Pondering...
...peeling off the static stickers for all the bells 'n whistles included in the laptop that I got for Christmas last year.
You waited four months for that; your life is now complete.
Monday, February 16, 2009
A Side Of Hamburger, Please
Good grief - looking back on my childhood, I'm amazed that I made it out without being maimed or horribly disfigured.
Continuing with the series on my death-defying childhood, I give you yet another story involving bad ideas, wheeled toys & asphalt.
I can’t remember if it was before or after my physics lesson via the rear spoiler of a Ford Pinto (my bell got rung pretty hard then; a lot of memories were jumbled in the process); I think it was when I was in seventh grade. One of my best friends, Patrick Fisher, lived in what could be called a “rural” area, smack dab in the middle of the Jurupa Hills, offering us plenty of trails to get lost in (we were “extreme mountain biking” before it was invented). The street that he lived on was pretty much a race track, with cars routinely flying by at 70+ mph, so, our on-road escapades were confined to the neighborhood behind his house. The only problem with the streets on that side of his house, though, was that everything was uphill; the upside(?) to it, though, was that for every uphill, there’s always a downhill, &, boy, were there some doosies here.
One night, Patrick & I had the brilliant idea to tow each other around; using his Diamondback BMX bike, Variflex skateboard (any oldtime skaterats out there remember Variflex’s? Cheap, nearly an inch & a half thick & the crappiest trucks known to man), & a length of rope, we took turns pulling each other uphill. To say it sucked to be the tow-er (me) would be a massive understatement.
Finally, it was my turn. My struggle up the hill pulling Patrick along had paid off, as I got to be towed along the relatively flat part of the street along the top of the hill. Given my difficulty in maintaining balance on a skateboard, I was grateful for the smooth ride & the ludicrously tight trucks on the board. Decked out in a pair of shorts (the short, early 80’s corduroy beach variety) & a sleeveless hoodie, life was good.
Until we got to the downhill part.
Being young (read: stupid), we saw not our potential deaths at the end of the street below, but a hill that had to be tamed, preferably at high rates of speed. So, we were off, going faster than I think the Variflex’s hard rubber wheels were meant to go. Eventually, I was going fast enough that the towrope went slack & I was riding next to Patrick on the bike. About halfway down the hill, Patrick pointed out that the street t-boned into the cross street below, right into a curb, & that maybe stopping would be a good idea. I agreed &, against all logic, ditched the rope, leaving Patrick behind.
Cruising down the hill, I thought to myself, “Maybe I should’ve held onto the rope.” Seeing that the curb was quickly getting closer, I began to formulate my plan to stop myself. Not being at all seasoned at skating, I rejected the idea of braking myself by stepping on the tail of the board & grinding myself to a halt. By this time, I was really, really wishing I still had the tow rope. I decided to go with my next idea which, like many of my plans, was not thought through very well; I figured that I could put my foot down on the ground & slow myself down enough, maybe even to the point where I could execute a bit of a tail slide. With nerves of steel (& brains of pudding), I put my plan into action, taking my right foot off the board & placing it on the asphalt speeding by me below &…
Have you ever started doing something, knowing that it’s probably not the smartest thing in the world to do, but you did it anyway? Never works out too well, does it? Well, neither did this, for, as soon as my foot touched the ground, I was brought not to the slow, gentle stop that, in my mind, should’ve happened; no, instead, my foot made contact & I was immediately - & I mean IMMEDIATELY – separated me from the skateboard. The next few moments were nothing but a blinding flash of pain as the asphalt turned my bare skin into raw hamburger. I believe the equation went something like this:
Inertia + 30 feet of asphalt – several layers of skin = OUCH!
Adding insult to injury, I watched as the skateboard landed softly in a lush, grassy yard off to my left. I could swear it was laughing at me.
Amazingly, I don’t think I cried; I was too busy making that sucking-through-the-teeth sound to be able to cry. My side, from knee to elbow, was nothing but raw & bloody skin, with pieces of asphalt added in here & there, y’know, for decoration. Patrick gave me the bike &, unable to bend my left leg, I pushed myself back to his house for more fun with Mr. Bottle of Iodine. You’d better believe that wearing long pants was a joy for the next couple weeks.
