I got a lot of response from my first two-part story "Crouching Travis, Streaking Bubba." As I said in a previous blog, I have a ton of stories from my past that will eventually make their way into the hallowed pages of this blog. A lot of them will feature my pal bubba in some shape or form. What can I say, he is an interesting character. Those of you who know bubba now have to understand that he was a completely different person growing up. Bubba had huge dreams and some crazy fantasies. For as far back as I can remember, he talked of joining the Marines. There was this glint of something...manly romance...unbridled excitement...the prospect of fitting in...that would fall across his eyes every time he spoke of it. I would tell him he was insane for wanting to put himself in the line of fire. Granted, there were no huge conflicts going on at the time but still. How ironic is it that, thanks to a diagnosis of severe diabetes, he never joined. I, being the anti-military potential draft dodging teenager that I was, spent 11 years in the United States Air Force.
Growing up, Bubba was the kinda kid who didn't have a ton of friends. Some folks shunned him cause he was slow, some cause he was overweight, some just cause everyone else was doing it. I fell into the same category. I wasn't overweight, mind you, but I wasn't in the popular bunch and lets face it, I was a little geek. We both grew up in households that were scraping by during the up-and-down financial situation that was the 80's. We both wore our hand-me-downs and cheap brand clothes. Keds instead of Nikes, black and white instead of color TVs, leftovers all the time. We both had second-hand stuff and that was okay. We knew our parents busted their asses to put food on the table so we rarely complained about the Kraft macaroni and cheese and the Wrangler jeans. So we naturally meshed very well, because we were okay with what we got even if everyone else wasn't. And probably because I was good at thinking shit up and bubba was crazy enough to try them. As we got older we both dreamed of the one thing (besides girls) that is on a fifteen year old boy's mind.
Drivers License.
Bubba was a year older than I but he was held back in either kindergarten or 1st grade so he was a year closer to that holy grail and I envied the hell out of him for it. Around this time, his parents had moved out of the dingy trailer park down by the tracks in New Holland to a house in the country about 20 minutes away. But the distance did little to deter us from hanging out. I still remember the evening the phone rang:
"Wit," said bubba on the other end of phone, "I got it."
"You got what," I replied, "the clap?" I was mezmerized by something on the television, not dedicating my full attention the caller on the other end.
"I got a car", he gushed.
And that jolted me away from the TV as if I'd been slapped. Suddenly I was sitting upright. Straight as a board.
"Yer shittin' me," I hissed. "You....are....SHHHHITTING me!"
"Nope," he chimed and I could literally HEAR the smile on his face. It was contagious and I couldn't even see it. "I'll be right over," he said, and click the line went dead.
"Yer shitting me," I murmured to no one in particular as I gradually set the receiver back in to the phone's cradle.
Fifteen minutes later I heard the horn blast and nearly killed myself stumbling down the steps and out the front door. The screen door swung back with a whip-like crack. Inside I could hear my mom yelling about something (probably the screen door) but I didn't care. There was freedom to be had. Parked infront of my house was a glorious 1976 Pontiac Phoenix, silver-blue, two door, ugly as sin and smelling like burnt oil. But it was fucking cool!
Bubba spent most of his teenage summers as a landscaper. The hard work had burnt off a lot of the baby fat, which happened to hang on until he was roughly 13. And as if to advertise the fact, he spent most of the summer with out a shirt on. I don't' think he owned a shirt that summer come to think of it. And there he was now, leaning up against his proud new possession, shirtless in dirty wranglers (of course) and tennis shoes, arms spread out in a "too cool for you, sucka" pose. The smile that stretched across his face was priceless.
"Oh my god," I gasped, eyes wide. "You weren't shitting. I can't believe this!" Bubba only nodded, trying to hold back the excitement that was bubbling inside him.
"You're damn RIGHT," he said with an explosive emphasis on
right. "You wanna go cruise or what?" Cruising in New Holland was a bit of an overstatement. We had the option of motoring up and down mainstreet or...uh...motoring up and down mainstreet. But we didn't care. Wheels are wheels. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder knowing that if my mom saw me getting into the car with bubba, an accident prone inexperienced driver, she'd shit a golden egg and hit me in the head with it. So the object was not to be seen.
"Yeah yeah," I said, shushing him and running around to the passenger side. Within two seconds we were pulling away from the curb fighting the urge to crow like roosters! We both felt triumphant...Invincible.
Now who cares about the cruising part of this story. Who cares about us honking the horn at everyone we saw...even folks we didn't. Who cares about laying rubber at the stop lights and mooning Tammy Weaver, the nightmare of a girl who would later stalk me and my friends. That part doesn't matter. What does matter is the fateful drive home from Bubba's house. That terrible trip that would bring us both back down to earth.
Bubba wanted to run out to his house to pick something up. I don't' remember what. Along the way I had picked up a box of Cheez-Nips crackers and sat in the driveway of his house munching while he went in to retrieve whatever he had to retrieve. He returned to the vehicle and we headed back towards New Holland. The daylight was fading fast and the sky was painted purples and reds and oranges in a glowing and impressive display. The road from New Holland to Intercouse was a simple farm road that cut a path through corn fields and cattle pastures. The warm summer wind washed over us as we rode, windows rolled down, arms hanging out the sides of the car tapping on the metal to the beat of the song on the radio.
We came to a stop sign that marked the crossing of another farm road. I suddenly had a bright idea. "Hey, I'm gonna check out the back seat," I said. I don't know why I had the need to check it out. Maybe I was checking out its potential for the horizontal mambo...who knows. But I grabbed my box of crackers and hauled myself over the front seat into the back.
Bubba, still very much in love with the power at his finger tips, made it a point to lay a patch at every stop sign and intersection. This one being no different, he put his foot in it and the tires let out a chirpy squeal. The road we were on was basically a hill and we were heading upward. I felt gravity pull me back into the seat as the car lurched forward. I was preoccupied by the writing on the back of the box. For some reason I was reading about how to spice up your favorite foods with Cheez-Nips or some shit.
The last thing I remember is looking up and seeing bubba, one elbow propped on the front seat, craning his neck to look at me in the back. I remember him turning to me, still glowing with pride.
"What do you think, wit?" he said. And then the car dipped as if hitting a pot hole in the road. We were already traveling at a pretty decent click thanks to Bubba's lead foot. The jolt startled me from my crackers and I looked forward, past Bubba's gleaming face. I gasped as I gazed out the windshield. I saw no road, no pavement, no grass.
All I saw was stars.
It was one of those moments where time stops. Things slow down to a crawl and all you hear is the hammering of your heart thudding in your ears. Where did the road go? I looked to my left and I see gray things whizzing by, short white things whizzing by. What the shit was going on? Then I realized, we were airborn and flying into a grave yard.
