For the time being I will be moving on to new blog projects at http://highlandparadise.wordpress.com/
As for the fate of this blog, I'm just not sure yet, but for now you can read recent posts from here and all of my new posts in the new blog.
most likely this blog will take on a new direction and look in the near future so stay tuned.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Friday, February 01, 2008
Here's To My Blog's 3rd B-day
Well, hello and welcome to my blog. It is a place that really only ever gets seen by me but I take way too much pride in it. In, fact it is a lot like the cactus in my windowsill in that sense. No one ever notices the cactus or wants to talk about it. Also, like my cactus, it grows slowly. Mostly because I forget about it and don't water it for long periods of time. I blame booze and stumbleupon.com.
So there you have it in a nutshell. My blog is like a cactus; sometimes its prickly and sometimes it sprouts a beautiful flower. Cacti also store a lot of water, like me.
So there you have it in a nutshell. My blog is just like me. Which, by default, just made the first paragraph really depressing.
So there you have it in a nutshell. My blog is like a cactus; sometimes its prickly and sometimes it sprouts a beautiful flower. Cacti also store a lot of water, like me.
So there you have it in a nutshell. My blog is just like me. Which, by default, just made the first paragraph really depressing.
Talking about dreams always leaves you wanting more.
“Since before I can remember being able to speak I have had a reoccurring dream. When it ends I feel incomplete for several days.” My sister, Caitlin, was guiding our car expertly down the road. This was the environment we often found ourselves in before we discussed a heavy issue, whether it be personal, philosophical, spiritual, or governmental. I rode shotgun as we journeyed through the night.
Caitlin stared at me quizzically, “you mean like a nightmare?”
The car drifts left, “Will you please watch the road?”
“Yeah, yeah.” We jerk to the right.
“No, just a dream, but it has instilled moments of fear at times.”
“Well, what happens in your dream?”
I began to pull words from the jumble of my mind and move them to the tip of my tongue and, instead, thought it best to preface it more. “Well, it has been different every time…”
“Not much of a reoccurring dream then, is it?” she interrupted.
“It gets longer each time and more details are exposed.” I continued.
“Oh, how so?” her tone made it seem like she thought of it as fodder for gossip and not worth her intellectual prowess.
“Actually, now that I think of it, the details are the same but the perspective is different and it’s only the ending that grows longer.”
She seemed to chew her bottom lip as she navigated an onramp. “Let’s hold up for a second here. Your perspective actually becomes that of someone else? Like out-of-body or something like that?”
I should have realized that trying to describe a dream was not something you just do with great ease. “Sort of, but you have to understand that there are different characters within my dream and that each one plays a role with certain motions. In my dream I assume the role of one of the characters and perform his motions. Any thoughts are my own and not of the characters.”
I could tell from the incline of her head that she was on the same page as me; it was our form of nonverbal communication. “So each dream is the same but differs in its characters.”
She didn’t get it.
“You need to understand that the same characters are present in every dream.”
“Who are these characters? Do they have names? Do you talk to them? Have little tea parties with them?” she flashed a patronizing smile.
“You just love this, don’t you?”
“Yeah, you make my dorm mates seem sane.”
“You missed a shift.” I thought that I had moved beyond being jealous of her superiority at all things, but pointing out this little flaw made me happy. Her nasty side-glance cut me back down.
“So anyways, describe the characters.”
“Well, the first time I was myself, a young boy sitting at a window looking at a yellow flower in the window box outside. Beyond the flower is a cartoonishly picturesque street lined with white houses that have red shutters. In the street is the second character I became, he is a mailman who is walking down the street delivering the mail and whistling a tune that I can feel but cannot hear.”
“Wow.” Her face carried an impressed look.
“What?”
“Well, it’s just the mailman part. I mean, have you every even seen a mailman delivering mail on foot?”
I thought on it for a second and found no memories outside of Mister Rodger’s Neighborhood. I relayed this and she got a big smile.
“Doctor!” she shouted in a German accent, “I believe we have found out what is wrong with the boy.”
She paused for dramatic effect, so I ruined it. “What?!”
“Either you are watching too much T.V. or you are certifiably insane.”
“There is more if you let me continue.”
“Do tell.”
“There is a long road line with trees just beyond the houses. The road leads to a bank where robbers pull up in a different car each dream. They get out of the car and charge into the bank. Seconds later they charge back out and stuff a safe into the trunk and drive off. Each time I see the robbery at a different angle.”