And so ends another tale of youth & stupidity (yes, I realize that’s redundant). Come back next time to find out how not to recharge a 9-volt battery.
Good grief - looking back on my childhood, I'm amazed that I made it out without being maimed or horribly disfigured.
Continuing with the series on my death-defying childhood, I give you yet another story involving bad ideas, wheeled toys & asphalt.
I can’t remember if it was before or after my physics lesson via the rear spoiler of a Ford Pinto (my bell got rung pretty hard then; a lot of memories were jumbled in the process); I think it was when I was in seventh grade. One of my best friends, Patrick Fisher, lived in what could be called a “rural” area, smack dab in the middle of the Jurupa Hills, offering us plenty of trails to get lost in (we were “extreme mountain biking” before it was invented). The street that he lived on was pretty much a race track, with cars routinely flying by at 70+ mph, so, our on-road escapades were confined to the neighborhood behind his house. The only problem with the streets on that side of his house, though, was that everything was uphill; the upside(?) to it, though, was that for every uphill, there’s always a downhill, &, boy, were there some doosies here.
One night, Patrick & I had the brilliant idea to tow each other around; using his Diamondback BMX bike, Variflex skateboard (any oldtime skaterats out there remember Variflex’s? Cheap, nearly an inch & a half thick & the crappiest trucks known to man), & a length of rope, we took turns pulling each other uphill. To say it sucked to be the tow-er (me) would be a massive understatement.
Finally, it was my turn. My struggle up the hill pulling Patrick along had paid off, as I got to be towed along the relatively flat part of the street along the top of the hill. Given my difficulty in maintaining balance on a skateboard, I was grateful for the smooth ride & the ludicrously tight trucks on the board. Decked out in a pair of shorts (the short, early 80’s corduroy beach variety) & a sleeveless hoodie, life was good.
Until we got to the downhill part.
Being young (read: stupid), we saw not our potential deaths at the end of the street below, but a hill that had to be tamed, preferably at high rates of speed. So, we were off, going faster than I think the Variflex’s hard rubber wheels were meant to go. Eventually, I was going fast enough that the towrope went slack & I was riding next to Patrick on the bike. About halfway down the hill, Patrick pointed out that the street t-boned into the cross street below, right into a curb, & that maybe stopping would be a good idea. I agreed &, against all logic, ditched the rope, leaving Patrick behind.
Cruising down the hill, I thought to myself, “Maybe I should’ve held onto the rope.” Seeing that the curb was quickly getting closer, I began to formulate my plan to stop myself. Not being at all seasoned at skating, I rejected the idea of braking myself by stepping on the tail of the board & grinding myself to a halt. By this time, I was really, really wishing I still had the tow rope. I decided to go with my next idea which, like many of my plans, was not thought through very well; I figured that I could put my foot down on the ground & slow myself down enough, maybe even to the point where I could execute a bit of a tail slide. With nerves of steel (& brains of pudding), I put my plan into action, taking my right foot off the board & placing it on the asphalt speeding by me below &…
Have you ever started doing something, knowing that it’s probably not the smartest thing in the world to do, but you did it anyway? Never works out too well, does it? Well, neither did this, for, as soon as my foot touched the ground, I was brought not to the slow, gentle stop that, in my mind, should’ve happened; no, instead, my foot made contact & I was immediately - & I mean IMMEDIATELY – separated me from the skateboard. The next few moments were nothing but a blinding flash of pain as the asphalt turned my bare skin into raw hamburger. I believe the equation went something like this:
Inertia + 30 feet of asphalt – several layers of skin = OUCH!
Adding insult to injury, I watched as the skateboard landed softly in a lush, grassy yard off to my left. I could swear it was laughing at me.
Amazingly, I don’t think I cried; I was too busy making that sucking-through-the-teeth sound to be able to cry. My side, from knee to elbow, was nothing but raw & bloody skin, with pieces of asphalt added in here & there, y’know, for decoration. Patrick gave me the bike &, unable to bend my left leg, I pushed myself back to his house for more fun with Mr. Bottle of Iodine. You’d better believe that wearing long pants was a joy for the next couple weeks.
And so ends another tale of youth & stupidity (yes, I realize that’s redundant). Come back next time to find out how not to recharge a 9-volt battery.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Spoiler Alert!
