red neck drinking; red necks are great interesting people. I hate the people that only pretend that they are red necks. Pretend red necks are assholes, and pretend red necks drive brand new F-250’s with monster tires. Real red necks couldn’t afford the vehicle.

I happen to know several people from my wife’s high school class in addition to the best friend I spoke of earlier. The woman checking names at the door was Dawn. I met her when I was freshman in college. She was sitting on the floor outside my future wife’s dorm room. She’s cute, nice and we always got along very well. I spent a good portion of the night speaking with Dawn about her new boyfriend, her dog, and everything else that is going on in each of our lives. I hadn’t seen her in a few years; she expressed the standard disappointment that always follows my confession that I don’t carry pictures of my kids. The concerning half joking contemptuousness that scolds a father without a bill fold packed to the width of two inches with photographs of his offspring. She laughed off her concerns over my apparent disassociation from raising a family. A side note to fathers, or perspective fathers: you are automatically placed in a “bad dad” category when you are unable to produce pictures of your children on a moments notice. I know this, but I still don’t carry pictures of the kids.

I remained at the check in table for a few minutes, but when the line to check in began to back up, it appeared like I was sluffing off my duty to collect money and update contact information, but people didn’t know me and they felt bad, like they were supposed to recognize me but have forgotten who I was. They waited quietly for Dawn, obviously more familiar to them to finish with those in line ahead of them while maintaining a air of frustration towards me. If only they could remember my name, they would not feel guilty about calling out my lazy ass. I decided to move on, I was tarnishing all of these people with a projected attitude that while a complete fallacy maintained solely in their minds, it is still a bad way to meet people.

I then ran into a law school classmate of mine. That was interesting. I spoke to another individual that I had previously met at a funeral. Then I spoke to some Morman family members for a long time. I met the sister the year previously and began talking to her brother on the basis of that knowledge. I was pleased to meet members of a Morman family that exceeded by four the number of children in the family of Mormans that I am friends with. The best part was that this brother and sister were close enough in age to graduate in the same year.

I met a fellow husband and his wife Tara. The husband and I discussed the implications of being a date at the high school reunion. Tara was pretty and nice to talk to, seemingly a smart girl. She gave me the opportunity pull the cliché reunion date trick. The trick of which I speak is to pretend you are a member of the class and embarrass the victim into believe he/she has forgotten you.

While I was speaking with Tara a beautiful woman named “Nicki” walked over to begin mingling. I had noticed Nicki earlier, well, I noticed her face, her ass, and her boobs, and pointed them out to my wife. She agreed that Nicki was cute and confided that she was pretty nice. Nicki said, “Hi” to Tara and asked if I were her husband. I smiled, looked her directly in the eye and with the most feigned tone of shock that I could muster I said, “Nicki, you don’t remember me.”

“No. Should I?” was her response.

Tara spontaneously stepped into character, turned to Nicki, and said, “Nicki, you don’t remember Dave? He graduated with us.”

Nicki began to turn a little red, but I could see her accessing her memory banks for any recollection of my existence. It just wasn’t there.

That’s when I added, “Nicki, its Dave, we even dated for like a second in high school.” At this point she was becoming even more embarrassed and confused.

Tara piped in at this moment with, the purported recollection, “Yeah, I remember that.”

Before Nicki could conjure an excusable reason for her memory loss, I confessed my ruse and explained that I was actually my wife’s husband and have never met her before. As I stated, Nicki was beautiful. She also turned out to be very nice, intelligent and thoughtful. She lives in Los Angeles. She apparently decided one day that she hated winter and decided to move to Las Angeles. She works as a chiropractor, which surprised me.

After that conversation I needed to use the restroom. In the hallway I encountered a group of people much the same as those gathered in the reception hall. There was one woman who weighed at least 400 pounds. She was fat, real fat! Some other person saw her and burst into an old friend’s greeting. “Kristie, how are you? What have you been doing since we graduated?” I laughed as I walked by, and said quietly to myself in a knowing manner, “She’s been eating.”

There was also the standard too drunk ass that was overly friendly with everyone. He was clearly not well liked by many people. He also had many things to prove to this group of people. Let me report that if you need to prove something at your high school class reunion, that you should not attend. In a conversation with some random person that I didn’t know, I pointed to the guy and said, “What’s this guy’s problem.”

“Oh he’s an idiot. He wasn’t even in our class; he failed his senior year and graduated with us. I don’t know why he is here.” is the response that I received.

Later in the night I wondered outside to get some fresh air. I encountered a multitude of smokers, one of whom was this very jackass. He was engaged in some asinine conversation, and as I approached he looked up and in his best Matthew McConaughey impersonation, and I shit you not, seriously says, “That’s what I like about high school chicks, the older I get they still stay the same age.” My jaw dropped with disbelief at his stupidity, and as I passed he pointed at me, and added, “See, he knows what I’m talking about.” I didn’t respond and I don’t think anyone else did either. What a moron.

But the best part of the whole night was a photocopied hand written letter that was placed near the centerpiece of every table in the reception hall. When I glanced at the letter I could see that following the signature line of the letter’s author was what appeared to be a serial number. I immediately assumed that this letter was written by an individual deployed to a foreign war in service of our country. I sat down and decided read what this person had to say. Here was the surprise that greeted me after the obligatory salutation, “Dear Classmates”, and a few introductory lines, “Back in 1996 I got into a physical disagreement with a man. The man died and now I am serving a lengthy prison sentence.” That line is a euphemism. When you read it, you should internalize the following confession, “I murdered a guy, and now I’m in the clink.”

The letter then reveals that its author is friends with everyone at the reunion and hopes that everyone considers him a friend as well. It then includes a final request. “Please write me, I will respond, and I look forward to hearing from you.”

Damn right he will respond, what the hell else does he have to do for the next 10-15 years?

B.F.F.

Ever miss your youth? Remember getting Pen Pals from Europe or other various places because your school thought it would be a great idea to broaden your horizon? Well do I have a treat for you. Fuck emails. Fuck phone calls. Get out that pad of paper and your favorite Ball-Point Pen because I have a treat for you.

Write Me

That's right, inmates on Death Row are lonely and are looking for someone to talk to. They are sick of talking to the prison guards and other Death Row inmates. Their family just isn't satisfying their needs and this is when you come into place. Send them a letter. Tell them about your life. Tell them where you live. Don't forget to send them a couple of bucks because they have to pay for their own stamps, their own paper and their own envelopes. How could they possible work when they are in jail?

So what are you waiting for? Get your ass up out your chair and get to writing.

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.