Part II - Cheez Nips and Gravestones
Links you NEED to check out. More stuff coming soon, sorry...been waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too busy lately. Hang tight
http://www.cnn.com/2004/ALLPOLITICS/02/25/elec04.bush.doonesbury.reut/index.html
http://www.cnn.com/2004/SHOWBIZ/News/02/25/stern.suspension/index.html
http://www.theonion.com/news.php?i=1&n=0
http://www.theonion.com/news.php?i=1&n=2 <----excellent! hahaha
Does Howard listen to my blog? uh...no. But I coulda sworn he did yesterday. This morning he was ranting about Bush much in the same way that I was yesterday. Thanks for letting me vent about that stuff. As you guys know I'm a bit of an entertainment voyeur and it frustrates me when people begin to split hairs. Enough already. I"m not gonna tell you how to vote...just don't let bush back in the white house...hahaha.
I'm working on another bubba tale today so stop back later.
Okay, listen. I really REALLY try to keep politics out of this blog. But goddamnit, what the hell is going on in the world right now. I just want to ask you a simple question and let you think on it for a minute. I will, of course, follow my question with more of my normal diahrettic banter, but you can just click that little X up in the top right corner if you don't want to listen. That's the joy of freedom, you can close your eyes, you can shove shit in your ears...or you can argue back without the fear of getting your hippy ass thrown in jail. Now for my question...How would you feel if i walked up to you today, poked my nosy finger into your chest and said "YOU, you are a Christian...its the law"? And before you bible-thumping nut jobs out there start jumping all over me, relax. I am not an atheist. Nor am I the anti-christ. I'm me; deal with it. I think that
most practiced religions are a good thing. They're based in love, they bring communities together, and the free spaghetti dinners ain't bad either. Am I right?
Let me rephrase it in a more inoffensive manner. What if I walked up and said "From here on out, every Thursday is greenbean night, and dammit you're gonna eat them or go to jail." You would say "that's the most insane damn thing I've ever heard. I don't' even LIKE green beans and you expect me to eat them?" Well, ladies and gentlemen, wake up cause that's what is happening. George wants to pass a law to tell you who you CANT marry. A law on who to love...aint that some shit? Right about now you're calling me a tree-hugging queer lover or some other amazingly retarded name. But the way I feel is this, if two people love each other, that's a pretty good thing. WHO cares if they have the same plugs. Who cares if their parts look the same. HOW IS THIS AFFECTING THE PUBLIC?????? Could someone explain his to me? Granted, I'm not into walking into a love fest or watching gay porn. But, my god there are a lot worse things we could be focusing our attentions on. Like what? How about gun laws? There's one to dig your conservative wooden teeth into, Georgie Boy. Or better yet, how about a better solution for the troops in Iraq that are basically target practice for the guerrillas?? Nevermind...
So Bush is up for re-election and of all things he wants to start in on you about your sexual preference and your Christian values. Bible, Constitution, Bible, Constitution, Bible, Constitution...how are these two books related? THEY ARENT! The great thing about America is that if I want to go to the 5th Day Satanic Church and Taco Bar on Sunday and then walk down the street with a shirt that says "I'm a whore" I can because why? Freedom of Speech. Freedom of Religion. Right?
*sigh* no i'm not a satanist or a taco lover. I'm just trying to make a point. And yes, I do believe that people take freedom of speech a little too far sometimes. Example: Janet Jackson's newly famous tit. Okay, let me start by saying that thanks to the boob, tasteful episodes of television shows were yanked, MTV stopped airing certain videos during the day, people lost their jobs!!! The person who should've gotten in trouble is Janet...we shouldn't be paying the price for her lack of better judgment. So pretty soon they'll be passing laws on the words you say and the clothes you wear and the people you hump. And of course I"m over exaggerating but cripes folks, we have to get involved. We have to vote. We have to, in the words of mary jane aficionado Bob Marley, stand up for our rights.
Good Morning El Blogitos,
The sun is out, its a lovely monday, and I have survived safely, trudging through my morning rush hour traffic. I can't help but feel like my morning commute is becoming more and more of a struggle each day. And its not so much that the volume of vehicles on the road is increasing. Its a mix of few things. First, is it just me or are drivers getting dumber every day? And when I say dumb I mean DUMB with a capital D. I use my cell phone as much, if not more than the average joe. Its a god send. But if you're that goddamned uncoordinated that you can't talk on your phone and peer into your rear view mirror before you switch lanes (let alone put on your turn signal) then its time to face the facts. YOU'RE A RETARD! Cell phones are great but putting a cell phone in the hands of a person who couldn't drive to begin with is like giving Hitler a pair of sharks with laser beams on their heads.
I liken my morning drive to the upstream trip of a horny salmon, racing to reach their destination so that they can deposit their load and swim home with that retarded after-sex gaze strewn across their faces. Along with the obstacle of the other fish swimming forward in a melee of tail flapping frenzy, you have to watch out for the bears (cops) and the huge, unmoving, there since the dawn of time, protruding boulders (road construction) jutting up out of the foaming white river.
I am usually not prone to explosive bouts of Road Rage. There are only a few things that set me off. Nope, I'm not that guy you see driving down the road, hunched over the steering wheel, cigarette in one hand and huge throbbing veins bulging out of his forehead. I"m not the guy that you expect is going to drive his Chevette into the concrete slab of the oncoming overpass. But I still get frustrated from time to time.
For example. How long do you have to be driving in this state (or any other) to know that the left lane is the passing lane? Its not the strolling lane. Its not the "oh look at the pretty clouds" lane. Its not the "I have a Ford Fiesta that only goes 45 freakin' miles an hour but I"m still here on the left side blocking the flow of traffic." ITS THE PASSING LANE! And if I had a missile launcher on the front of my car, there would be a lot of bar-b-qued minivans burning along side of the road. It would look like a scene from Mad Max (and not the Thunderdome movie...we're talkin' old school!)
I call these folks Left Lane Loiterers. And they are a dangerous and unpredictable breed. Often spiteful if not unreasonably aggressive. I had a run in with a Triple L this morning. For those of you who live near me, you're familiar with Route 222. Basically your run of the mill 2-lane highway where white collar wieners live out their NASCAR fantasies at break-neck speed. Its the american autobahn only the vehicles on this roadway weren't built for nor have the right to travel at the speeds they achieve on this concrete drag strip. Yet for as fast as the people are whisking along, there is always a Triple L to throw a monkey wrench into the mix.