Yeah - I wish someone had told me that. Allow me to explain via the tale of one of the more painful episodes from my childhood.
I had two bikes before the flyin’ Murray stunt bike from the previous story; this story involves my first bike - an orange Kent street bike that I’d tried (cosmetically, at least) to beef up a little. It originally came with a big, long banana seat, gorilla handlebars & a teeny, tiny sprocket that made racing a test in endurance; it looked like something off “The Brady Bunch.” It was a Christmas gift when I was about seven or eight. I remember being excited about it (I hadn’t even asked for a bike that year); the bloom soon faded, though, as it took me forever to learn how to ride the two-wheeler (I’m honestly surprised that anyone from my generation has been able to procreate, as the center tube on the frame – the “Nutcracker” – was brutal; by all rights, the human race should’ve ended with anyone born in the 70’s). I don’t know when it happened, but, eventually, I mastered it, racing anything that posed a challenge &jumping anything that got in my way.
I learned to love my bike.
At any rate, given that the Kent wasn’t meant for racing & jumping (oh man, could she powerslide, though!), she developed a few characteristic rattles & noises. One, in particular, was a click emanating from the rear wheel. I chalked it up to a loose spoke, but could never find the offending piece. For years, I was plagued by an incessant clickclickclickclick coming from the back of my bike.
One day, as I was coming down the street (fast, as usual), the sound became almost unbearable. Doing what any 11 or 12 year old would do in this situation, I turned around to see if I could find the exact location of the clicking. Again, I was going at a fair rate of speed. Riding while looking over my shoulder, I determined that I could not, in fact triangulate where the sound was coming from.
This is where I really could’ve used a ‘SPOILER ALERT!’ Much to my surprise, I turned around just in time to see the rear end of my friend’s parent’s 1970-something Ford Pinto station wagon – complete with a rear spoiler mounted on top. It was then that I got a harsh introduction into the word of physics; namely, that an object in motion will remain in motion, with the object in question being my face. My bike, upon making contact with the car’s rear bumper with its front tire, endo’d me into the spoiler, face first. Then, because the Universe was feeling particularly vindictive that day, I got my next lesson in physics; in this case that for every action, there is an equal & opposite reaction. I learned this as, after I collided with the spoiler, I was then thrown backward, off my bike & flat on my back onto the street.
I then learned another universal constant: asphalt is really hard.
Sure that my nose had been shoved into my brain & I’d die any at any minute, I lay there, gasping for air like an asthmatic in a Beijing marathon, wishing; hoping; praying for a quick death to make my face stop hurting. My friend’s dad had apparently seen the whole thing & came running out to my aid. Amazingly, after all that, I hadn’t broken anything; I didn’t even have the distinction of a bloody nose. He helped me up & checked to see if I was alright (&, probably, making sure I hadn’t left an impression in the spoiler). After ascertaining that I wasn’t going to die, I picked up what dignity I’d just splattered all over the back of the car & onto the street & rode, slowly, facing forward this time, back home, where I called it a day.
I never did figure out where that stupid noise was coming from…
Yeah - I wish someone had told me that. Allow me to explain via the tale of one of the more painful episodes from my childhood.
I had two bikes before the flyin’ Murray stunt bike from the previous story; this story involves my first bike - an orange Kent street bike that I’d tried (cosmetically, at least) to beef up a little. It originally came with a big, long banana seat, gorilla handlebars & a teeny, tiny sprocket that made racing a test in endurance; it looked like something off “The Brady Bunch.” It was a Christmas gift when I was about seven or eight. I remember being excited about it (I hadn’t even asked for a bike that year); the bloom soon faded, though, as it took me forever to learn how to ride the two-wheeler (I’m honestly surprised that anyone from my generation has been able to procreate, as the center tube on the frame – the “Nutcracker” – was brutal; by all rights, the human race should’ve ended with anyone born in the 70’s). I don’t know when it happened, but, eventually, I mastered it, racing anything that posed a challenge &jumping anything that got in my way.
I learned to love my bike.
At any rate, given that the Kent wasn’t meant for racing & jumping (oh man, could she powerslide, though!), she developed a few characteristic rattles & noises. One, in particular, was a click emanating from the rear wheel. I chalked it up to a loose spoke, but could never find the offending piece. For years, I was plagued by an incessant clickclickclickclick coming from the back of my bike.
