You ever find out that a friend from your past killed himself?
Yeah, that's the kind of day I had.
----------------
Now playing: Kirsty Hawkshaw - Reach for Me
via FoxyTunes
12/28/07
12/24/07
'Noyed Rage
Do we trust this guy?
The statement he makes in regards to the L.A. Times is referring to an affidavit made by former Major League Baseball pitcher Jason Grimsley. Grimsley mentions several players names in the affidavit as having used steroids/humna growth hormone. The problem is, the Times said that Clemens was one of the players named, which he was not.
But, still do we trust him?
We trusted this guy:
The statement he makes in regards to the L.A. Times is referring to an affidavit made by former Major League Baseball pitcher Jason Grimsley. Grimsley mentions several players names in the affidavit as having used steroids/humna growth hormone. The problem is, the Times said that Clemens was one of the players named, which he was not.
But, still do we trust him?
We trusted this guy:
and then this happened:
He got busted
Some people still trust this guy:
And then he got indicted for perjury.
Then there's that whole "no scandal has actually been wrong yet" thing.
Hell, I don't know. Should we trust you, Mr. Clemens?
By the way, I just saw a Myth Busters episode that proved that corking a bat doesn't help you crush a baseball, so Mr. Sosa, you're off that particular hook (we'll wait until Jose Canseco's next book to see if you're on the steroids hook).
12/19/07
just plain uncomfortable
Ever been the office temp at the monthly birthday party?
yep, that's how my day was today.
yep, that's how my day was today.
12/15/07
11/3/07
Finally! an "Overheard" for me!
Overheard walking home along Michigan Avenue this evening:
"My wife doesn't give a shit about me!"
The owner of the voice was on his cell phone and he had a lisp.
"My wife doesn't give a shit about me!"
The owner of the voice was on his cell phone and he had a lisp.
10/29/07
Mirror in a mirror
From Eddie Izzard's Wikipedia article:
Is it self aggrandizement when you qoute someone, and in that quote, they praise you? By that logic, movie promos are the most obnoxious and egotistical things in the world.
When asked about his comedy style by George Stroumboulopoulos, host of CBC Television's talk show, The Hour, Izzard described his use of history by saying,
"I just talk complete bullshit. The history, the politics, I noticed that no one was using history, so there's a lot of history lying about the place, and it's all free, and it's on Wikipedia! You know, I use Wikipedia like a crazy idiot, now. Then I take all this stuff, and I regurgitate it into a weird angle".
Is it self aggrandizement when you qoute someone, and in that quote, they praise you? By that logic, movie promos are the most obnoxious and egotistical things in the world.
10/17/07
Prodigal (Part 2)
I arrive in D.C. a little stiff and a little disoriented. The drive from D.C. to Baltimore is generally half an hour to 45 minutes, but traffic is a nightmare this particular day. It took more a like 1 and a half hours.
I had forgotten that the mid Atlantic area has absolutely no shortage of trees. To the left, trees. To the right, trees. Open a window shade in your house, you're staring at a bird's nest. Want to get lost in the woods? Just go down the block, and make sure you're back by dark. There was an awesome forest next to my school (I had a Waldorf education there) that we'd walk around in, have snowball fights in, etc. On the other side of it, there was a patch of crabapple trees that we'd pick from and eat those lovely little tart fruits.
Back on point, We (Mom, Dad, and myself) drive into Baltimore and I can remember absolutely zero. I would at things, and know they belonged there, but I couldn't remember anything beyond that. I was some kind of weird alzheimer-like limbo and my exhausted brain wasn't doing anything about it, and I was too exhausted to care.
Then, I saw my Dad's former place of employment, the Baltimore Convention Center. And it looked like I remember. Finally! something was clicking! The wonderful trapezoidal designs welcomed me to the city I called home. Even the expansion of the building was nice enough to maintain the design scheme.
Now that I had some familiarity back I felt a little better. Just in time too because our hotel was coming up, and the family would be there. It was a Radisson. The Radisson Lord Baltimore to be specific. I'm going to apologize now because this is where I start listing names. My aunt Lois and uncle Kevin were checking in at about the same time we were. My aunt Kathy, who is James' mother, drove them from the airport and she was in the hotel lobby as well. Seeing as how it's been nearly 7 years since the last time I saw these people, they were pretty happy to see me, and me them. Then aunt Cheryl and uncle Larry came down the elevator and found us. All of them, except for Kathy, live around the Boston area (in case I didn't clarify it earlier, this is all on my mother's side).
A little side note about uncle Larry. If you ever find yourself in a situation that calls for a bad joke, Larry's there. If it also calls for an attack on any Kennedy, he's been known to break the sound barrier getting to the punchline. We've learned to love it and, secretly, I don't think we'd have it any other way. My father certainly wouldn't, because he's cut from exactly the same cloth (he'll deny it of course). This does make my mother a little nuts.
My cousin Kris arrived by this time. Being that she's James' sister, that'd be a good thing.
We get our gift bags filled with Maryland goodies (cookies, maps, Utz crab flavored potato chips, and they put bottles of water in there which I was desperately needing) and our room keys. I go up to my room and find the first unexpected treasure of this trip: A Sleep Number bed. I'll get into why this was a treasure later.
After I put my things away, I go back downstairs with my parents to the Starbucks in the lobby. Everyone that's arrived so far is there. This now includes our cousins from Ireland, Ann and Leo. Grand! Mom and I grab something to eat because it's going to be a few hours before the rehearsal dinner starts. Then we go back to our respective rooms and lay low for a bit and freshen up for dinner.
I come downstairs and go back to Starbucks and I finally get to meet Kris' daughter, Alayna (Kris please correct me on spelling if I got it wrong, I'm going on phonetics here). She's a little angel and awesome and she says hello the long way (think Billy Crystal in City Slickers).
Leaving for dinner, my cousin John (Lois and Kevin's first son) is waiting there, chatting with my dad. John is about 6'3" and more than a few years younger than me. I already know he's taller than me now, it just takes getting used to each time I see him. John is going to be my roommate for the trip.
Mom, aunt Lois, John, and myself (My mother and her youngest sister figured out very quickly after John was born that having both of us in the same room would be very confusing if all you do to get either one's attention was say the name) start getting the decorations and stuff ready over at Maggie Moore's Irish Pub & Restaurant. The pub has three floors, the main bar and restaurant are on the first two and the third is where our rehearsal dinner will be. It's not long before John and I get bored and go downstairs to get a drink and see if the Red Sox game is on or when it will be on. This gives me and John a chance to chat a little, which was cool because it used to be that he and his brother and his sisters would kind of segregate themselves at family gatherings, which made it really hard for me to know them since I didn't live in the area (again, still Boston, although John's now in D.C.). This, finally getting to really hang out with my cousins, would eventually become another unexpected treasure.
We come back upstairs and now people are starting to come in. Everyone from the hotel is there, the bride's family is starting to arrive (I didn't meet them much, more on that later). My uncle Richard is there with is wife, aunt Mary, and their oldest daughter Julie (who holds the title of being the oldest of the cousins). Richard's camera is also there.