“Is it scary?”
“Not really. Each time I feel like I should stop them but I am unable to move or shout. It did become scary last time I had it. The robbers did the same thing, you know. They drove up and went into the bank but when they came out the bank looked more like a industrial building and they were carrying a person trapped in a block of cement.”
She frowned. “Was it Han Solo?”
“No, but what does it mean?”
Caitlin stared at me quizzically, “you mean like a nightmare?”
The car drifts left, “Will you please watch the road?”
“Yeah, yeah.” We jerk to the right.
“No, just a dream, but it has instilled moments of fear at times.”
“Well, what happens in your dream?”
I began to pull words from the jumble of my mind and move them to the tip of my tongue and, instead, thought it best to preface it more. “Well, it has been different every time…”
“Not much of a reoccurring dream then, is it?” she interrupted.
“It gets longer each time and more details are exposed.” I continued.
“Oh, how so?” her tone made it seem like she thought of it as fodder for gossip and not worth her intellectual prowess.
“Actually, now that I think of it, the details are the same but the perspective is different and it’s only the ending that grows longer.”
She seemed to chew her bottom lip as she navigated an onramp. “Let’s hold up for a second here. Your perspective actually becomes that of someone else? Like out-of-body or something like that?”
I should have realized that trying to describe a dream was not something you just do with great ease. “Sort of, but you have to understand that there are different characters within my dream and that each one plays a role with certain motions. In my dream I assume the role of one of the characters and perform his motions. Any thoughts are my own and not of the characters.”
I could tell from the incline of her head that she was on the same page as me; it was our form of nonverbal communication. “So each dream is the same but differs in its characters.”
She didn’t get it.
“You need to understand that the same characters are present in every dream.”
“Who are these characters? Do they have names? Do you talk to them? Have little tea parties with them?” she flashed a patronizing smile.
“You just love this, don’t you?”
“Yeah, you make my dorm mates seem sane.”
“You missed a shift.” I thought that I had moved beyond being jealous of her superiority at all things, but pointing out this little flaw made me happy. Her nasty side-glance cut me back down.
“So anyways, describe the characters.”
“Well, the first time I was myself, a young boy sitting at a window looking at a yellow flower in the window box outside. Beyond the flower is a cartoonishly picturesque street lined with white houses that have red shutters. In the street is the second character I became, he is a mailman who is walking down the street delivering the mail and whistling a tune that I can feel but cannot hear.”
“Wow.” Her face carried an impressed look.
“What?”
“Well, it’s just the mailman part. I mean, have you every even seen a mailman delivering mail on foot?”
I thought on it for a second and found no memories outside of Mister Rodger’s Neighborhood. I relayed this and she got a big smile.
“Doctor!” she shouted in a German accent, “I believe we have found out what is wrong with the boy.”
She paused for dramatic effect, so I ruined it. “What?!”
“Either you are watching too much T.V. or you are certifiably insane.”
“There is more if you let me continue.”
“Do tell.”
“There is a long road line with trees just beyond the houses. The road leads to a bank where robbers pull up in a different car each dream. They get out of the car and charge into the bank. Seconds later they charge back out and stuff a safe into the trunk and drive off. Each time I see the robbery at a different angle.”
“Is it scary?”
“Not really. Each time I feel like I should stop them but I am unable to move or shout. It did become scary last time I had it. The robbers did the same thing, you know. They drove up and went into the bank but when they came out the bank looked more like a industrial building and they were carrying a person trapped in a block of cement.”
She frowned. “Was it Han Solo?”
“No, but what does it mean?”
My Grandfather
The Lesson
My life has been full of surreal vignettes that seem to have played out outside of my body, so that the memories can be seen from all angles. Whenever I think back on an event and it gives this out-of-body playback, I can tell that it was something life changing. These events form a road map of major destinations connected with less relevant side roads and lesser events in between. Or perhaps the destinations are the insignificant part and instead these life-changing memories are the journey, the road. I like that analogy better because it plays so neatly with many of these events, such as flipping my friend Jon’s Jeep on a foggy mountain road and having to leave it, and him, as we tried to find help. Though memories such as the above are traumatic, they are lessons, bends in the road, that stay with me aiming me in a new direction. However there is one memory that, though more mild in action, is far more vivid and more gently life changing. This memory begins as it ends, with the image of Grandpa Eddy.