One day, as I was coming down the street (fast, as usual), the sound became almost unbearable. Doing what any 11 or 12 year old would do in this situation, I turned around to see if I could find the exact location of the clicking. Again, I was going at a fair rate of speed. Riding while looking over my shoulder, I determined that I could not, in fact triangulate where the sound was coming from.
This is where I really could’ve used a ‘SPOILER ALERT!’ Much to my surprise, I turned around just in time to see the rear end of my friend’s parent’s 1970-something Ford Pinto station wagon – complete with a rear spoiler mounted on top. It was then that I got a harsh introduction into the word of physics; namely, that an object in motion will remain in motion, with the object in question being my face. My bike, upon making contact with the car’s rear bumper with its front tire, endo’d me into the spoiler, face first. Then, because the Universe was feeling particularly vindictive that day, I got my next lesson in physics; in this case that for every action, there is an equal & opposite reaction. I learned this as, after I collided with the spoiler, I was then thrown backward, off my bike & flat on my back onto the street.
I then learned another universal constant: asphalt is really hard.
Sure that my nose had been shoved into my brain & I’d die any at any minute, I lay there, gasping for air like an asthmatic in a Beijing marathon, wishing; hoping; praying for a quick death to make my face stop hurting. My friend’s dad had apparently seen the whole thing & came running out to my aid. Amazingly, after all that, I hadn’t broken anything; I didn’t even have the distinction of a bloody nose. He helped me up & checked to see if I was alright (&, probably, making sure I hadn’t left an impression in the spoiler). After ascertaining that I wasn’t going to die, I picked up what dignity I’d just splattered all over the back of the car & onto the street & rode, slowly, facing forward this time, back home, where I called it a day.
I never did figure out where that stupid noise was coming from…
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
All In All We’re All Just Bricks In the Wall
“Jump it! Jump it!”
And with those words I found myself at the top of Park, where it turned west into Rosewood, on my bike, eyeing the rickety little ramp supported by a cinder block & the curb down the street. Growing up, my friends were all skate rats. As I have the balance (on a skateboard, at least) of a drunken sailor on shore leave with a severe inner ear infection, I gravitated toward bikes. I & my trusty Murray BMX bike were known far & wide as the fastest pedal powered thing on two wheels. We were also known to enjoy jumping.
Which, looking back now, almost got me killed on more than one occasion.
At the time, though, fear of potential broken bones & shredded skin had no place in my mind. Stuffing fear, caution & logic safely into the back of my non-helmeted head (this was back in the days when people took responsibility for their own stupidity & didn’t sue everyone else for personal lapses in judgment), I was primed to make the jump that, ultimately, would make me a celebrity on my street.
My friends, as I mentioned before, were skaters. Being such, they took every opportunity to jump things, be it benches, curbs, stairs or, as in this case, poorly constructed ramps made of rotted plywood & cinder blocks (I said they were skaters, not structural engineers). Yes, this ramp was a feat of engineering that only an idiot – or a bunch of 13 & 14 year olds – would dare attempt to jump. The construction was simple; the logic behind it was completely non-existent. Using whatever scraps we could come up with (& at Pat Fortunato & Billy Dady's houses, as well as, um...some local construction sites, there was plenty to be found), the ramp was built by simply putting a cinder block on the curb & then laying the structurally unsound piece of wood on the block. This set-up was what we called a ‘launch ramp’, as it was meant to simply jump off of on a skateboard, all the while trying to impress the others with the pulling off of different tricks (all of which looked like the rider basically flying off the skateboard) & landing safely in the grass (or, in the case of Pat’s front yard, the dirt & weeds along the side by the neighbor's driveway). Unlike a quarterpipe, there was no intention of actually landing with one’s feet on the board.
The hope was to make it over without landing on one’s head.
Being the biker of the group, I was also the one who towed the skater toward the ramp, giving them a boost of speed in a short distance, which I didn’t mind doing; the sadist in me took a little sick pleasure in watching my friends fly up in the air, limbs flailing in a vain attempt to soften the impact with the ground on the other side.