Uncle Larry, aunt Cheryl, Uncle Kevin, John, and myself are taking shifts going downstairs to a)check on the game and b)get away from the craziness that was going on upstairs.
I say craziness because I knew there was drama coming into this thing. I'm not going to say what specifically the drama was because it wasn't my business so I stayed out of it and didn't really know what it was about. I didn't want to anyway; I was there for my cousin and that's it.
Speaking of whom, James finally arrives with his fiance, Colleen. My cousin and I did the manly handshake into hug thing that manly men do. I met Colleen and my first impression of her was that she seemed nice and James clearly loves her, so it's all ok with me. To their credit, they looked a little overwhelmed but handled themselves very well.
James' and Kris' father Charlie was also there. Kathy and Charlie have been divorced for about 20 years (give or take). I hadn't seen this man since my grandfather passed away when I was 15. More to the point, he hadn't seen me, and he clearly didn't recognize me at all. Uncle Larry had to introduce me and he (Charlie) was little taken aback by the fact that I was now an adult. Larry added that "I have a feeling you'll being going through a lot of that tonight." Anyway it was cool to see him. I wasn't sure if I was still allowed to call him uncle. I had asked my mom earlier in the day about that, and she wasn't sure either. Her advice was to go with "Charlie", which felt the most right to me.
I also had to reacquaint myself with Kris' husband, Mike, who has quickly learned that the best thing to do at a Leonhardt (our family name) gathering is to sit back, shut up, and just watch.
Sarah and Laura (Lois and Kevin's eldest) showed up and it was good to see them (again, aforementioned treasure).
Everyone keeping track so far? Good, because I'm not.
The food was good, but not really memorable. Crab pate, pasta, other things.
The bride and groom each toasted their bridesmaids and groomsmen, respectively, which was very cool.
Then, came dessert.
Dessert choice number one was a chocolate something shaped like a giant pint of Guinness. I didn't have it because of choice number two.
Ladies and gentlemen, unexpected treasure number three: Grandma Leonhardt's cheesecake. AKA the most glorious cheesecake ever, and also on my list of most glorious things ever. The richness, the creaminess, the perfect crust. It was like the Potomac, in cheesecake form. My cousin Laura asked me if the cake was good. My answer was, "It's Grandma's!"
There was a laptop with a slideshow of James' and Colleen through the years, and some obnoxiously cute ones with me and James were in there (If I get access to them, I'll put 'em up on my myspace page).
Speaking of which, I've got ones from the rehearsal up on my page (courtesy of Uncle Richard). Unfortunately, not everyone I've mentioned is there.
Well, dinner ends and I'm having to help my aunt Kathy and my mother walk. This was from a) having just a tad too much to drink (I think it may have had to do with the drama) and b) they've both been on their feet all day. I have to say that that was a first, and there was nothing to prepare me for it.
We get back to the hotel and back up to our rooms. John and I are in our beds when John decides to give the Sleep Number bed a whirl. It sounds like a vacuum having sex with a hair dryer. So of course, I had to try mine. Pretty soon, we had dueling beds going on. Word to the wise, setting it on 100 hurts like hell. My sleep number is 45.
Thank God I slept well.
Link to pictures
I had forgotten that the mid Atlantic area has absolutely no shortage of trees. To the left, trees. To the right, trees. Open a window shade in your house, you're staring at a bird's nest. Want to get lost in the woods? Just go down the block, and make sure you're back by dark. There was an awesome forest next to my school (I had a Waldorf education there) that we'd walk around in, have snowball fights in, etc. On the other side of it, there was a patch of crabapple trees that we'd pick from and eat those lovely little tart fruits.
Back on point, We (Mom, Dad, and myself) drive into Baltimore and I can remember absolutely zero. I would at things, and know they belonged there, but I couldn't remember anything beyond that. I was some kind of weird alzheimer-like limbo and my exhausted brain wasn't doing anything about it, and I was too exhausted to care.
Then, I saw my Dad's former place of employment, the Baltimore Convention Center. And it looked like I remember. Finally! something was clicking! The wonderful trapezoidal designs welcomed me to the city I called home. Even the expansion of the building was nice enough to maintain the design scheme.
Now that I had some familiarity back I felt a little better. Just in time too because our hotel was coming up, and the family would be there. It was a Radisson. The Radisson Lord Baltimore to be specific. I'm going to apologize now because this is where I start listing names. My aunt Lois and uncle Kevin were checking in at about the same time we were. My aunt Kathy, who is James' mother, drove them from the airport and she was in the hotel lobby as well. Seeing as how it's been nearly 7 years since the last time I saw these people, they were pretty happy to see me, and me them. Then aunt Cheryl and uncle Larry came down the elevator and found us. All of them, except for Kathy, live around the Boston area (in case I didn't clarify it earlier, this is all on my mother's side).
A little side note about uncle Larry. If you ever find yourself in a situation that calls for a bad joke, Larry's there. If it also calls for an attack on any Kennedy, he's been known to break the sound barrier getting to the punchline. We've learned to love it and, secretly, I don't think we'd have it any other way. My father certainly wouldn't, because he's cut from exactly the same cloth (he'll deny it of course). This does make my mother a little nuts.
My cousin Kris arrived by this time. Being that she's James' sister, that'd be a good thing.
We get our gift bags filled with Maryland goodies (cookies, maps, Utz crab flavored potato chips, and they put bottles of water in there which I was desperately needing) and our room keys. I go up to my room and find the first unexpected treasure of this trip: A Sleep Number bed. I'll get into why this was a treasure later.
After I put my things away, I go back downstairs with my parents to the Starbucks in the lobby. Everyone that's arrived so far is there. This now includes our cousins from Ireland, Ann and Leo. Grand! Mom and I grab something to eat because it's going to be a few hours before the rehearsal dinner starts. Then we go back to our respective rooms and lay low for a bit and freshen up for dinner.
I come downstairs and go back to Starbucks and I finally get to meet Kris' daughter, Alayna (Kris please correct me on spelling if I got it wrong, I'm going on phonetics here). She's a little angel and awesome and she says hello the long way (think Billy Crystal in City Slickers).
Leaving for dinner, my cousin John (Lois and Kevin's first son) is waiting there, chatting with my dad. John is about 6'3" and more than a few years younger than me. I already know he's taller than me now, it just takes getting used to each time I see him. John is going to be my roommate for the trip.
Mom, aunt Lois, John, and myself (My mother and her youngest sister figured out very quickly after John was born that having both of us in the same room would be very confusing if all you do to get either one's attention was say the name) start getting the decorations and stuff ready over at Maggie Moore's Irish Pub & Restaurant. The pub has three floors, the main bar and restaurant are on the first two and the third is where our rehearsal dinner will be. It's not long before John and I get bored and go downstairs to get a drink and see if the Red Sox game is on or when it will be on. This gives me and John a chance to chat a little, which was cool because it used to be that he and his brother and his sisters would kind of segregate themselves at family gatherings, which made it really hard for me to know them since I didn't live in the area (again, still Boston, although John's now in D.C.). This, finally getting to really hang out with my cousins, would eventually become another unexpected treasure.