Grandpa Eddy’s outward appearance was much healthier than other men his age. He had none of the unhealthy slouch or sickly thinness. He stood tall and proud with a surprisingly athletic build, however his face was kind and soft and always shaven. His face welcomed you to converse and inspired confidence in your words. His head was capped with a full head of grey hair. Grandpa Eddy was my mother’s father and my only living grandparent.
During one family gathering, after dinner had been finished and everyone settled into the living room, Grandpa Eddy asked me to come with him to the basement. As I followed him down, I was hit with uncommon nostalgia for the countless hours I used to spend in that basement playing with my uncle’s ancient toys, his die-cast cars and Bakelite soldiers. We walked into the large, musty, white room that held Grandpa Eddy’s exercise equipment. He picked up a large 25 pound medicine ball.
The medicine ball is a large dark brown sphere. Its leather skin is crisscrossed with a web of dry cracks. The ball is filled with unknown contents whose weight could crush a small child, or at least I once thought so. It was at least three times as old as me, a true relic of antiquity.
I had never questioned the actions of my Grandfather. Over the years, he had replaced Steve McQueen and the like to reach near god-like stature in my mind. His life was a roadmap of conflicts approached and conquered through hard work and honesty. He had started his life as the son of Scottish-American iron-ore miners on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. He fought an academic war to be the first in his family to go to university. He made it all the way through law school and found himself working in the F.B.I. under J. Edger Hoover.
Stories collected from Grandpa Eddy illustrated a life of car chases, shootouts, and impossible deadlines as he tracked the criminals on the F.B.I.’s most wanted list. He had also told me about his years as a trial lawyer. Often his neighbors would tell me the story of how he had helped them gain citizenship and find housing in
So when he told me we were going to toss the medicine ball around and talk a bit, I had no objections. He stood about eight feet from me and asked, “What do want to do with your life?” He then immediately tossed the ball.
“I don’t know,” I replied in practiced teen nonchalance while catching the ball with little effort. I threw it back, watching the turbulence of dust in its wake play in the sunlight seeping through the sliding glass door.
“Is there a profession that interests you?” he asked with another toss. As I caught it he rolled his head back to loosen his neck. As he did so, he drew musty air in to fill his chest.
“I think it would be interesting to be an architect.” Toss. I swayed with the momentum of the ball.
He nodded his approval, “It might be.” Toss. I staggered back, surprised at the force. This old man had been doing more than just jogging these recent years. Must have been eating his Wheaties I mused in my brain. “Throw it back hard this time.”
“Are you sure?” At sixteen I was no bodybuilder, but I was as large as Grandpa Eddy and worked out during sports practice.
“Of course.”
I tossed it a little harder and he stood solid, but when the ball came back its force knocked me to the ground. This was strange, never in sixteen years had Grandpa Eddy shown his strength or a desire to cause harm to me. In a rush of adrenaline, I got up and threw it back with all my strength. He caught with ease.
“That’s more like it!” He smirked.
After this we talked no more, we just battled each other with the medicine ball. It was like a sort of ultra-macho testosterone test and we walked away after twenty minutes, tired and oddly content.
Three weeks later, I received a call from my mother from Grandpa Eddy’s house. Grandpa Eddy passed away during the night she said. I couldn’t believe it after that display of youth and strength in the basement.
As a small boy I had many role models, most of them characters from films, which I idolized. I wanted to be a strong, heroic man like Steve McQueen in Bullitt, or Gregory Peck in North by Northwest. These were men thrust into uncommon circumstances, yet they always came out on top and did it with style. Like most small boys, I was reluctant to put any mere mortal in this heroic ranking, but I still found room for my Father and Grandpa Eddy
When I was sixteen, I had already come to terms with the realities of the world. I understood all to well the mortality of human life from the deaths of my grandmothers and a very close uncle. I also knew that the heroes in the world were far less glamorous than I had previously believed. With age and maturity came a greater appreciation for the accomplishments of everyday people, men and women alike. I didn’t realize it then, but this, though a very short conversation, would be the last time we talked alone. It was also the first time we had ever talked about any event in the future. Still, in this final lesson he showed that he never had been and never would be frail.
Ultimate Richmond Bed Time Story
This is kinda random I suppose, it's a short story I told via AIM at 4 a.m. to a friend who could not sleep. It began, as all great stories do, with absolutely no direction or concept and quickly evolved into the single most important piece of Richmond, Virginia fiction ever written.