So here I was, 7am this morning just as traffic was picking up. And I"m hauling balls down 222 making great time. Howard on the radio, whining about something that I can't remember. And I see it. A Triple L. Traveling at 50 mph...IN THE LEFT LANE. And normally I'd break the law and pass this ween on the right side. Not today, for this Triple L had his speed matched to the eighteen wheeler right next to him in the right lane. It was a vehicular power play. I was being double teamed...blocked from the wide-open road in front of me. I could see the prize, I just couldn't get to it.
Deciding to give LLL the benefit of the doubt, I hung back hoping that either Triple L or the semi would speed up giving me room to get around. Wish in one hand and pee in the other, i always say. So after about 3 minutes of hanging behind this wall of vehicles I decided to get a little more aggressive. Not much...just simple flash of the high beams that says "hey, maybe you didn't see me back here...maybe you're half asleep, that's cool...can i get around?" You have to be careful about the preliminary high beam flash...you don't want to come across as being rude. Its just a quick flash and that's it.
No response.
Gritting my teeth I flashed the beams again, twice.
No response.
So now I'm pissed. I decide to use the full-on, in your face, screw you get out of my way you slow bastard approach. Horn and highbeams in full effect. Now I'm not sure what jarred this fatheads mind from his state of semi-conciousness but this seemed to have an affect. The car in front of me...the Triple L, began to speed up at an alarming slow rate. At first I thought maybe a back draft was giving the car a bit of a push. But no, it sped up and maneuvered into the right lane (without the turn signal I might add). So now I was free to take off like a bat outta hell. Which I did. And here is where I begin to lose it.
As I'm speeding up I notice my partner, LLL, is ALSO speeding up. As if all the sudden he was filled with some flooding feeling of resentment for me for having forced him into the right lane. I'm speeding up...he's speeding up....it was like one of those drag race scenes from Happy Days. Realizing the nonsense of it all I decide to slow down. But before I could, I decided to take a look at the driver in the LLL Mobile. I wanted to smile at him with that sarcastic grin I"ve spent so much time developing as if to say "way to go buddy, so your gas pedal DOES work!" As I turn to look all I see is finger.
FINGER! This fucker is flipping me off. I am not sure if I yelled or flipped back or what. I was so taken aback that I found myself laughing. Cackling incredulously.
Its times like those where I wish it were legal to play grown-up bumper cars cause I woulda shoved that guy off the road in a heartbeat, down into a ditch. I imagined myself smiling happily as a mushroom cloud explosion bloomed in my rearview mirror. Legs and arms and burning shoes crashing down to the pavement. That would be one way to thin the herd
Wow...two blogs in one day? No, don't give me that much credit. The first one was more of a "creepy" post that I found morbidly interesting in a two-headed monkey in a circus sideshow kinda way. As I said in yesterday's post, I was on the verge of smashing my studio computer to tiny bits. Still there, y'all. I'm a computer person...i work on computers day in and day out, repair them, build them, teach them to fly...and no one is more frustrated by computers than I am. I literally resent them. How crazy is that? I walk into my office and I stop and stare at the foreboding box sitting in the corner waiting for me. I stand there staring back, wondering what magic it will create for me. What hurdles it with throw at me. I can honestly say that, as much as I NEED a computer in my life, I ...... LOATH .... THEM!
I hate them even more when they're not working. If I could walk out of my job today and be a park ranger or fisherman or something and know that I would be able to survive I would do it. But unfortunately I've been cursed with a sick desire to create things and I would rather not write stuff on paper...besides, how would anyone ever hear/see it? I know, I sound like some bitchy little girl right now. I admit it!!! But it still doesn't make me hate computers less.
And another thing...WHHHHY does the computer always take a dump on me when I really need it? Working on three recording projects at one time, all pumped up to work. Turn on the PC, and KERPLUNK...
Can you remember when we didn't rely on computers so strongly? I mean, I can think back to when I was 16. Not only did we not have a computer, we had a black and white TV. A 15" inch black and whiter that sat ontop of another dead RCA television. The dead TV had NEVER worked, I really think it was just there as a TV stand for the 15 incher. My sister and I would crowd around the TV because we honestly had to sit that close to see the picture. My mom would walk in the room and scold us that we were going to hurt our eyes, so we'd retreat back to the couch, strain our eyes to see the tiny screen and end up with crossed eyes and a headache. Go figure.
I would rather talk about something more interesting and thought-provoking...and trust me, i have a few things I want to talk about, but I am so pissed off about that damn computer that I need to vent. Thanks for listening.
Files of the Odd
From CNN.COM
BOSTON, Massachusetts (AP) -- French doctors were taken aback when they discovered the reason for a patient's sore, swollen belly: He had swallowed around 350 coins -- $650 worth -- along with assorted necklaces and needles.
The 62-year-old man came to the emergency room of Cholet General Hospital in western France in 2002. He had a history of major psychiatric illness, was suffering from stomach pain, and could not eat or move his bowels.
His family warned doctors that he sometimes swallowed coins, and a few had been removed from his stomach in past hospital visits.
Still, doctors were awed when they took an X-ray. They discovered an enormous opaque mass in his stomach that turned out to weigh 12 pounds -- as much as some bowling balls. It was so heavy it had forced his stomach down between his hips.
Five days after his arrival, doctors cut him open and removed his badly damaged stomach with its contents. He died 12 days later from complications.
One of his doctors, intensive care specialist Dr. Bruno Francois, said the patient had swallowed the coins -- both French currency and later euros -- over about a decade. His family tried to keep coins and jewelry away from him.
"When he was invited and came in some homes, he liked to steal coins and eat them," Francois said.
The case history of the French patient, whose name was withheld, was reported in Thursday's New England Journal of Medicine.
The patient's rare condition is called pica, a compulsion to eat things not normally consumed as food. Its name comes from the Latin word for magpie, a bird thought to eat just about anything.
Thats a new form of safe depositing...Good thing this gent wasn't visiting hand grenade factories.
Howdy Bloglodites, thanks for stopping by. Hope you enjoyed the Bubba story. I'm going to make it a point to post more entertaining stories from my colorful past (the bubba chronicles are particularly interesting). I wanted to take a minute and ask you guys a question. The links section on the right side is pretty bleak as you can see. I want to put stuff up there that is interesting, fun, stirring, whatever. So if you have a link you'd like me to add, please let me know and I'll throw it up there. And, in case you're wondering, I'm not going to put band links up there. Yeah, I have drives like fire, but screw you, that's my band...hahaha.
So I'm watching American Idol last night while I was attempting to repair my recording studio computer, which had me so frustrated that I almost launched it out the front door onto the hood of my Beetle. I get that way, some say I need anger management but I feel that I'm one of the best angry guys in the country so why would I need a manager?