We come back upstairs and now people are starting to come in. Everyone from the hotel is there, the bride's family is starting to arrive (I didn't meet them much, more on that later). My uncle Richard is there with is wife, aunt Mary, and their oldest daughter Julie (who holds the title of being the oldest of the cousins). Richard's camera is also there.
Uncle Larry, aunt Cheryl, Uncle Kevin, John, and myself are taking shifts going downstairs to a)check on the game and b)get away from the craziness that was going on upstairs.
I say craziness because I knew there was drama coming into this thing. I'm not going to say what specifically the drama was because it wasn't my business so I stayed out of it and didn't really know what it was about. I didn't want to anyway; I was there for my cousin and that's it.
Speaking of whom, James finally arrives with his fiance, Colleen. My cousin and I did the manly handshake into hug thing that manly men do. I met Colleen and my first impression of her was that she seemed nice and James clearly loves her, so it's all ok with me. To their credit, they looked a little overwhelmed but handled themselves very well.
James' and Kris' father Charlie was also there. Kathy and Charlie have been divorced for about 20 years (give or take). I hadn't seen this man since my grandfather passed away when I was 15. More to the point, he hadn't seen me, and he clearly didn't recognize me at all. Uncle Larry had to introduce me and he (Charlie) was little taken aback by the fact that I was now an adult. Larry added that "I have a feeling you'll being going through a lot of that tonight." Anyway it was cool to see him. I wasn't sure if I was still allowed to call him uncle. I had asked my mom earlier in the day about that, and she wasn't sure either. Her advice was to go with "Charlie", which felt the most right to me.
I also had to reacquaint myself with Kris' husband, Mike, who has quickly learned that the best thing to do at a Leonhardt (our family name) gathering is to sit back, shut up, and just watch.
Sarah and Laura (Lois and Kevin's eldest) showed up and it was good to see them (again, aforementioned treasure).
Everyone keeping track so far? Good, because I'm not.
The food was good, but not really memorable. Crab pate, pasta, other things.
The bride and groom each toasted their bridesmaids and groomsmen, respectively, which was very cool.
Then, came dessert.
Dessert choice number one was a chocolate something shaped like a giant pint of Guinness. I didn't have it because of choice number two.
Ladies and gentlemen, unexpected treasure number three: Grandma Leonhardt's cheesecake. AKA the most glorious cheesecake ever, and also on my list of most glorious things ever. The richness, the creaminess, the perfect crust. It was like the Potomac, in cheesecake form. My cousin Laura asked me if the cake was good. My answer was, "It's Grandma's!"
There was a laptop with a slideshow of James' and Colleen through the years, and some obnoxiously cute ones with me and James were in there (If I get access to them, I'll put 'em up on my myspace page).
Speaking of which, I've got ones from the rehearsal up on my page (courtesy of Uncle Richard). Unfortunately, not everyone I've mentioned is there.
Well, dinner ends and I'm having to help my aunt Kathy and my mother walk. This was from a) having just a tad too much to drink (I think it may have had to do with the drama) and b) they've both been on their feet all day. I have to say that that was a first, and there was nothing to prepare me for it.
We get back to the hotel and back up to our rooms. John and I are in our beds when John decides to give the Sleep Number bed a whirl. It sounds like a vacuum having sex with a hair dryer. So of course, I had to try mine. Pretty soon, we had dueling beds going on. Word to the wise, setting it on 100 hurts like hell. My sleep number is 45.
Thank God I slept well.
Link to pictures
Prodigal
First Jeff goes on vacation, then Dennis, now me.
This past weekend my cousin James got married (enough links for you?). The wedding was held in Baltimore, Maryland; the land of blue crabs and Edgar Allen Poe's grave. Also, the land of my birth (Ok, I was born in a hospital in D.C., but Baltimore is where the house was).
Four of my cousins have been married before last weekend, and so far, I hadn't been to a single ceremony. I wanted to make this one. Not just because I wanted to make my karma with my family right, but mainly because James and I were close growing up. He lived much of his youth in Reston, Virginia, which is a little over an hour's drive from Baltimore. Yeah, he was like my little brother, and when we see each other, we can pick up where we left off. With a lot of my other cousins, it's been a little awkward getting reacquianted. My shame in myself has a lot to do with that, and the fact that they have their own things going on in their own worlds.
My shame stemmed from my lack of an education, spouse, and prospects. Everytime I went to visit, I had the same story of absolutely failing at whatever I had tried. It got to a point where seeing my family would be something I'd avoid.
I got tired of that, so I went. Besides, I'm back in school so I've got nothing to be embarrassed about. Oh wait, I'm afraid to fly. Hmmmm...how to get around that...AHA! Amtrak! Good ole Amtrak will get me there lickety-split! Let's see, look on Amtrak's website. Chicago to D.C. hmmm...16 hours....hmmm. Ok, let's think about this, 16 hours of "ahhhh" or 3 hours of "AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" Yes, let's book that train ticket!
Fast forward to travelling day. This would be last Thursday. I have to admit that, as I was in my seat waiting for the train to start, I was wondering how the hell I'm gonna get through a 16 hour ride without going stir crazy, but, once the train started, I was like, "Ok, this is how" and everything was cool.
The train ride was gorgeous. Crossed Indiana and Ohio and hit Pittsburgh at night (city looked pretty all lit up). Then, we started heading south through the Adirondacks towards D.C. The route was right in between the West Virginia/Maryland border. The trees were in various stages of their yearly transformation, ranging from green to gold to brown. That was the scene on one side of the train. On the other, the mighty Patomac River. The last time I saw her was on a school trip when I was 8. She looked even more impressive now. She's a peaceful river. Even looking at the rough parts, I thought to myself, "Yeah, I could swim in that." Rage and calm never looked more synchronized. This ride certainly prepared me for the weekend ahead.
This past weekend my cousin James got married (enough links for you?). The wedding was held in Baltimore, Maryland; the land of blue crabs and Edgar Allen Poe's grave. Also, the land of my birth (Ok, I was born in a hospital in D.C., but Baltimore is where the house was).
Four of my cousins have been married before last weekend, and so far, I hadn't been to a single ceremony. I wanted to make this one. Not just because I wanted to make my karma with my family right, but mainly because James and I were close growing up. He lived much of his youth in Reston, Virginia, which is a little over an hour's drive from Baltimore. Yeah, he was like my little brother, and when we see each other, we can pick up where we left off. With a lot of my other cousins, it's been a little awkward getting reacquianted. My shame in myself has a lot to do with that, and the fact that they have their own things going on in their own worlds.
My shame stemmed from my lack of an education, spouse, and prospects. Everytime I went to visit, I had the same story of absolutely failing at whatever I had tried. It got to a point where seeing my family would be something I'd avoid.