After a while of doing this, someone came up with a bright idea: why doesn’t Jay try jumping it? Of course, being the biggest, fastest 14 year old on the block (as well as, apparently, the most mentally deficient), this sounded like a fantastic idea! Inspecting the ramp to make sure nothing had shifted & judging the launch angle of the skaters (emphasis to be explained momentarily), it seemed like a perfectly sound plan. So, off I went, to the top of Park. Having raced the block many a time, I knew that Park, going south, had enough of a grade to give me the extra boost that I needed to get me & my bike airborne.
So, there I sat at the top of Park, ready to make my approach. I pushed off &, in no time flat, was probably up to between 25-30 mph. Yes, Loyal Readers, I was haulin’! I made my way down the street, nothing but the sound of my knobby tires humming on the asphalt & the pounding of my heart banging in my chest. Shifting the bike left & right to get the fullest extension of my legs, I powered down the street, toward the ramp; toward infamy.
It was when I hit the ramp that I discovered the first of many flaws in the execution of this jump into immortality. Remember when I said that I gauged the launch angle of the skaters? Well, it seemed that my skater friends & their boards weighed a wee bit less than me & my bike. You see, when my friends hit the ramp, they A) weighed less than I did, B) were hitting the ramp slower than I was going & C) were hitting the ramp at a different place on the plywood than I was about to. When they hit the ramp, they had what weight that they did have on the back of the board, meaning that they were, for all intents & purposes, riding the ramp on their back wheels. When I hit the ramp, however, I was leaning over my front tire, meaning that I had most of my weight on the front of the bike. This, much to my unmitigated disappointment, caused the ramp to bow under me, changing the launch angle from a little above 45º to a nearly vertical 90º. This, to put it mildly, was not good. Instead of launching out over a gentle arc & landing smoothly, the bike launched at a much, much sharper arc, into the mulberry tree just off to the right of the ramp.
Oh, did I forget to mention the mulberry tree? Yes, a full grown mulberry tree, with a branch radius of probably 20 feet, was located at the acme of my current trajectory. I found myself, in extreme slow-motion, flying through the tree, my waist up being battered by branches.
So, you might be thinking that that’s the worst of the story, right? Well, you’d be wrong, for, as I travelled through the tree like some teenaged George of the Jungle, I could hear one of my friends, in slow-motion, say five words that, apart, aren't so bad, but together, well...until that moment, I never realized those words could be so terrifying to hear:
“HEEEEE’S GONNA HIT THE WAAAAAAALL!”
I believe I may have neglected to mention earlier the cinder block wall, located a good 15 feet from the launch ramp. Yeah, my plan was a bit buggy.
As the only conscious thought going through my head at the time was just how much this was going to hurt, my mind switched to auto pilot, telling my hands to pull the brakes for all they were worth. I returned to Earth, leaving 1½ inch deep impact craters in the dirt beneath my tires. Upon touchdown, time immediately returned to normal speed & I abruptly found myself fighting to control my handlebars, which had spun around, catching my shirt in the grips. I began to endo into the wall & closed my eyes, waiting for the coming impact & then the sweet embrace of unconsciousness. Suddenly, everything stopped. Had I hit the wall so hard that I didn’t even feel the merging of my face with the bricks? Was I out? Was I dead?
As the blood rushing through my eardrums subsided, I could hear the cheering of my friends. I slowly opened my eyes…
…& found my face about an inch from the wall.
And thus, I became the coolest kid on the block.
“Jump it! Jump it!”
And with those words I found myself at the top of Park, where it turned west into Rosewood, on my bike, eyeing the rickety little ramp supported by a cinder block & the curb down the street. Growing up, my friends were all skate rats. As I have the balance (on a skateboard, at least) of a drunken sailor on shore leave with a severe inner ear infection, I gravitated toward bikes. I & my trusty Murray BMX bike were known far & wide as the fastest pedal powered thing on two wheels. We were also known to enjoy jumping.
Which, looking back now, almost got me killed on more than one occasion.
At the time, though, fear of potential broken bones & shredded skin had no place in my mind. Stuffing fear, caution & logic safely into the back of my non-helmeted head (this was back in the days when people took responsibility for their own stupidity & didn’t sue everyone else for personal lapses in judgment), I was primed to make the jump that, ultimately, would make me a celebrity on my street.