Anyway, American Idol: I'm watching this show and I'm amazed at it just sucks me in. This show is part Reality TV and part Gong Show (those of you who don't remember that show, just chime in on the comments section and I'll send you a link). Lets face it, we're all watching this show hoping to be impressed. But in a deeper, blacker pit of our husk of a heart, we're hoping to see someone fall right on their face. Pretty sick. But its true...why do you think the first couple episodes in the season are always so damn popular? Its because we get to see people who have absolutely no right to even sing in the shower when nobody is home and they're up on national TV screeching and cavorting like a Linda Blaire in the Exorcist (minus the pea soup spew).
But then I started thinking...and this is where it gets dangerous, folks. The American Idol show is a bit of an anomaly in the fact that its a slap in the face to the record industry. American Idol is basically saying "hey, you don't have to be a beauty queen or a heart throbby stud pancake to make it." Perfect example: Ruben Studdard, last year's idol. Nine Hundred pounds, sweaty and almost meek. If he had walked into a record company they would've handed him a Jenny Craig coupon and sent him packing. Clay Aitken, a.k.a Creepy Queer Howdy Doodie, has a super voice and a huge following...who'da thunk it? But the American Idol show made us all listen...it made us pay attention to his voice. And THAT is the slap in the face to the record industry.
Like it or not, popular music is in the shitter, ladies and gentlemen. Record companies don't develop artists anymore. They don't nurture musicians and help them grow to put out the best product they can. What they do is find the next sex symbol, throw a couple pop songs at them, toss in a dash of cleavage and leg and whatever racy sex image they can and set them free. If the record tanks, they move on to the next one. Its prostitution. And the stars of today's pop music are going to ridiculous lengths to stay in the spotlight. They're not honing their craft to stay relevant. They're not challenging their listener with new and enchanting music. At best its a tit flash or a lesbo kiss to boost record sales.
So in a way, the American Idol show says "THIS is what its about. THIS is performing. THIS is entertainment. THIS is an artist." And yeah, you may be in a band or you may be a songwriter and feel a little disgruntled about the whole thing. You may expel one of the many indignant catch phrases that you "artists" are know to give rebirth to;
That guy is a sell out....anyone could do what she does...not MY american idol.
But all that tells me is that either you're jealous, or you need to learn how to write a good song.
Well, the guns have found New Holland. Our little town has had its cherry popped as far as gun fights are concerned. Now all you folks in the bigger cities like Chicago and Morgantown are probably thinking, "So what, its happening all over."
WELL NOT IN OUR TOWN. You just dont' understand. Up until yesterday, New Holland was Pleasantville. No high school shootings. Very few prostitues. ZERO Starbucks. Growing up, it was simultaneously the safest and most dreadfully boring burg in the world. We could literally sit IN THE STREET all night and do nothing. We'd lounge in the gutters with our acoustic guitars and singe songs like drunken house cats all summer long (ask Matt...its true). Cars would drive around us and honk happily as if to say "hey you little lazy bastards, keep up the good work" The elderly walked defiantly down the darkest streets with no fear whatsoever. Even the police were unthreatening...so unthreatening that if they had to get out of their cars to chase you, the chase was over. I'm SERIOUS, we could be standing in a field forty feet from the cruiser and we knew that as long as we were out of arms reach, we were okay.
But yesterday morning, that little teenage utopia was shattered. The facts are still iffy and the shooter is still at large...but apparently a scorned gentleman (and I use that term loosely) decided to fill his recently ex-girlfriend with a few rounds of revenge. He literally gunned her down outside her business much to the chagrin of various onlookers. He also took it upon himself to murder her 13 year old son. As I said before, I'm not a Liberal or Conservative. I'm one of those special folks walking the tightrope high above the party pool. Everyone once in a while I lose my balance and fall towards the Conservative (example: saying the pledge of allegiance in class) or the Liberal (hating George Bush). I am not an advocate of the death penalty but anyone who takes a kid's life deserves a special kind of punishment. The kind where crazy little jack russel terriers slowly eat your liver and spleen while you're forced to watch Dennis Miller on Monday Night Football.
But here is where the problems arise. The cops in my little town that was once so serene and almost Mayberry-ish are now going to get a very huge stick up their asses. No longer will kids be able to hang out in the gutters. No longer will old folks strut down main street like they own the joint. Parents will be rushing their children inside (and infront of the biggest root of evil...the television) as soon as the sun goes down. The kids will get stuck watching reality TV, which is anything but real. They'll be taught how NOT to deal with people on a personal level. They start downloading animal porn and sending hate mail to large consumer businesses cause they just have nothing better to do.
So I say to you, children of New Holland, go BACK to the gutters. Old folks, TAKE BACK THE NIGHT. Don't let the vermine that threaten to change our way of life have their way. Let the police know that its still okay to stay in their cruisers...and for God's sake, put the guns away.
Valentines Day Blog - Warning, If you have a heart condition or vomit easily please do not read this.
A weekend blog entry will be a rare occurance round these parts. Usually I try to avoid the computer on the weekends like I would normally avoid the mall at Christmas. But hey, its Valentines Day. The big V. And whether you're head over heels in love or sitting alone in your rented storage garage cooking Kraft macaroni and cheese on a hotplate and watching reruns of Sanford and Son on your 8 inch black and white, you're affected by this day.
Lets face it...everyone wants to be loved. We don't know why we want to be loved, its just built into our programming...hardwired into our circuitry...for some folks its like a virus but I'll try not to go there. We all want to be loved whether its good for us or not. Love can be like a drug. It starts out and your flying high as a kite. You're soaring and your feet never touch the ground. But we all know what happens to things that go up.
They come down hard.
And the problem with alot of lovers is they get so caught up in the "honeymoon" period where everything your lover says is golden, where its cute the way he wears boxers with cartoon characters on it. Where its wonderful the way she purrs softly in her sleep. Where everything is downright freakin perfect and we dig and claw to keep it that way. But as time drags on those boxers aren't so damn cute anymore and you have to fight the urge to smother her with a pillow at night to stop that incessant snoring. You're positive the neighbors can hear her reving up her sinus engines at night and you're weighing the pros and cons of pre-meditated murder.
People are creatures of habit; WE HATE CHANGE. Most of us draw comfort in the repitativeness of our lives. Yet when it comes to relationships we run from repetativeness like the black plague. You wake up one day and suddenly its friday night and you're sitting at home watching TV, attempting to live vicariously through the latest Fox cleveage fest, just like you did for the last eighteen weeks.
So you begin to think, "hey, this isn't what I signed up for!" And rightly so. We all had bigger dreams...we wanted to be race car drivers or rock stars or deep sea divers or the cool guy on C.S.I. So when we realize that we're not gonna hit that mark we get resentful and who do we blame?