I got tired of that, so I went. Besides, I'm back in school so I've got nothing to be embarrassed about. Oh wait, I'm afraid to fly. Hmmmm...how to get around that...AHA! Amtrak! Good ole Amtrak will get me there lickety-split! Let's see, look on Amtrak's website. Chicago to D.C. hmmm...16 hours....hmmm. Ok, let's think about this, 16 hours of "ahhhh" or 3 hours of "AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" Yes, let's book that train ticket!
Fast forward to travelling day. This would be last Thursday. I have to admit that, as I was in my seat waiting for the train to start, I was wondering how the hell I'm gonna get through a 16 hour ride without going stir crazy, but, once the train started, I was like, "Ok, this is how" and everything was cool.
The train ride was gorgeous. Crossed Indiana and Ohio and hit Pittsburgh at night (city looked pretty all lit up). Then, we started heading south through the Adirondacks towards D.C. The route was right in between the West Virginia/Maryland border. The trees were in various stages of their yearly transformation, ranging from green to gold to brown. That was the scene on one side of the train. On the other, the mighty Patomac River. The last time I saw her was on a school trip when I was 8. She looked even more impressive now. She's a peaceful river. Even looking at the rough parts, I thought to myself, "Yeah, I could swim in that." Rage and calm never looked more synchronized. This ride certainly prepared me for the weekend ahead.
9/28/07
9/27/07
LAME
I was tagged by Dennis:
List 5 things that certain people (who are not deserving of being your friend anyway) may consider to be "totally lame," but you are, despite the possible stigma, totally proud of. Own it. Tag 5 others:
1. I don’t carry a cell phone. I never have. I generally have a dislike for phones in the first place. They are intrusive, not all the time clear, and when you add mobility to the device, they become dangerous. Plus, I really don’t need another monthly bill.
List 5 things that certain people (who are not deserving of being your friend anyway) may consider to be "totally lame," but you are, despite the possible stigma, totally proud of. Own it. Tag 5 others:
1. I don’t carry a cell phone. I never have. I generally have a dislike for phones in the first place. They are intrusive, not all the time clear, and when you add mobility to the device, they become dangerous. Plus, I really don’t need another monthly bill.
2. I know the words to more than one Crash Test Dummies song. I also know the band members names. It is generally lame when you know more about a "one-hit wonder" band than you do about most "popular" acts or whatever.
3. This
4. I know the intros to BOTH versions of Voltron. I love that cartoon like certain other people love Quantum Leap. For years, Saturday mornings meant nothing to me after Laff-A-Lympics. Then, the magic words came through my TV. "From days of long ago, from uncharted regions of the universe, comes a legend. The legend of Voltron, Defender of the Universe!!!" It goes on to tell the tale of a mighty robot, loved by good, feared by evil. I also can sing the theme music, the "danger" music, and the “Yay! The heroes did something awesome!” music…from memory. Character names, what ship they flew, etc.
This brings us to…
5. I will vehemently defend my belief that Vehicle Voltron is better than Lion Voltron. Better story (two races of people trying to find a new home world for their respective peoples, and the political intrigue that would ensue from their encounters vs. a horny blue guy trying to get laid and conquer a peace loving planet). Better characters, especially in the leader department. When Jeff gave the “Form Blazing Sword!!!” command, you felt in his voice that shit was about to go down. Keith’s commands were all yawners. Finally, VV had better animation. However, LV did look cool, and Voltron the Third Dimension SUCKED!!!
You can sound your nerd alerts now
I tag Tony, Jeff, Nikki, Alycee, and Lindsay
9/23/07
9/21/07
Not for the squeamish
1) Ladies, I know pain. I may not be able to give birth, but I know pain.
2) Certain male pain receptors are stupid.
3) So are doctors.
Some of you already know this story, but I've never put it out to the general public in a permanent form. This is also a story that gets more embellished every time I tell it, so I figure I'd better write it down.
Our hapless victim, namely me, begins this story on a summer morning in Denver in 1988. My family had moved there a few months before and I was pretty settled into the place. After living in Jacksonville "You ain't quite outta Georgia yet" Florida, I was pretty much going to be happy with anywhere, but Denver was cool. Mountains, laid back attitude, and weather that didn't involve naming a storm. Those things and the Broncos, yeah Denver was ok by me.
However, on this particular morning, things were not ok with me. I woke up feeling very nauseous and unable to stand up, and in severe abdominal pain. On a good day, I don't wake up well. I stumble around, sometimes am a little dizzy, et cetera. But, I can usually walk. So the fact the I was only comfortable with crawling said something was wrong. Now, here's where my body started making no sense whatsoever. All this trouble was perceived, by me, to have been caused by one helluva gas bubble. Why? Because that's what it felt like, that's why. If you're thinking that nausea is a dead giveaway that something else was wrong, well, you'd be right, but I was too nauseous to think straight. So, the gas bubble theory made perfect sense to me, after all, I know my body, right? Right.
The plan was to crawl to my parents bedroom and alert them to my condition. My bedroom was right next to the stairs to the first floor, my parents bedroom was at the opposite end of the hall, about 30 feet or so. 30 feet's not a long distance, but when you're heel-toeing it (I guess in my case it would be palm-kneeing it), and trying not to throw up, and in severe abdominal pain, 30 feet is a bit of a challenge. I made it, and woke my parents up (it was 6 am) and told my mom I didn't feel so good. She asked what was wrong and I told her of my gas bubble theory. Since she does not have x-ray vision, it seemed plausible to her. Dad was still asleep, and when he's asleep, there is no talking to him. Plus, he would be out of town later on, so he was no help.
Mom got up and went into sick child mode. She unfolded the fold out couch in the family room and got it ready for me to lie down on it. Honestly, I don't remember how the hell I got down the stairs, but I'm sure it involved bravery with a hint of crying like a baby. Mom fed me food that wouldn't do crazy things to my stomach. Unfortunately, my stomach would have none of that and started a revolt that wound up in the trash can next to me.
Now, even with full-on vomiting, I'm still thinking, and feeling, a gas bubble and a fucking huge one at that. So, everytime I went to the bathroom, I'd immediately sit down on the pot and try to let out what I'm imagining is a record breaker of a fart.
So, all day I had not stood up to use the toilet, and didn't take a look at anything "down there".
At around 8pm, I finally had to pee. My stomach had sort of settled and was letting liquid in. Since I had given up on the Guinness Book, I lifted the seat and dropped my pants. I peed. I looked down as I was peeing and I saw "it".
Where there should have been a golf ball on the left, there was a racquetball. And it was purple. What came out of my mouth was the weakest call of "mommy..." I've ever uttered (and also heard).
My mom said "Yes?" with a little concern (her boy was sick all day after all).
I murmured, "I think I have an enlarged testicle."