Friend: how's it goin?
Me: good, how are you?
Friend: tell me a story?
Me: Once apon a time, there was a young princess and she lived in a small castle in the
Friend: ooh okay i like this oen
Me: Where her cranky father, the king, was in control of the entire economy
Me: he made the peasants mine for a LEGENDary lager in the soil
Friend: hahah
Me: The peasants where treated poorly and dissent brewed amongst them
Me: One day the princess went for a walk through the forest with her pet goliath frog, Hercules
Friend: mmhm
Me: while she was walking she had the odd sensation of being watched, but when she set her mind to something she would not be deterred and she had she her sights on trekking to the village of 7-11burg to see her boyfriend and buy some booze
Me: she was a wino, like her mother before her
Friend: but she was being watched?
Me: yes she was
Me: by a young Socialist revolutionary
Friend: ahh
Friend: so I see
Me: who was, with his band of merry, slightly toasted but very functional friends, brewing a brew of there own, the Peoples socialist Brew of
Friend: ahhh
Me: now he waited for the princess to get to 7-11burg and get crunked and when it began to get dark she decided to return to the castle before her cantankerous father realized she was missing
Friend: ah yes
Friend: daddy dearest
Me: she was bummed because her boyfriend had not been home
Me: so anywho, the socialist kidnapped her in the forest at dusk and took her to the hidden microbrewery
Friend: uh huh
Me: where the band of merry, slightly toasted but very functional socialist introduced themselves through drunken irish song but their leader wore his mask and did not speak
Friend: creepy fellow
Me: as night fell everyone in the pub dozed off and the princess was left to contemplate her fate. she tried to wear through the ropes that held her, but soon her wrist became raw and bled
Friend: uhoh
Me: a voice said, "Please, resist no more." she saw the leader in the doorway. "you will be released to your father if he releases the poor and allows them to brew their own beer and have free trade. But if he stays greedy we will make you take a PBR beer bong and brainwash you"
Friend: haha
Me: she knew immediately that her stubborn father would never give in and began to cry but the Socialist poured her a glass of wine and drew close
Me: he tried to consol her and they kissed and he seemed oddly familiar
Friend: hmm
Me: he caught her gaze and knew immediately that he must reveal his identity. He removed his mask and she saw that it was her boyfriend from 7-11burg
Friend: tricky
Me: He released her and they talked for hours and realized that they must run because her father would kill them for loving each other and the socialists would too
Me: running would mark them for death for life though.
Friend: but they have to run
Me: So they snuck to the castle where all the Legend was kept and they blocked the pressure valves in the brewery with beer-pong balls that the Socialist kept in his sweeetass messenger bag
Friend: hah
Me: and then they ran
Me: far
Me: cause we know this can't end well
Me: The castle exploded in a mushroom cloud of lager
Friend: nooo lager
Friend: must be consumed
Me: swweeping the land in a tidal wave
Me: the princess and the socialist watched from the mountains as richmondstien was washed away and covered in an ocean of lager for many years
Me: and her father, the king, even washed up on shore one day
Me: drunker and happier
Me: and everyone lived happily ever after.
Me: The End
Friend: yaaay
Friend: and .. applause!
Friend: very good story
Me: thank you, i don't think i had any better in me right now
Friend: oh no it hit the spot for a story
Me: so now you can fall asleep happy?
Me: i know i will
Friend: definitely
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
100% Organic
I saw a hobo in your shirt
no doubt the one I gave to you
punk band logo caked in dirt
tattered threads a fading blue
Isn't it like you to be so selfless
giving up memories to those in need
dispatching things from when we were us
nipping the bud before hearts bleed
Still I thought of the shop we almost started
Rebel Wool: Clothing For Black Sheep
the idea died when we departed
but the ideals still tease me in my sleep
An organic store stitched together with love
is a dream I still wish to live
So perhaps with help from above
we'll get a second chance; learn to forgive
We could be partners in this vocation
or rebuild ourselves from that foundation.
no doubt the one I gave to you
punk band logo caked in dirt
tattered threads a fading blue
Isn't it like you to be so selfless
giving up memories to those in need
dispatching things from when we were us
nipping the bud before hearts bleed
Still I thought of the shop we almost started
Rebel Wool: Clothing For Black Sheep
the idea died when we departed
but the ideals still tease me in my sleep
An organic store stitched together with love
is a dream I still wish to live
So perhaps with help from above
we'll get a second chance; learn to forgive
We could be partners in this vocation
or rebuild ourselves from that foundation.