The ball and chain.
SHAME ON YOU (shame on me too...)!!!!
Today is a day about love. Its not about cards or candy or flowers or taking your girl/guy to Red Lobster for the Crab Fest and a couple bloody marys. Its about love. And the scary thing is that alot of us have lost sight of that. Many of us have found ourselves sitting on a proverbial island by ourselves where nobody understands what we're going through and there are no answers. The love has dwindled and yet we sit on our island praying for some sign. And the worst part about it is the answer is inside you. We don't have a blood-stained volley ball to scream at. We can't hold conversations with Wilson and expect him to talk back because the truth is we already know the answers.
On this day, here is what I want you to do (and this is a two-paragraph request separated into categories):
1.
For the Married or Spoken For Cast-away: Think back to the first time you kissed your loved one. Take a close look at him/her and think about the very first time you told them "I love you" and how powerful it felt. Think about the last argument you had with your partner. Take a moment and just see how ridiculous that argument was. Think about the last time you watched her sleep or the last time you held his hand and how right it felt. It still feels that way, girls and boys, you just have to get on that shitty little homemade raft and get over the reef of resentment. You may have a few cuts and bruises afterwards...and yeah, Wilson might do a cannon ball into the drink but you didn't need that annoying bastard anyway.
All I'm saying is find the love...find the reason you fell in love in the first place and celebrate it if for only one day.
2.
For the lonely person: Most of you are sitting here cursing this day. Cursing the fact that everyone has someone...except you. But maybe you do have someone. Maybe there is someone right in front of you and you just had your tunnel vision so cranked down that you couldn't see past the end of your nose. We are our own worst enemies and nine times out of ten we set our sights so high cause we know that its easier than getting hurt.
Open up your eyes, lonely person. Take a look around...there are a million other lonely people wandering the earth like zombies looking for brains. Take a freakin' chance. They all want to be loved just like you so stop thinking you deserve a brad pitt or a molly ringwald and start looking at the inside of people. And if you're that slob living in the storage garage, take a bath, wash your damn clothes and pick your head and smile. Don't get me wrong...i'm not reverting to some hippy free love fest, the last thing you need is the clap. I'm just saying that you're not as alone as you think you are.
So anyway, happy valentines day, have a good weekend. Maybe I'll see you at Red Lobster, but if you get in the way of my Crab Fest I'll cut you with my Valentines Day card!!!
Crouching Travis, Streaking Bubba - Part II
When we last left our hero, he was clad only in his trusty grocery bag mask and fruit of the looms, soaked head to toe from the freakish summer torrential downpour. He had violated the perimeter of the Pensupreme and stood in the door way, drops of water falling off his nearly naked body onto the floor. As I said, he had frozen. To this day I don't know why. Maybe something in his head shut down for second. Maybe some neural circuit in his pituitary gland switched from flight to fright. Either way, he had suddenly become a statue. It was one of those moments in your life that seemed to last forever. Bubba was stuck and I was stuck right there with him. I could hear my heart thundering in my head. I could hear Travis still chanting his mantra holyshitholyshitholyshit that sounded vaguely like an old Chevy stationwagon idling at the curb. But before I move on with this story we need to switch roles for second.
Imagine that you're that poor store clerk. Isn't it bad enough that you're stuck working in a mini market? Isn't it even worse that you're stuck on the night shift? You're just wanting to sit back and stock the cigarettes. Maybe he was busy holding the lottery scratch-offs up to the light to see if he could spot a winner. Who knows. But put yourself in his place. You hear the jingle-jingle of the doorbell and turn around to see a 6'3" naked, bag-headed person standing in the doorway. Not moving...Not saying anything. I'm sure for a instant he had one of those Friday the 13th moments. In this point of the movie the suspense-filled soundtrack would flare up in a flourish that signaled the imminent and gorish death of our friendly neighborhood cash register monkey.
But the action the clerk made next jarred all of us back into motion. We expected to startled the poor guy. We even expected a grumpy "get the hell outta my store!" But what he did next was so much more unexpected. There the two men stood, naked bubba and the dumbfounded clerk, staring at each other like two deer in headlights. And in a split second it happened.
I was outside the store so couldn't hear the vocal transactions but I saw enough to know what was going on. The clerks eyes grew as big as saucers and in a swift, cat-like movement, he threw his hands over his head. Both hands STRAIGHT up into the air. I saw him mouth three words and I'd bet my left lung on what those words were.
Don't rob me
"oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu..." I droned, my head suddenly floating. The hairs on my arms standing up, "uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu" now we just crossed the line into felony territory. We were going to jail, I just knew it. "uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!"
The pleading of the clerk must've jarred bubba in some fashion I'd rather not think about but either way he was on the move. He flinched as if someone had slapped him and then was sprinting for the front door. Travis and Sonny popped their heads up from behind the seat like two pieces of bread in a toaster. As bubba burst through the doors I threw the car into drive, forcing myself to NOT hit the gas pedal until.
"RUUUUN, BUBBA" Sonny shouted, so out of character that both Travis and I craned to see what got into him.
Before either of us could comment, bubba was through the front door and out in the pouring rain. His huge feet splashed into a large puddle on the patio of the store. He was hauling ass, one hand plastered on his brownbag mask, the other pumping like a piston. I kept both feet on the brakes even though I wanted to push the gas pedal to the floor. I wanted to be gone from this place. Was that a police siren? Christ, I was hearing things. I looked past bubba into the store and the clerk was still standing there reaching for the sky.
Bubba reached the car still at full sprint. But the laws of physics apply to objects in motion and as much as bubba
wanted
to stop, science had other ideas. His feet suddenly became parking lot water skis. His flailing body crashed against the side of the car and proceeded to slide down the side and underneath it.
"GET IN THE GODDAMN CAR!!!" Travis exploded, his voice as shrill as a 8 year old girls.
Bubba groped for the door handle and slipped on the parking lot. After the second try he pulled himself up and hauled himself into the car. The vehicle was moving before the door was shut. I rocketed the car out of the parking lot, its springs squealing in protest, its tires spinning violently on the wet road. I suddenly realized I was screaming. We all were screaming, as if we could eject the fear inside out through our mouths. We were a chorus of screamers singing the Ohmyfuckinggod Chorus. As we barreled down the road, shooting over the old railroad tracks like the Dukes Of Hazzard, our screams reluctantly turned to nervous laughter. Then from nervous laughter to a sort of uproarious cacophony. We felt like we just robbed a bank and got away scot free.
"HOLY SHiT" Travis repeated, this time not with the mantra-like repetitiveness. "THAT was AWESOME!!!"