I don't know where it is that parents learn to look at weird stuff on their kids and be calm about it. Maybe it's a mutant power that is unlocked when they learn they're going to be one (a parent). Maybe Tranquillitas visits them during the gestation period and shares her secrets with those she deems worthy. I don't know. But, the fact that my mother, who freaked out when the snakes came out of the wall in "Raiders of the Lost Ark," could examine a scrotum that was a)twice it's normal size, b)not the correct color and c)her son's, was beyond my comprehension. The fact that I didn't care that she was looking, was out there as well. Then again, when you've got a giant teste that's the color of a tongue, who else is a 14 year old gonna call?
So I'm back on the couch, scared out of my mind. Mom, is making a cup of tea while she's on the phone with the hospital. She explains what "it" looks like and they advise her to bring me in to the E/R.
We're at the hospital. I'm in the stupid gown and everything. The urologist comes in and starts taking a look. He grabbed "it" and, oh dear God, all the pain that I had felt that day was immediately replaced by this new pain that knocked the wind out of me. When he had the nerve to ask me if it hurt, I had to struggle past a gasp to say "y-yes!" This went on for what seemed like a year. In actuality, it was more like 5 minutes.
He explained what had happened, and what happened was this:
I had gotten what's called a testicular torsion of my left testicle. The testicle got its main blood vessel twisted up and thus, cut off its blood supply. It needed to get nutrients somewhere so it attached itself to my skin, to no avail. It was dying. And, it was too late. I needed surgery and the not-so-little guy was going to shrivel up.
A lot to take in? You bet. I'm 14. I had just started figuring out what the "other function" of that part of my body was for. I was also, with the exception of going to church, raised as a Catholic. You take it from there.
As I said, I needed surgery. After that had sunk in, I was in so much pain that I felt like a pregnant woman in labor. I was thinking, "Fine, get the little bastard out of me!" What I said was, "ngah! o-o-okay" (Dr. Grabby McFeelmeup was still touching "it").
So, in I went, and a couple of hours later, it was over. I woke up in recovery with my mom there as well my Aunt Duddy, hovering over me and using that high-pitched they-think-they're-being-nurturing-but-really-they're-just-annoying
the-shit-out-of-you voice that only moms possess. My Uncle Sam (no joke) and my sister Kate were in the waiting room, because when somebody has embarrassing surgery, it just has to be a family occasion. Great, I'm delirious, my sack has been mutilated, I've got two mother hens doting on me, and a reception waiting. Thank God the doctor told me that everything would still work or I'd be having a complex.
Thank God he was right or I'd be having a complex.
Thank God for my mom.
2) Certain male pain receptors are stupid.
3) So are doctors.
Some of you already know this story, but I've never put it out to the general public in a permanent form. This is also a story that gets more embellished every time I tell it, so I figure I'd better write it down.
Our hapless victim, namely me, begins this story on a summer morning in Denver in 1988. My family had moved there a few months before and I was pretty settled into the place. After living in Jacksonville "You ain't quite outta Georgia yet" Florida, I was pretty much going to be happy with anywhere, but Denver was cool. Mountains, laid back attitude, and weather that didn't involve naming a storm. Those things and the Broncos, yeah Denver was ok by me.
However, on this particular morning, things were not ok with me. I woke up feeling very nauseous and unable to stand up, and in severe abdominal pain. On a good day, I don't wake up well. I stumble around, sometimes am a little dizzy, et cetera. But, I can usually walk. So the fact the I was only comfortable with crawling said something was wrong. Now, here's where my body started making no sense whatsoever. All this trouble was perceived, by me, to have been caused by one helluva gas bubble. Why? Because that's what it felt like, that's why. If you're thinking that nausea is a dead giveaway that something else was wrong, well, you'd be right, but I was too nauseous to think straight. So, the gas bubble theory made perfect sense to me, after all, I know my body, right? Right.
The plan was to crawl to my parents bedroom and alert them to my condition. My bedroom was right next to the stairs to the first floor, my parents bedroom was at the opposite end of the hall, about 30 feet or so. 30 feet's not a long distance, but when you're heel-toeing it (I guess in my case it would be palm-kneeing it), and trying not to throw up, and in severe abdominal pain, 30 feet is a bit of a challenge. I made it, and woke my parents up (it was 6 am) and told my mom I didn't feel so good. She asked what was wrong and I told her of my gas bubble theory. Since she does not have x-ray vision, it seemed plausible to her. Dad was still asleep, and when he's asleep, there is no talking to him. Plus, he would be out of town later on, so he was no help.
Mom got up and went into sick child mode. She unfolded the fold out couch in the family room and got it ready for me to lie down on it. Honestly, I don't remember how the hell I got down the stairs, but I'm sure it involved bravery with a hint of crying like a baby. Mom fed me food that wouldn't do crazy things to my stomach. Unfortunately, my stomach would have none of that and started a revolt that wound up in the trash can next to me.
Now, even with full-on vomiting, I'm still thinking, and feeling, a gas bubble and a fucking huge one at that. So, everytime I went to the bathroom, I'd immediately sit down on the pot and try to let out what I'm imagining is a record breaker of a fart.
So, all day I had not stood up to use the toilet, and didn't take a look at anything "down there".
At around 8pm, I finally had to pee. My stomach had sort of settled and was letting liquid in. Since I had given up on the Guinness Book, I lifted the seat and dropped my pants. I peed. I looked down as I was peeing and I saw "it".
Where there should have been a golf ball on the left, there was a racquetball. And it was purple. What came out of my mouth was the weakest call of "mommy..." I've ever uttered (and also heard).
My mom said "Yes?" with a little concern (her boy was sick all day after all).
I murmured, "I think I have an enlarged testicle."
I don't know where it is that parents learn to look at weird stuff on their kids and be calm about it. Maybe it's a mutant power that is unlocked when they learn they're going to be one (a parent). Maybe Tranquillitas visits them during the gestation period and shares her secrets with those she deems worthy. I don't know. But, the fact that my mother, who freaked out when the snakes came out of the wall in "Raiders of the Lost Ark," could examine a scrotum that was a)twice it's normal size, b)not the correct color and c)her son's, was beyond my comprehension. The fact that I didn't care that she was looking, was out there as well. Then again, when you've got a giant teste that's the color of a tongue, who else is a 14 year old gonna call?
So I'm back on the couch, scared out of my mind. Mom, is making a cup of tea while she's on the phone with the hospital. She explains what "it" looks like and they advise her to bring me in to the E/R.
We're at the hospital. I'm in the stupid gown and everything. The urologist comes in and starts taking a look. He grabbed "it" and, oh dear God, all the pain that I had felt that day was immediately replaced by this new pain that knocked the wind out of me. When he had the nerve to ask me if it hurt, I had to struggle past a gasp to say "y-yes!" This went on for what seemed like a year. In actuality, it was more like 5 minutes.
He explained what had happened, and what happened was this:
I had gotten what's called a testicular torsion of my left testicle. The testicle got its main blood vessel twisted up and thus, cut off its blood supply. It needed to get nutrients somewhere so it attached itself to my skin, to no avail. It was dying. And, it was too late. I needed surgery and the not-so-little guy was going to shrivel up.