Status Quo
Wake up, Read RVA,
Sit on the crapper,
Start the day,
Coffee, Tobacco,
Itunes play,
Fold some shirts,
Take a shower,
Off to work,
Track the hours,
Run home,
Race to show,
Drink foam,
Find new low,
Puke, Rinse, Repeat.
Sit on the crapper,
Start the day,
Coffee, Tobacco,
Itunes play,
Fold some shirts,
Take a shower,
Off to work,
Track the hours,
Run home,
Race to show,
Drink foam,
Find new low,
Puke, Rinse, Repeat.
Ten Dollars From The Edge
Today starts with an appraisal of my current rations. After a depressingly short head count I find myself with 11 packages of beef Ramen, 1/2 pound of coffee, one loaf of sandwich bread, 3/4 of a jar of JIF extra-crunchy, 1-1/2 boxes of pasta noodles (assorted), 3/4 of a jar of pasta sauce, 1/4 of a tank of 87 octane unleaded petrol (10% ethanol), and ten dollars in the ol' bank account.
You see, most people thrive in financial security. It feels safe and allows the comfort to freely function. I, however, enjoy week 3+. Week 3+ is the period following two weeks notice at a job. How resourceful can you get to stretch the last minimum wage paycheck? It's exciting never knowing where the food and money will come from next. It's exciting to see where you will find joy and comfort when you absolutely cannot use money to find it.
I'm ten dollars from the edge and I've never been happier.
You see, most people thrive in financial security. It feels safe and allows the comfort to freely function. I, however, enjoy week 3+. Week 3+ is the period following two weeks notice at a job. How resourceful can you get to stretch the last minimum wage paycheck? It's exciting never knowing where the food and money will come from next. It's exciting to see where you will find joy and comfort when you absolutely cannot use money to find it.
I'm ten dollars from the edge and I've never been happier.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Not Too Helpful
Picture this. You're in a cramped, over-packed car in the middle of the night heading for the beach when your roommate asks you to help him with a writing exercise for class. Something to do with his experiences and beliefs about 19 years of formal education. You're tired and hot and not about to receive any compensation for your contributions. What do you write? Here was my answer.
"What is learning? The accruement of knowledge? The experiences of our pitiful days on this earth? Perhaps, but that is only part of the equation. For one to be a truly enlightened individual, you need to share your experiences with others. Knowledge, self-contained, is selfish, wasted, you must unleash your learning on the world like a rottweiler. Then that rottweiler of knowledge will take on the bear that is this world, and only one will survive the cage match, but if knowledge prevails, it will take a doggy dump that will fertilize the flower of change."
I know I'm not a very useful resource for academic endeavors but you get what you pay for.
P.S. In retrospect I feel that I would not have used the cage match metaphor if i hadn't been living in Richmond, Virginia during the Micheal Vick trial. Sad.
"What is learning? The accruement of knowledge? The experiences of our pitiful days on this earth? Perhaps, but that is only part of the equation. For one to be a truly enlightened individual, you need to share your experiences with others. Knowledge, self-contained, is selfish, wasted, you must unleash your learning on the world like a rottweiler. Then that rottweiler of knowledge will take on the bear that is this world, and only one will survive the cage match, but if knowledge prevails, it will take a doggy dump that will fertilize the flower of change."
I know I'm not a very useful resource for academic endeavors but you get what you pay for.
P.S. In retrospect I feel that I would not have used the cage match metaphor if i hadn't been living in Richmond, Virginia during the Micheal Vick trial. Sad.
6 word memoirs
I have been asked twice in my life to write a story in six words. This is the one I like for personal reasons, perhaps you have one.
Longing for direction, I sought none.
Longing for direction, I sought none.
Missed Connections
On my morning walk I feel lyrical
and I leer at girls, out on the street.
Hoping that our eyes will meet
so that she will chance a glance through these portals,
to see that I am no mere mortal.
I will take her where she’s never been,
to a passion unreached with other men.
That is the truth I hold to be true,
but she will never try something new,
because random looks between strangers
are taught to us to hide dire danger,
and not my brand of sultry reflection
that is meant for more than a “missed connection”.
But, this is how we communicate,
through anonymous dispatches of love and hate
where I must resign myself to this
one pendulous
electronic kiss.