Bubba was laughing hysterically. His face was beet red, starved for oxygen, but still he laughed. Bubba had a knack for laughing himself to a near death. After about ten minutes of driving and laughing we found ourselves across town and pulled into the McDonalds. Bubba had discarded the mask and thankfully threw his clothing back on (his soggy underwear ended up stuffed under the front seat). We marched into the place, still laughing but trying to keep it to ourselves like some secret joke.
Once we got our food we resigned ourselves to a booth and began to replay the events that just happened. Now that we were clear from the threat of arrests we were feeling pretty cool. Bubba especially. Before we could finish our food, in walked Travis' uncle Kent. Kent was the sort of guy you avoided when you were a kid. He was the one who you knew would find enjoyment in giving you titty twisters and cowbites. Kent would be killed 17 years later. He had lost his license for some reason unknown to me and was on the way home from the bar on his bicycle when he was mysteriously struck by a car. The details are shady but rumor has it that his head took the brunt of the front end of the vehicle. Not pretty. I never liked the guy. He had a knack for grabbing me by my shirt and shaking me violently. But I promise I didn't do it. In comparison to the torture he put on Travis, he was nice to me.
Anyway, Travis' uncle, who was maybe 6 years older than we were, ambled up to our booth with the look like he had some interesting news.
"Hey, did you hear?" He said through squinty, red eyes. "Someone tried to rob the Pensupreme."
Suddenly our appetites were gone. I felt like someone reached in and throttled my stomach. We decided to park bubba's car behind my house and spend the rest of the night watching television.
Not a whole lot more to add to this story other than the fact that Bubba never got paid for his antics. I think he kinda knew he wouldn't but like I said, he loved to make people laugh. And he sure did a great job at it.
Howdy do, partner? Thanks for coming back. From time to time, when the sun is shining right and all my organs are in their correct place I like to step off the beaten path of my over-bearing rants and just give you something to read that will make you smile or laugh or go "Jesus H. Chrysler, this guy is a retaaahhhhd." I've told a number of "tales" from my childhood and teen years. Most of them told between beers or shots or what have you. I've thrown around the idea of making a movie, but Steven Speilberg won't return my calls. But one of the main characters in most of my tales is a young gentleman by the name of "bubba." His real name is Dave but most of us in my close circle know him as bubba. But that's another story all in itself.
Bubba and I were literally unseperable in our early years. The only way we could've been closer was if we shared a spleen or something. The important thing you need to know about bubba is that he's slow. I don't mean he's dimwitted or dumb. Not in any way at all. He's just one of those special people who moves at his own pace and nothing you or I or anyone else does will EVER change that. The most endearing thing about bubba was his love to make people laugh. The bubba we all knew back then was all about having a good time. So what this meant to us was that if we came up with a stupid idea, bubba was the one who would usually carry it out.
I could tell you a HUNDRED bubba stories. I could fill pages up until we both had manuscript flying from our rear ends. But I think that I"ll start with one of my favorites (and feel free to share this story with whoever you want...bubba deserves to be famous).
Let us travel back now...baaaaaack in time. The year is 1987. It was the summer, no school. My friends and I were having our summer break, our senior high school year waiting for us in the (what seemed) far off September. We were cruising the fast lanes and bright lights of New Holland, PA; population 16,000 (including the Amish and large farm animals). Bubba was driving, I was in the passenger seat. In the back seat were my friends Sonny and Travis. Both were great at instigating Bubba into some wrong-doings and both were very good at denying it after the fact. I still remember this like it was yesterday. It was pouring. And when I say pouring, it was as if the sky opened up and buckets were being dumped. The rain hammered so hard on the roof that is sounded like a constant rumble rather than the machine gun pitter patter. We'd "borrowed" a couple six packs of Rolling Rock from my step dad and drove around town blasting "Master of Puppets" and looking for something to do.
And as luck would have it, we thought of something.
"Heeeeyyyy," I said to bubba, as if struck with a life-altering idea. "I dare you to run through the Pensupreme in your underwear!" The Pensupreme was Eastern Lancaster County's version of a 7-Eleven or a Wawa or your run of the mill convenience store. Back before the Indians cornered the market and, seemingly overnight, swiped up all the mini markets for as far as the eye could see.
"No way man, naked," travis shouted from the backseat. One thing about travis was he had two volume settings. Scream and silent. Don't be fooled that he was yelling over the music. Had I turned it down, the volume would've been the same. It was as if, at an early age, he stood next to a grenade as it went off and now he had to shout to speak over the hum in his ears.
"Five bucks," Sonny added. Five bucks meant he'd offer bubba a five if he pulled it off. He was a kid of few words. He almost spoke in code, unless he had some hugely exaggerated tale to tell...then you couldn't shut the guy up. Sonny had tales of Hells Angels and UFOs and ghosts haunting his closet...but again, another story.
"No freakin' way, man," Bubba replied, laughing and coughing. He had a habit of choking on his own saliva when he got himself worked up. I can remember times when we'd wait til he had a mouthful of food to make him laugh, just to see the food come out his nose.
"Awww c'mon," I urged. "I'll throw in five too."
"ME TOO," Travis hollered from the backseat, knowing full-well that he didn't have a dime on him.
"No way am I gonna run through that place in naked," Bubba shot back, "what if someone sees me?"
"Who's gonna see you?" I asked
"What about..." Bubba started.
"YEAH, DON"T BE A PUSSY," Travis interrupted.
"but..."
"It'll be funny!!" I added
"but..."
"You could wear a bag over your head," I pushed.
"but..."
"PUSSY!!"
"hey...wait..."
"Twenty bucks," Sonny added.
TWENTY BUCKS!!! Those two words made the rest of us gasp...even Travis. Twenty dollars was pretty good money for someone working at Pizza Hut. I looked at Bubba and I could see the wheels turning. The rain was still thundering on the roof. We all held our breath, knowing he was contemplating whether the act was worth the payoff. It was one of those moments where you're holding your breath in anticipation. Little butterflies fluttered in our stomachs at the idea of bubba pulling off this prank. We all had images of him sprinting through the Pensupreme with his rod and tackle flopping wildly and we had to hold back the giggles.
"So I'll get thirty bucks if I do this?" he asked.
"Thirty," we all said in unison. We were a chorus of evil all singing the same song.
"I'm not going in there naked," He added firmly. "And I'm wearing a damn bag."
Luckily, there was a run-of-the-mill brown grocery sack on the floor of Bubba's car. Bubba asked for it as if he were a surgeon asking for his next utensil. There was a look of determination in his eyes that almost scared me for a second. For that moment, he was Evil Kinevil, Fonzie, and David Copperfield all rolled into one. And the best part was, he was crazier than all three of them put together.