A lot to take in? You bet. I'm 14. I had just started figuring out what the "other function" of that part of my body was for. I was also, with the exception of going to church, raised as a Catholic. You take it from there.
As I said, I needed surgery. After that had sunk in, I was in so much pain that I felt like a pregnant woman in labor. I was thinking, "Fine, get the little bastard out of me!" What I said was, "ngah! o-o-okay" (Dr. Grabby McFeelmeup was still touching "it").
So, in I went, and a couple of hours later, it was over. I woke up in recovery with my mom there as well my Aunt Duddy, hovering over me and using that high-pitched they-think-they're-being-nurturing-but-really-they're-just-annoying
the-shit-out-of-you voice that only moms possess. My Uncle Sam (no joke) and my sister Kate were in the waiting room, because when somebody has embarrassing surgery, it just has to be a family occasion. Great, I'm delirious, my sack has been mutilated, I've got two mother hens doting on me, and a reception waiting. Thank God the doctor told me that everything would still work or I'd be having a complex.
Thank God he was right or I'd be having a complex.
Thank God for my mom.
9/19/07
Pumpkins, cider, and the smell of dirt
“Fall is here and all I have to say is, Fuck fall!”
• -Lewis Black “The White Album”
Okay, I actually like fall, I just didn’t have another quote about fall ready in my brain.
Fall, the time of football, apple cider, and pumpkin pie (you have to say “pumpkin pie” in Eric Cartman’s voice). When I was growing up, my parents would take us to a farmer’s market just outside of Baltimore to get things like sweet corn and other things that just “need” to be bought from a farmer’s market. The place, as best my memory serves, wasn’t too far away from the big city, but when I got there, it was the closest to the middle of nowhere I’d ever been until age 9 (when my elementary school, in there finite wisdom, sent the fourth grade off to Pennsylvania farm for a week). Not much surrounding the place except rolling hills and visions of the Appalachians off in the distance. Oh and yes, the smell of dirt.
It was not too big of a market, and for the life of me, I cannot remember it’s name, but I remember that it was never very well lit on the inside, which was where they sold the gardening supplies and flowers. The dirt smell was concentrated enough to permeate your olfactory senses as soon as you walk in. There was a covered area, hugging the small building, that provided the real estate for the edible things, and no, your nose wasn’t safe. For someone who’s allergic to pretty much anything airborne, I would handle it pretty O.K., but my mother was at defcon 4. The mere notion of a sniffle and she was headfirst into her purse. Moments later, and with a flourish I might add, she would produce a tissue. If Mandrake the Mother wasn't available, Dad was ready with a hanky that had a few goldmines on it. No thanks, I'll use my sleeve.
Just a few yards away from the goings on at main market was the real target of our annual autumnal adventure (alliteration, bitches). The pumpkin patch. A real live, goddam, living breathing, pumpkin patch. I thought Linus was gonna jump out screaming about how we’re disturbing his lurking. All the pumpkins in rows, ranging in sizes from “Ohmigod have you seen anything so cuuuute?” to “Stop trying to pick up that one John, it’s bigger than you are.”
This was before the weather as a whole went completely apeshit, so it was actually cold enough to need winter-wear.
It was also cold enough to warrant the serving of hot apple cider, which was good, but I was a hot chocolate man. Still, it was cool seeing the proprietors of the place huddled, along with the customers, around a hot pot of cider.
For the record, no, there weren’t any hay rides.
For the video portion of today's episode, Happy Birthday Adam West!
• -Lewis Black “The White Album”
Okay, I actually like fall, I just didn’t have another quote about fall ready in my brain.
Fall, the time of football, apple cider, and pumpkin pie (you have to say “pumpkin pie” in Eric Cartman’s voice). When I was growing up, my parents would take us to a farmer’s market just outside of Baltimore to get things like sweet corn and other things that just “need” to be bought from a farmer’s market. The place, as best my memory serves, wasn’t too far away from the big city, but when I got there, it was the closest to the middle of nowhere I’d ever been until age 9 (when my elementary school, in there finite wisdom, sent the fourth grade off to Pennsylvania farm for a week). Not much surrounding the place except rolling hills and visions of the Appalachians off in the distance. Oh and yes, the smell of dirt.
It was not too big of a market, and for the life of me, I cannot remember it’s name, but I remember that it was never very well lit on the inside, which was where they sold the gardening supplies and flowers. The dirt smell was concentrated enough to permeate your olfactory senses as soon as you walk in. There was a covered area, hugging the small building, that provided the real estate for the edible things, and no, your nose wasn’t safe. For someone who’s allergic to pretty much anything airborne, I would handle it pretty O.K., but my mother was at defcon 4. The mere notion of a sniffle and she was headfirst into her purse. Moments later, and with a flourish I might add, she would produce a tissue. If Mandrake the Mother wasn't available, Dad was ready with a hanky that had a few goldmines on it. No thanks, I'll use my sleeve.
Just a few yards away from the goings on at main market was the real target of our annual autumnal adventure (alliteration, bitches). The pumpkin patch. A real live, goddam, living breathing, pumpkin patch. I thought Linus was gonna jump out screaming about how we’re disturbing his lurking. All the pumpkins in rows, ranging in sizes from “Ohmigod have you seen anything so cuuuute?” to “Stop trying to pick up that one John, it’s bigger than you are.”
This was before the weather as a whole went completely apeshit, so it was actually cold enough to need winter-wear.
It was also cold enough to warrant the serving of hot apple cider, which was good, but I was a hot chocolate man. Still, it was cool seeing the proprietors of the place huddled, along with the customers, around a hot pot of cider.
For the record, no, there weren’t any hay rides.
For the video portion of today's episode, Happy Birthday Adam West!
9/16/07
one month
In one month, my cousin will be getting married. In one month, I will have an abundance of material to write about.
9/15/07
Who are the people in your neighborhood?
Seen walking down Michigan Avenue today:
A tap dancer accompanied by a drummer
People on stilts hawking free shit for Saks
Robot Man taking a lunch break
Street preachers talking about "Sin or Salvation?"
(right before)
A person dressed as a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and another dressed as a Hershey's Kiss
Chicago, how is it that you know how to make one's day?
A tap dancer accompanied by a drummer
People on stilts hawking free shit for Saks
Robot Man taking a lunch break
Street preachers talking about "Sin or Salvation?"
(right before)
A person dressed as a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and another dressed as a Hershey's Kiss
Chicago, how is it that you know how to make one's day?
9/13/07
Who's on First?
Possibly the greatest routine ever. If I ever get a tattoo, it'll be of Abbott & Costello.
----------------
Now playing: Abbott and Costello - Who's on First
via FoxyTunes
----------------
Now playing: Abbott and Costello - Who's on First
via FoxyTunes
9/10/07
Word of the day
Here's a tip/challenge for writers:
Go to Dictionary.com and see what the word of the day is. You can get it e-mailed to you, or look it up each day.