(Yes, I did actually write this and I am aware that it appeared on the Richmond, Va Missed Connections. I did, after all, post it there myself.)
Rough Draft
I wrote this for a poetry slam. Not that I plan on going to one or know of any. So, really, this is just what happens when I'm bored and alone with a pen and some bourbon.
Baby, when we are long gone and nothing is left but roaches.
Will our house’s collapse in the forest make a sound?
I hope not, we’ve disturbed this earth too much!
In fact, I hope a bear shits right where we used to fuck.
You know, in that sunny, southeast corner
only 8 feet and a wall from my truck.
And I hope the pickup is a home for rattlesnakes.
It just seems fitting.
I hope that the oil is gone from the lakes.
I want it to be as beautiful as it was!
Like that view we paid for
before they built that other house in front of the window.
A house that looked just like ours.
And another, and another, each with a street light
to wash out the stars.
Rejoice, as they Crumble!
By wind, lightning, floods.
Goddamnit friends, let’s be more humble!
This is not our land alone.
Respect the streams, the ferns, the stones,
Because no matter how comfy you make your life,
Just know that a bear will shit on your grave,
leaving fertile seeds.
And the roots of weeds will wash away your deeds.
Rejoice and embrace your peril!
I know I will.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Captains Log: Entry #1.
So here it is, my first blog. I hate to get off on the wrong foot here but this feels pretty dumb. Shouldn't middle age women who wear mumus, hate children and love cats do this during the winter months when there aren't any craftsfairs to go to? Well, I'm going to update this from time to time with news, lies about me, and conspiracy theories about the world. Maybe people will fall in love with my self inflated ego as it radiates from my words and give me some greater purpose in life. Actually, I'm just too cheap to pay for a real URL. I am not an expert when it comes to grammer and spelling so don't expect great things out of this blog. Just take it for what it is worth, at least it's free.
Today was a snow day in Northern Virginia, which meant no school. So, I was forced to turn to the only forms of education the youth have left, T.V. and internet. The History channel took a break from it's all Hitler all the time programing to teach me about trucks. That is really the extent of my day.
By the way, my dial-up internet connection is slow tonight so this post is going up without spelling or grammer check. Sorry.
Today was a snow day in Northern Virginia, which meant no school. So, I was forced to turn to the only forms of education the youth have left, T.V. and internet. The History channel took a break from it's all Hitler all the time programing to teach me about trucks. That is really the extent of my day.
By the way, my dial-up internet connection is slow tonight so this post is going up without spelling or grammer check. Sorry.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Your House Sucks!
Housing in America is unimaginative. It is cheap. It is ugly. As a draftsman it is my duty to draw the homes that you people pay us to create for you. I have not seen a single house that stands out from any other for the past 12 months. This makes me hate my work. I want to believe that i am leaving a mark on the world but now I just want everyone to stop building tasteless structures. People move into these developements for a great view, only to have another house plop down in front of their bay window. the only reason i keep going to work is the amazing paycheck and the hope that someone will ask for something that will challenge me and be nice to look at.
Please have some sympathy!
Please have some sympathy!
Is This Treason?
I'm really tired of the "Christian Right". Hey, I'm a Christian but that doesn't make me better than a Muslim. We both have one God who is based of the same teachings from a long time ago. Is Jihad so different from taking the teachings of a guy who wanted peace and useing it to cause trouble all over the world?
Am I really going to go to hell for my beliefs? Or do you have the same probability as me. We are both made of molecules and atoms. These building blocks of life have only so many variations they can go through. Purhaps God set these atoms up to limit our behavior, perhaps science can prove fate. Perhaps I'm tired and It's late.
No that would just be a cop out to writing about this. But it is true. I am tired. I'm tired of one lady's crusade to make dancing like it was in the fifties at my high school. I'm tired of people telling the school down the street that they can't do a play about a gay kid.
Breaking news everyone! God did not choose George W. Bush to lead America. You did. God's plan would not have involved the destruction of a national surplus and the destruction of our social security. Just because SS is the only program that could turn a profit didn't give him the right to take money out of it for and unpopular war and then claim that the system needs to be fixed.
Yeah, I support the troops. That is why I want to bring them home!
i'll edit this later and try to give it more reason and logical flow, my thoughts are to fast for my typing.
NUKE GAY BABY WHALES FOR JESUS!