My friends, as I mentioned before, were skaters. Being such, they took every opportunity to jump things, be it benches, curbs, stairs or, as in this case, poorly constructed ramps made of rotted plywood & cinder blocks (I said they were skaters, not structural engineers). Yes, this ramp was a feat of engineering that only an idiot – or a bunch of 13 & 14 year olds – would dare attempt to jump. The construction was simple; the logic behind it was completely non-existent. Using whatever scraps we could come up with (& at Pat Fortunato & Billy Dady's houses, as well as, um...some local construction sites, there was plenty to be found), the ramp was built by simply putting a cinder block on the curb & then laying the structurally unsound piece of wood on the block. This set-up was what we called a ‘launch ramp’, as it was meant to simply jump off of on a skateboard, all the while trying to impress the others with the pulling off of different tricks (all of which looked like the rider basically flying off the skateboard) & landing safely in the grass (or, in the case of Pat’s front yard, the dirt & weeds along the side by the neighbor's driveway). Unlike a quarterpipe, there was no intention of actually landing with one’s feet on the board.
The hope was to make it over without landing on one’s head.
Being the biker of the group, I was also the one who towed the skater toward the ramp, giving them a boost of speed in a short distance, which I didn’t mind doing; the sadist in me took a little sick pleasure in watching my friends fly up in the air, limbs flailing in a vain attempt to soften the impact with the ground on the other side.
After a while of doing this, someone came up with a bright idea: why doesn’t Jay try jumping it? Of course, being the biggest, fastest 14 year old on the block (as well as, apparently, the most mentally deficient), this sounded like a fantastic idea! Inspecting the ramp to make sure nothing had shifted & judging the launch angle of the skaters (emphasis to be explained momentarily), it seemed like a perfectly sound plan. So, off I went, to the top of Park. Having raced the block many a time, I knew that Park, going south, had enough of a grade to give me the extra boost that I needed to get me & my bike airborne.
So, there I sat at the top of Park, ready to make my approach. I pushed off &, in no time flat, was probably up to between 25-30 mph. Yes, Loyal Readers, I was haulin’! I made my way down the street, nothing but the sound of my knobby tires humming on the asphalt & the pounding of my heart banging in my chest. Shifting the bike left & right to get the fullest extension of my legs, I powered down the street, toward the ramp; toward infamy.
It was when I hit the ramp that I discovered the first of many flaws in the execution of this jump into immortality. Remember when I said that I gauged the launch angle of the skaters? Well, it seemed that my skater friends & their boards weighed a wee bit less than me & my bike. You see, when my friends hit the ramp, they A) weighed less than I did, B) were hitting the ramp slower than I was going & C) were hitting the ramp at a different place on the plywood than I was about to. When they hit the ramp, they had what weight that they did have on the back of the board, meaning that they were, for all intents & purposes, riding the ramp on their back wheels. When I hit the ramp, however, I was leaning over my front tire, meaning that I had most of my weight on the front of the bike. This, much to my unmitigated disappointment, caused the ramp to bow under me, changing the launch angle from a little above 45º to a nearly vertical 90º. This, to put it mildly, was not good. Instead of launching out over a gentle arc & landing smoothly, the bike launched at a much, much sharper arc, into the mulberry tree just off to the right of the ramp.
Oh, did I forget to mention the mulberry tree? Yes, a full grown mulberry tree, with a branch radius of probably 20 feet, was located at the acme of my current trajectory. I found myself, in extreme slow-motion, flying through the tree, my waist up being battered by branches.
So, you might be thinking that that’s the worst of the story, right? Well, you’d be wrong, for, as I travelled through the tree like some teenaged George of the Jungle, I could hear one of my friends, in slow-motion, say five words that, apart, aren't so bad, but together, well...until that moment, I never realized those words could be so terrifying to hear:
“HEEEEE’S GONNA HIT THE WAAAAAAALL!”
I believe I may have neglected to mention earlier the cinder block wall, located a good 15 feet from the launch ramp. Yeah, my plan was a bit buggy.