By this time we were parked in the deserted church parking lot directly across from the Pensupreme. Bubba and I had swapped places. I was now in the drivers seat. Bubba, stripped to his fruit of the looms, in the passenger seat. Travis had torn out eye holes in the bag for Bubba to see through. We all sat silent, staring through the rain-streaked windshield at the glowing target of our boredom inspired prank.
The store had two entrances, one on the right side of the building and the other on the front. The entire front and right side was glass so you could see into most of the interior. Inside we could see the older mail clerk doing some sort of work at the cash register. There was one car outfront signifying that at least one customer was inside the store.
"Okay, once that car leaves, we roll," I said in a gruff, low voice. I didn't take my eyes off the Pensupreme.
"Holy shit," Travis sang quietly from the backseat. His voice quivered and bubbled, unable to hide his excitement, as if he had to let little spurts out or he'd explode. "holyshitholyshit....holeeeee sheeeyot!" Sonny simply chuckled a sinister laugh under his breath.
"Thirty bucks?" Bubba asked, as if to say,
You bastards are gonna pay me right??
Before I could answer, Travis resumed his deafening volume level. "THE CAR IS LEAVING," he shouted, thrusting a pointed finger between bubba and I. And he was right. The brake lights of the customers car gleamed red like bug eyes. Then the reverse lights flicked on and the car began to roll away from the store.
"Okay, here's the plan," I said as I started bubba's car. "We pull up on the side. You go in the side door, run around the counter and out the front door. We'll pick you up on the other side and we'll haul balls outta there."
"You're not gonna leave me, wit?" Paranoia was setting in. It was as normal a feeling to bubba as feeling cold on a winter day. But the truth of the matter was that all four of us were on the verge of firing hershey bars into our shorts. But that didn't matter. We came this far and we had to finish it.
"Don't talk crazy," I urged, "just do what i said and it will be fine." At this point we were already rolling out of the church lot and crossing the street towards the market.
"Besides," i added, "there's nobody around and this is totally harmless. I bet weirder shit happens to these guys on the night shift." Famous last words. I looked over to Bubba to gauge his reaction only to find that he'd already donned the grocery sack with its crooked, almost evil torn out eye holes. Suddenly I was sitting next to the naked masked comic. He was sitting there with one hand on his lap and the other elbow propped up on the window sill of the car door. Was he trying to look non-chalant? I thought so and almost burst out laughing. Here I was in a car full of loony tunes and I couldn't have been happier!
I whipped the car into the parking lot, pulling up to the convenient store's side entrance. Travis and Sonny suddenly ducked down behind the seats. For a split second I nearly bailed. Nearly aborted our covert op. But instead I stepped on the brakes and yelled "GO!" The passenger door flew open and a gust of wind and rain burst through the gap. Being summer, the wind was warm and the rain was not uncomfortable but still I thought better him than me. In a split second the door slammed shut again and I watched in amazement as bubba, bag on his head weaing nothing but skivvies, bolted bare foot across the wet cement. This was the moment of truth. The moment that heroes...no...legends are made. This was the stuff they write movies about...where the boys end up getting the hot cheerleaders and the triumphant soundtrack music blares from the screen.
As Bubba threw open the door to the Pensupreme I dont' remember saying much of anything coherent. The car was filled with grunts and crows and whoo-hoo's as we realized he was going through with it. He grabbed the handle and nearly tossed the door off its hinges and jumped inside, dripping wet. The bag on his head was dark brown on top from the rain. His white underwear was stuck to his ass. He was now in that area of no return. He was standing on the brink of something great and he was ready to go for it. He was...he wasn't moving.
Bubba stepped inside the convenience store and stopped dead in his tracks. He froze.
Stay tuned for part 2...
Think of how things have changed over the last twenty years....hell, the last ten for that matter. Aside from the obvious stuff like horrible hair styles (king mullet), and horrendous clothing (everything), stop and think of whats really changed. I have to apologize in advance here cause I may have to pull out the proverbial soapbox and haul my fat ass up onto it. I get in these moods every once in a while. They feel more like moments of clarity but they may be better described as temporary nauseating enlightenment.
Very temporary, I might add.
There are certain groups of people out there that are very dangerous to the "american way of life." Right about now you're thinking i'm driving around with a gun rack and a rebel flag. no, i gave them up a long time ago. Most of us are brought up to believe that this is the land of the free. Apple pie...coke and a smile...yada yada. We have these super But let me tell you, we have folks poking holes in that pie with things I'd rather not think about.
yay america
catch phrases like "freedom of speech" and "its my constitutional right." But when you sit down and look at it, how much freedom do we really have? How free do you think you are?
Before you get all up in my Kool-Aid, you better reck-a-nize the flavahh, my friend. I'm not saying I'd rather live somewhere else. I"m not a communist, capitalist, leftist, rightist, third-day advocatistical nutjob...no! I'm in no way implying that America sucks. I'm USA A-ok all the way so put down your flaming torches and your whipping sticks. I don't need another militia in my front yard. Last time they trampled my flower bed.
But the truth of the matter is our choice of words and the repercussion of said words are slowly getting out of hand. I'm not a Conservative. I'm not a bible thumper, but I have a tad bit of commonsense....it happens once in a while. Perfect example of what i'm trying to get at with choice of words. Kids dont have to say the Pledge of Allegiance if they don't want to. Why would they not want to? Think back to elementary school. Did the Pledge of Allegiance really have that huge of an affect on you? I mean, other than separating the time you got off the bus from the time you crack open a book, what other purpose did it serve. Did you sit there and reflect on the flag or on the nation you live in? NO, you rolled through the Pledge in your monotone zombie voice because that's what you were told to do. The pledge was more of an organized group activity and it was harmless. Way less dangerous than dodge ball, thank you very much. So I'm thinking, is Timmy Thirdgrade standing there saying "Hmmm...i really don't believe the words I'm saying...I think they're against my belief." NO!!!! NO NO NO! All Timmy was worried about was whether he was going to get chocolate milk at lunch or orange drink.
The problem is that EVERYTHING is under a microscope. Speech, religion, music, art...it is all being highly scrutinized when the stuff we SHOULD be focusing on is ignored. Everyone is standing there saying "HEY YOU CAN"T SAY TITMOUSE IN SCHOOL...ITS DEROGATORY TO WOMEN." We're all wearing comfy T-shirts with "MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY" enblazoned across the front. We all have a nice pointy finger and we know how to use it.