Am I really going to go to hell for my beliefs? Or do you have the same probability as me. We are both made of molecules and atoms. These building blocks of life have only so many variations they can go through. Purhaps God set these atoms up to limit our behavior, perhaps science can prove fate. Perhaps I'm tired and It's late.
No that would just be a cop out to writing about this. But it is true. I am tired. I'm tired of one lady's crusade to make dancing like it was in the fifties at my high school. I'm tired of people telling the school down the street that they can't do a play about a gay kid.
Breaking news everyone! God did not choose George W. Bush to lead America. You did. God's plan would not have involved the destruction of a national surplus and the destruction of our social security. Just because SS is the only program that could turn a profit didn't give him the right to take money out of it for and unpopular war and then claim that the system needs to be fixed.
Yeah, I support the troops. That is why I want to bring them home!
i'll edit this later and try to give it more reason and logical flow, my thoughts are to fast for my typing.
NUKE GAY BABY WHALES FOR JESUS!
NASCAR is for Rednecks! By the way, I am a white southern kid.
NASCAR is for Rednecks! The first step for the American public to better themselves is to acknowledge that NASCAR is the worst sporting event on television and is targeted at an uneducated southern market known as the redneck. The second step is for those who fall into the catagory of redneck to stop taking pride in it. Come on, the Confederate South is really not the greatest thing to celebrate. Read "Confederates in the Attic" by Tony Horwitz and you will be able to really see the stupidity of it.
Anyways, the real point i'm trying to get at is that NASCAR is pretty lame. They turn Left for four hours while pushing the pedal to the floor. Is that really impressive to you? Plus, all the cars look the same. Their extensive windtunnel testing has proven that the bigass American car can only take one shape to be aerodynamic.
Now, I offer some alternatives. World Rally Championship is the best driving in the world. The drivers pilot 4 wheel drive sports cars at 120mph on roads around the world. These roads are the same everyday roads that the public might drive. Some are gravel, some are tarmac. Some have gaurdrails, others don't. These guys cover thousands of miles with the aid of a co-driver whose job is to read a description of the turn that will pop up after the next two turns because they are traveling so darn fast.
American LeMans Series- Maybe you don't support the foriegn autosports, so now you can watch a motorsport that we stole from the French!!! The ALMS is a series where sports cars of all shapes and sizes battle it out on road courses for hours on end.
Australian V-8 supercar challenge- Essentially the Australian version of NASCAR, but ten times better because they turn both ways and every car is different.
Formula 1- if you never heard of it you should leave your cave.
Race of Campions- It ain't the American IROC, the ROC is a race that puts drivers from around the world against each other in cars that are identical. They use several different kinds of cars to make it fair for everyone. Here is a fun fact, Rally car drivers have won every time except for last year when a formula 1 driver won. Two NASCAR drivers are invited every year and they always come to try their hand at it. A NACAR driver has never even come close to winning the ROC since it began in the 80's.
Anyways, the real point i'm trying to get at is that NASCAR is pretty lame. They turn Left for four hours while pushing the pedal to the floor. Is that really impressive to you? Plus, all the cars look the same. Their extensive windtunnel testing has proven that the bigass American car can only take one shape to be aerodynamic.
Now, I offer some alternatives. World Rally Championship is the best driving in the world. The drivers pilot 4 wheel drive sports cars at 120mph on roads around the world. These roads are the same everyday roads that the public might drive. Some are gravel, some are tarmac. Some have gaurdrails, others don't. These guys cover thousands of miles with the aid of a co-driver whose job is to read a description of the turn that will pop up after the next two turns because they are traveling so darn fast.
American LeMans Series- Maybe you don't support the foriegn autosports, so now you can watch a motorsport that we stole from the French!!! The ALMS is a series where sports cars of all shapes and sizes battle it out on road courses for hours on end.
Australian V-8 supercar challenge- Essentially the Australian version of NASCAR, but ten times better because they turn both ways and every car is different.
Formula 1- if you never heard of it you should leave your cave.
Race of Campions- It ain't the American IROC, the ROC is a race that puts drivers from around the world against each other in cars that are identical. They use several different kinds of cars to make it fair for everyone. Here is a fun fact, Rally car drivers have won every time except for last year when a formula 1 driver won. Two NASCAR drivers are invited every year and they always come to try their hand at it. A NACAR driver has never even come close to winning the ROC since it began in the 80's.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