As the only conscious thought going through my head at the time was just how much this was going to hurt, my mind switched to auto pilot, telling my hands to pull the brakes for all they were worth. I returned to Earth, leaving 1½ inch deep impact craters in the dirt beneath my tires. Upon touchdown, time immediately returned to normal speed & I abruptly found myself fighting to control my handlebars, which had spun around, catching my shirt in the grips. I began to endo into the wall & closed my eyes, waiting for the coming impact & then the sweet embrace of unconsciousness. Suddenly, everything stopped. Had I hit the wall so hard that I didn’t even feel the merging of my face with the bricks? Was I out? Was I dead?
As the blood rushing through my eardrums subsided, I could hear the cheering of my friends. I slowly opened my eyes…
…& found my face about an inch from the wall.
And thus, I became the coolest kid on the block.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Songs Of The Humpback Whale
“I don’t like this!” said T as we began thirty minutes of bouncing up, down &, I swear, sideways, while flying in over the Rockies into Denver International Airport in a little CanadAir plane this past New Year’s Day. T hates flying as much as I love it. Part of it comes from a rather finicky inner ear that doesn’t find being rocked back & forth fun in the least; her usual routine about an hour before we take off is a couple Dramamine & the hope for a quiet, blissfully unaware slumber until we reach our destination. I, on the other hand, love flying, from take-off to landing. I will readily admit, though, that even I was a little concerned, as this descent was one of the bumpiest I’d ever experienced.
About five minutes into the approach, T noticed that a little boy a few rows ahead of us was riding with the airsick bag on his knee. He didn’t seem too bad off; maybe just a little nervous with all the buckin’ & snortin’ we were experiencing. Then, from out of nowhere, the man seated directly in front of us, father of two &, I’m sure, loving husband, began his own impersonation of humpback whale mating calls. “MWAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGG!” was pretty much all we heard for the next twenty minutes.
MWAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGG! Up comes breakfast!
BLAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGG! Oops, there goes last night’s dinner!
HMRUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNG! There goes yesterday’s lunch! A hat trick, ladies & gentlemen!
I swear I heard his spleen dislodge from his insides & hit the seatback in front of him.
About ten minutes into the concert, I reached for my airsickness bag. T looked at me, knowing that I don’t suffer from motion sickness & figured that the rocking was finally getting to me. “Oh no, you’re not going to get sick, are you?” she asked. “No,” I replied, “I’m getting this ready for the guy – he has to have just about filled up his bag!”
The rest of the flight, we were treated to watching this man sweat profusely while turning himself inside out. We finally landed, with much eternal gratitude on his part, I’m sure. We asked his wife if she needed any help getting him off the plane, to which she requested a wheelchair. We made our way to the counter outside the jetway & conveyed the woman’s request. Suddenly, an attendant flew by us with a wheelchair &, we assume, very gingerly helped the man off the plane.
T & I waited at the counter, as our ticket didn’t show which gate to go to. While waiting, our friend opened up with the second chorus of “Songs of the Humpback Whale.” When the sound of “MMMLEAAAAAAAAAAAG!” emanated from the jetway, we took that as our queue to go find our information elsewhere.
Seriously, I didn’t know that one person could expel that much from inside themselves.
“I don’t like this!” said T as we began thirty minutes of bouncing up, down &, I swear, sideways, while flying in over the Rockies into Denver International Airport in a little CanadAir plane this past New Year’s Day. T hates flying as much as I love it. Part of it comes from a rather finicky inner ear that doesn’t find being rocked back & forth fun in the least; her usual routine about an hour before we take off is a couple Dramamine & the hope for a quiet, blissfully unaware slumber until we reach our destination. I, on the other hand, love flying, from take-off to landing. I will readily admit, though, that even I was a little concerned, as this descent was one of the bumpiest I’d ever experienced.
About five minutes into the approach, T noticed that a little boy a few rows ahead of us was riding with the airsick bag on his knee. He didn’t seem too bad off; maybe just a little nervous with all the buckin’ & snortin’ we were experiencing. Then, from out of nowhere, the man seated directly in front of us, father of two &, I’m sure, loving husband, began his own impersonation of humpback whale mating calls. “MWAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGG!” was pretty much all we heard for the next twenty minutes.
MWAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGG! Up comes breakfast!
BLAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGG! Oops, there goes last night’s dinner!
HMRUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNG! There goes yesterday’s lunch! A hat trick, ladies & gentlemen!