Regardless of you get it, write something based on or inspired by what the the word is.
Improvisors, this might be good for your rehearsals also (get the intelligence that you're trying to work at the top of just a little bit stronger).
Try to do it everyday and see what happens.
Go to Dictionary.com and see what the word of the day is. You can get it e-mailed to you, or look it up each day.
Regardless of you get it, write something based on or inspired by what the the word is.
Improvisors, this might be good for your rehearsals also (get the intelligence that you're trying to work at the top of just a little bit stronger).
Try to do it everyday and see what happens.
9/6/07
The sky is falling
From the Military Times website:
Okay...this isn't sounding very good. And, it already sounds like more than just an "error".
I wonder if he was in front of schoolchildren for that announcement.
Can we stop calling this a mistake? We've moved well beyond mistake territory. We're even beyond clusterfuck. This is a snafu with the potential to become fubar. It's a snafubar.
Basically, this means that nukes aren't allowed on U.S. bombers.
Great! Rocket scientists are confused! Weeeeeeeeeee!
No, because that would be just plain stupid, right?
That is the scariest paragraph I've ever read.
Neither can I, Mr. Coyle. But I can think of few other "last things". For example, weapons falling into the wrong hands.
Okay, we've got that covered. What about a crash?
Really? Even with a crash nothing horribly bad could happen?
Okay, no mushroom cloud. But still, an explosion and a leak of deadly, weapons-grade plutonium is the main risk, right?
The Air Force just hates asking for directions.
Neither can the American people, Mr. Coyle.
Commander disciplined for nuclear mistake
By Michael Hoffman - Staff writer
Posted : Wednesday Sep 5, 2007 19:26:41 EDT
The Air Force continued handing out disciplinary actions in response to the six nuclear warheads mistakenly flown on a B-52 Stratofortress bomber from Minot Air Force Base, N.D., to Barksdale Air Force Base, La., on Aug. 30. The squadron commander in charge of Minot’s munitions crews was relieved of all duties pending the investigation.
It was originally reported that five nuclear warheads were transported, but officers who tipped Military Times to the incident who have asked to remain anonymous since they are not authorized to discuss the incident, have since updated that number to six.
Air Force and defense officials would not confirm the missiles were armed with nuclear warheads Wednesday, citing longstanding policy, but they did confirm the Air Force was “investigating an error made last Thursday during the transfer of munitions” from Minot to Barksdale.
The original plan was to transport non-nuclear Advanced Cruise Missiles, mounted on the wings of a B-52, to Barksdale as part of a Defense Department effort to decommission 400 of the ACMs. It was not discovered that the six missiles had nuclear warheads until the plane landed at Barksdale, leaving the warheads unaccounted for during the approximately 3 1/2 hour flight between the two bases, the officers said.
Okay...this isn't sounding very good. And, it already sounds like more than just an "error".
President Bush was immediately alerted to the mistake and the Air Force launched a service-wide investigation headed by Maj. Gen. Douglas Raaberg, director of Air and Space Operations at Air Combat Command Headquarters, said Air Force spokesman Lt. Col. Ed Thomas.
I wonder if he was in front of schoolchildren for that announcement.
Secretary of Defense Robert Gates has requested daily briefings from Air Force Chief of Staff Gen. Michael Moseley on the progress of the probe. Sen. Byron Dorgan, D-N.D., a member of the Senate Appropriations defense subcommittee, requested a full classified briefing, not just the preliminary information being provided to lawmakers, to explain how a mistake of this magnitude could have happened.
Can we stop calling this a mistake? We've moved well beyond mistake territory. We're even beyond clusterfuck. This is a snafu with the potential to become fubar. It's a snafubar.
Thomas said the transfer was conducted safely and the American public was never in any danger since the weapons were in Air Force custody and control at all times.
But few critics were placated Wednesday by the Air Force’s reassurances.
“Nothing like this has ever been reported before and we have been assured for decades that it was impossible,” said Rep. Edward Markey, D-Mass, co-chair of the House Bi-partisan Task Force.
Non-proliferation treaty experts said the Air Force didn’t violate any international nuclear treaties by transporting the nuclear warheads on the B-52, but it was the first time since 1968 that it’s been known publicly that nuclear warheads were transported on a U.S. bomber.
After six nuclear-armed B-52s crashed from 1959-1968, the Defense Department ordered all bombers off nuclear airborne alert. The policy change occurred after a B-52 crashed in Greenland in January 1968, dropping three nuclear warheads on the island and one into the ocean.
As a gesture to Russia and the Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty, the first Bush administration took it one step farther in 1991 by ordering all bombers to halt nuclear ground alerts, which allowed bomber crews to practice loading a nuclear warhead, but never taking off with one.
Basically, this means that nukes aren't allowed on U.S. bombers.
The Defense Department does transport nuclear warheads by air, but instead of bombers it uses C-17 or C-130 cargo aircraft.
“These reports are deeply disturbing,” said Rep. Ike Skelton, D-Mo., chairman of the House Armed Services Committee. “The American people, our friends, and our potential adversaries must be confident that the highest standards are in place when it comes to our nuclear arsenal.”
Nuclear weapon experts said they were shocked to find out how completely command and control over the six nuclear warheads failed to allow such a mistake to occur.
Great! Rocket scientists are confused! Weeeeeeeeeee!
Hans Kristensen, director of the Nuclear Information Project at the Federation of American Scientists, said a host of security checks and warning signs must have been passed over, or completely ignored, for the warheads to have been unknowingly loaded onto the B-52.
ACMs are specifically designed to carry a W80-1 nuclear warhead with a yield of 5 to 150 kilotons and delivered by B-52 strategic bombers.
“It’s not like they had nuclear ACMs and conventional ACMs right next to each other and they just happened to load one with a nuclear warhead,” Kristensen said.
No, because that would be just plain stupid, right?
The Defense Department uses a computerized tracking program to keep tabs on each one of its nuclear warheads, he said. For the six warheads to make it onto the B-52, each one would have had to be signed out of its storage bunker and transported to the bomber. Diligent safety protocols would then have had to been ignored to load the warheads onto the plane, Kristensen said.
That is the scariest paragraph I've ever read.
All ACMs loaded with a nuclear warhead have distinct red signs distinguishing them from ACMs without a nuclear yield, he said. ACMs with nuclear warheads also weigh significantly more than missiles without them.
“I just can’t imagine how all of this happened,” said Philip Coyle, a senior adviser on nuclear weapons at the Center for Defense Information. “The procedures are so rigid; this is the last thing that’s supposed to happen.”
Neither can I, Mr. Coyle. But I can think of few other "last things". For example, weapons falling into the wrong hands.
The risk of the warheads falling into the hands of rogue nations or terrorists was minimal since the weapons never left the United States, said Michael O’Hanlon, a senior fellow at the Brookings Institution, an independent research and policy think tank in Washington D.C.
Okay, we've got that covered. What about a crash?