So we have people fighting to ban Gay marraiges. We have people trying to enforce religions of choice on us. People are running around with tape across their mouths in fear of saying something offensive. Do you realize that in a Georgia elementary school they want to remove the word "evolution" from the studies because it goes against their Christian beliefs. I don't think someone just made up that word. I'm pretty sure its still in the dictionary. And I"m also pretty sure evolution in the basic sense is a fact. We're not talking about witchcraft here. Just because something doesn't conform to a rigid ideal doesn't mean it should be ousted. That's like saying "man, i think lasagne tastes like someone's toes...lets banish it forever!"
That's my gripe in a nutshell. People are looking to jump all over everyone else at the drop of a hat. Bob's parents are Christian so he's suing the school for teaching evolution. Mary's parents are atheist so she can't say "one nation under god." Ricardo's parents are mexican and are picketing the grocery store to have Spic-n-Span removed from the shelves. Can we get realistic about this crap? Pull your head out of your hole already.
Wanna talk about the Grammys? Do ya? If you don't, then switch to another channel or close your eyes or something. One word here: Prince. PUHHHRIINNNNCE. That's right. When that little guy with the hair that somehow reminds me of Mary Tyler Moore put the nail in the coffin for all the other performers of the night. Lets face it, as soon as he started singing the first couple lines of Purple Rain, it was done...over...pack up your bags and go the hell home cause it was untouchable. Granted, i could've done without Beyonce throwing around her mammoth ass (I'm suprised that nobody got hurt!). And while i'm on Beyonce and her continental ass, let me preface this remark by saying that she has a beautiful voice, BUTT (i mean but) what is it with the newer female artists and their need to see how many runs they can put into one line of vocals. It kinda reminds me of an auctioneer having a seizure when they try to pull off that wanna-be soulful sheeyot. Its been done before....remember the 80's guitarists? Remember the flurry of notes? Yngwie Malmsteen is rolling in his grave (ok...maybe his studio apartment...he isn't dead physically) So ladies, stuff that whoopity-do-all-over-the-place melody and just fucking sing....iiiight???
Other performers of the night I really enjoyed were Foo Fighters (not a huge fan of that particular song but Foo Fighters are always reliable), Martina McBride was a tear jerker, Sting (again coulda done without the duo thing with Rastaman Jean Paul...stay at home and burn one next time), and probably my favorite of the night; The Black Eyed Peas.
But the most entertaining performance of the night was Celine Dion. OH MY GOD it was like candy watching her open up that annoying pompous mouth to sing and not hearing anything. I was squirming with glee. And when the production guy walked out on stage to tell her that the mic was not working, I was literally clapping. And you KNOW someone got their balls handed to them for that. I can't stand her, can you tell? It goes way back but Celine and I had a falling out. She wanted to keep singing and I wanted her to die. Not that huge of a request. So now she's selling Chryslers (and still not dead, I might add) and I still think she sucks. So we just kinda agree to disagree. Its a work in progress.
Speaking of work in progress...WHAAAAAAAAAAAT were they thinking bringing out Dave, Sting, and Vince Gill (and that little alien-like guy from the Neptunes on drums...talk about Close Encounters). I am a very HUGE fan of Dave Matthews and Sting so don't bash me for this but it SUCKED arse. I mean, lips all over assholes during that performance. I mean, first, it was a tribute to arguably the most highly revered bands in history. And they're being honored by that?? Again...a fan, don't throw things. But holy crap what was going on there??? Hey when the Rolling Stones all die in a firey heroin induced blimp crash over the Mersey River, maybe we should honor them by bringing up my nephews garage band to play a rousing off-tune rendition of "Rocks Off." Very disappointed, guys...shame on you.
And finally, and I have to tread lightly for fear of sounding cold...obtuse...callous. But let me just say this: George Harrison being nominated for best male vocals...Warren Zevon being nominated for song of the year...Mr and Mrs Cash being nominated for country hobos of the year (yeah, i forget what they got nominated for...sorry). Let me ask you a simple question: Name one new song from George Harrison. I challenge any young consumer to name ANY song by Warren Zevon EXCEPT Werewolves of London. Yes, i know all these folks passed away. And yes they deserve to be remembered and honored for their work. But lets be a little realistic...mmmmkay? Hell, Johnny Cash was the only person who has put out anything new that maybe half the folks in that audience would know and he didn't win a thing. Yes, I know, I'm a wang for saying this. But believe me, i'm not taking anything from any of the recently departed artists. But a grammy? naaah. Hey grammy producers...keep tugging on those heart strings and we'll keep watching. I heard that the guitar player from Loverboy recently fell off a ladder in his garage and twisted his ankle on a speak-and-spell. Better start putting the footage together for next years show...he might not pull through.
another test...trying to get the comments to work.
To Blog or Not to Blog...who fucking cares. Its raining outside and its at that temperature where it feels like its so cold your nipples are gonna fire off like bottle rockets...yet, it isn't below the freezing point. The weather is a bit funny up this way. I blame global warming and mad scientists. Its all their fault.
So anyway, i'm going to (from time to time) leave posts about my retarded views on what's happening in the world. Because its my opinion that the world is both fucked up and completely awesome all at the same time. Kinda like a Yin and Yang thing, only not as user friendly.
Example? Today in the news we find that the poor little 11 year old who's abduction was caught on videotape has been found dead. Slain is a better word. And yet, the sumbitch who did this has a previous record...something like 12 prior convictions (dont' quote me on that one cause i'm not Capt. Statistics...). My big question is "how many times can someone get away with an act like that and not be locked up for life?" Its no wonder that people walk around feeling "above the law." Because there are lawyers out there looking to get paid. It has nothing to do with doing the right thing...its all about the benjamins.
Okay so thats the shitty thing, right? And the Yang of it would be...well let me pick...OKAY here's an interesting thing!!! They designed a tiny corkscrew that can actually screw into a persons fat-laiden heart and pull out the clots, thus preventing or eliminating a potential stroke. So that's pretty cool!! All you big fat asses out there who are shoving your faces right now with fritos and bacon grease; this isn't a home tool...you can't go get it in tool aisle at Wal Mart so no, don't order an extra bucket of KFC. So all this time we have people working on miracle drugs when the french had it right all along...a cork screw. OUI OUI !!!
For the love of PETE, here i am! Out on the fringes of the cold and lonely internet baring my under-developed soul to the one or two people who are going to take a moment and click. Now, the folks who know me could argue, "why don't you just post this on the driveslikefire.com (shameless promotion *wink wink*) website. Well, I guess I could answer it in a two part informative reply. 1. Cause I don't want to. 2. Because not everyone that stumbles onto our little band's websites WANTS to hear what I have to say. I don't even want to hear it sometimes.
So for now, warm yourself by the fires in my loins. Get comfy. Come back and read this crap when you are bored and I will try to keep it interesting....mmmkay?
BLOG BLOG...its big, its heavy, its wood....