At no time was there a risk for a nuclear detonation, even if the B-52 crashed on its way to Barksdale, said Steve Fetter, a former Defense Department official who worked on nuclear weapons policy in 1993-94.
Really? Even with a crash nothing horribly bad could happen?
A crash would ignite the high explosives associated with the warhead, and possibly cause a leak of plutonium, but the warhead’s elaborate safeguards would prevent a nuclear detonation from occurring, he said.
Okay, no mushroom cloud. But still, an explosion and a leak of deadly, weapons-grade plutonium is the main risk, right?
“The main risk would have been the way the Air Force responded to any problems with the flight because they would have handled it much differently if they would have known nuclear warheads were onboard,” Fetter said.
It’s still unclear specifically how the B-52’s flight from Minot to Barksdale would have been different since most nuclear security protocols are classified. But, Kristensen said the flight pattern might have been different since there would have been airspace restrictions. Also, security at both airports would have heightened considerably and the communications between the pilot and the control towers would have been altered, he said.
The Air Force just hates asking for directions.
Air Combat Command will have a command-wide mission stand-down Sept. 14 to review its procedures in response to the mistake. Even units without oversight of nuclear weapons will take part in the stand-down, Thomas said.
“The Air Force takes its mission to safeguard weapons seriously,” he said. “No effort will be spared to ensure that the matter is thoroughly and completely investigated.”
Along with the 5th Munitions Squadron commander, the munitions crews involved in mistakenly loading the nuclear warheads at Minot have been temporarily decertified from performing their duties involving munitions, pending corrective actions or additional training, Thomas said.
The error comes after the Air Force announced last March the 5th Bomb Wing won two servicewide safety awards during fiscal year 2006.
“This is really shocking,” Coyle said. “The Air Force can’t tolerate it, and the Pentagon can’t tolerate it, either.”
Neither can the American people, Mr. Coyle.
Everyday
Every writing school will tell you that you must write everyday in order to be a great writer. I can't make that promise right now. I'm just hoping to get something down every few days or so. Writing is fucking hard man! I would say that the the biggest reason is because it's an art form where the self-editor we all have is the loudest. So, one has to ignore that voice. Seems like a daunting task, sure, so try doing it 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year. Fucking hard man!
So, how does one learn to ignore that voice? Well, I don't want to repeat myself so I'll just say that you need Carnegie Hall as a goal (practice, practice, practice!). You just have to write or say or sing whatever is in your head and on your mind right then and there. Right now, as I'm writing this, Comedy Central is showing UHF. I'm torn because I'm still not sure if I'm supposed to laugh at Racist Richards or unleash my anger everytime his character's on screen. That has nothing to do with writing anything, but it was on my mind so I had to write it. Another thing is avoiding the backspace key has been a trying experience. I'm a stickler for making things sound right gramatically and punctuation-wise. I've resigned myself to the fact that I will always correct my spelling as I go along, which does impede me, both creatively and in scoring higher on a typing test. Dammit, if they're gonna hire me, I'm gonna know how to spell necessary (I don't --ha HA! victory is mine! have at you self editor!)
I would think the same goes for improv and music as well. Actually I DO know that to be true.
I had said before that the self editor is loudest for writing (it's pretty loud in the other ones). I think it's because it's just you and the page (or screen, ans in this case, Weird Al). And the voice that says "that's stupid. what a dumb thing to say! capitalize motherfucker CAPITALIZE!!!" becomes like a gremlin just behind your right ear, breathing heavily with every pen/keystroke. Just keep writing my friend. I know I keep saying that, but I cannot stress it enough, just keep doing it. Pretty soon you’ll be hearing another voice, and it’ll sound a lot like yours. And then, the floodgates of thought are open and you’ll find that you cannot stop! Just keep typing, just keep talking, just keep saying whatever the fuck you want to say. It doesn’t matter! Fucking sing it if you have to!
Poems flow like rain
Over rocks and through hills
Thoughts are clear
Okay, I’m pretty sure that’s not a proper Haiku but it doesn’t fucking matter! It’s on the page, it’s looking back at me, free as a bird, ready for you to do with it whatever you want.
Shit, the viewer is going to do whatever they want with the piece when it’s done, it’s only fair we do whatever the fuck we want with the piece while we’re working on it!
That is all.
Fucking hard man!
So, how does one learn to ignore that voice? Well, I don't want to repeat myself so I'll just say that you need Carnegie Hall as a goal (practice, practice, practice!). You just have to write or say or sing whatever is in your head and on your mind right then and there. Right now, as I'm writing this, Comedy Central is showing UHF. I'm torn because I'm still not sure if I'm supposed to laugh at Racist Richards or unleash my anger everytime his character's on screen. That has nothing to do with writing anything, but it was on my mind so I had to write it. Another thing is avoiding the backspace key has been a trying experience. I'm a stickler for making things sound right gramatically and punctuation-wise. I've resigned myself to the fact that I will always correct my spelling as I go along, which does impede me, both creatively and in scoring higher on a typing test. Dammit, if they're gonna hire me, I'm gonna know how to spell necessary (I don't --ha HA! victory is mine! have at you self editor!)
I would think the same goes for improv and music as well. Actually I DO know that to be true.
I had said before that the self editor is loudest for writing (it's pretty loud in the other ones). I think it's because it's just you and the page (or screen, ans in this case, Weird Al). And the voice that says "that's stupid. what a dumb thing to say! capitalize motherfucker CAPITALIZE!!!" becomes like a gremlin just behind your right ear, breathing heavily with every pen/keystroke. Just keep writing my friend. I know I keep saying that, but I cannot stress it enough, just keep doing it. Pretty soon you’ll be hearing another voice, and it’ll sound a lot like yours. And then, the floodgates of thought are open and you’ll find that you cannot stop! Just keep typing, just keep talking, just keep saying whatever the fuck you want to say. It doesn’t matter! Fucking sing it if you have to!
Poems flow like rain
Over rocks and through hills
Thoughts are clear
Okay, I’m pretty sure that’s not a proper Haiku but it doesn’t fucking matter! It’s on the page, it’s looking back at me, free as a bird, ready for you to do with it whatever you want.
Shit, the viewer is going to do whatever they want with the piece when it’s done, it’s only fair we do whatever the fuck we want with the piece while we’re working on it!
That is all.
Fucking hard man!
9/4/07
back to school
yep, I'm going back in the spring. Going to Harold Washington with the goal of transferring to Columbia in mind. Actually, I'm back now, but I'm only taking continuing educ. classes. Those are those kinds of classes that a character on a sitcom is talking about when he/she says "Hey! We should take a class together!" Sign language to be specific. To prepare for spring, I've been looking at the course catalog for the whole year. Now, I have a few learning disabilities, slight forms of epilepsy and dyslexia, aaaand, a scorching case of A.D.D. (properly diagnosed, unlike the rest of you fakers) so, looking through the catalogue is kinda like this:
Thank God it ain't spring yet.
Thank God it ain't spring yet.
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