I swear I heard his spleen dislodge from his insides & hit the seatback in front of him.
About ten minutes into the concert, I reached for my airsickness bag. T looked at me, knowing that I don’t suffer from motion sickness & figured that the rocking was finally getting to me. “Oh no, you’re not going to get sick, are you?” she asked. “No,” I replied, “I’m getting this ready for the guy – he has to have just about filled up his bag!”
The rest of the flight, we were treated to watching this man sweat profusely while turning himself inside out. We finally landed, with much eternal gratitude on his part, I’m sure. We asked his wife if she needed any help getting him off the plane, to which she requested a wheelchair. We made our way to the counter outside the jetway & conveyed the woman’s request. Suddenly, an attendant flew by us with a wheelchair &, we assume, very gingerly helped the man off the plane.
T & I waited at the counter, as our ticket didn’t show which gate to go to. While waiting, our friend opened up with the second chorus of “Songs of the Humpback Whale.” When the sound of “MMMLEAAAAAAAAAAAG!” emanated from the jetway, we took that as our queue to go find our information elsewhere.
Seriously, I didn’t know that one person could expel that much from inside themselves.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A Letter To The Universe
Dear Universe –
I know it’s been awhile since we’ve talked; life in general has been a bit confusing, lately, which is something I’ve been meaning to chat with you about. I don’t know if I’ve done something to displease or offend you. I don’t know if maybe I said or did something that hurt your feelings. Have I?
The reason that I bring this up is that I’ve noticed a startling increase in the number of obstacles, roadblocks & all around nuisances that have been cropping up in my life lately - things like more & more traffic along my route to work; idiot people unable to navigate four-way stops; the inexplicable phenomenon known as “skinny jeans”; the recent blistering of the roof of my mouth with hot pizza; & a rise in poorly perforated paper towels tearing off all but a small piece of the corner of the sheet, leaving not a nice, straight edge on the next sheet, but, instead, a straight edge with a triangle from the previous sheet left dangling. Knowing how OCD I am about things, you can see how this drives me insane.
Now, not to seem ungrateful, I do wish to thank you for the lack of old men parading around naked in the gym’s locker room. What I don’t understand, though, is why you deemed it necessary to replace Ol’ Man Danglybits with the giant hairy guy who insists on drying his crotch in front of the mirror – repeatedly.
Seriously – did I cut you off on the freeway or something? What could I have done to have deserved that vision of horror?
I was thinking that maybe we could get together for a latte & scones sometime & discuss what’s going on. If I’ve hurt you in some way, I’d like to do what I can to make things right. Or, maybe if there’s something else that’s been bothering you, I can offer an ear to bend & maybe some insight from a different perspective.
Just let me know, okay? I really mean it, Universe.
Sincerely,
J
Dear Universe –
I know it’s been awhile since we’ve talked; life in general has been a bit confusing, lately, which is something I’ve been meaning to chat with you about. I don’t know if I’ve done something to displease or offend you. I don’t know if maybe I said or did something that hurt your feelings. Have I?
The reason that I bring this up is that I’ve noticed a startling increase in the number of obstacles, roadblocks & all around nuisances that have been cropping up in my life lately - things like more & more traffic along my route to work; idiot people unable to navigate four-way stops; the inexplicable phenomenon known as “skinny jeans”; the recent blistering of the roof of my mouth with hot pizza; & a rise in poorly perforated paper towels tearing off all but a small piece of the corner of the sheet, leaving not a nice, straight edge on the next sheet, but, instead, a straight edge with a triangle from the previous sheet left dangling. Knowing how OCD I am about things, you can see how this drives me insane.
Now, not to seem ungrateful, I do wish to thank you for the lack of old men parading around naked in the gym’s locker room. What I don’t understand, though, is why you deemed it necessary to replace Ol’ Man Danglybits with the giant hairy guy who insists on drying his crotch in front of the mirror – repeatedly.
Seriously – did I cut you off on the freeway or something? What could I have done to have deserved that vision of horror?
I was thinking that maybe we could get together for a latte & scones sometime & discuss what’s going on. If I’ve hurt you in some way, I’d like to do what I can to make things right. Or, maybe if there’s something else that’s been bothering you, I can offer an ear to bend & maybe some insight from a different perspective.
Just let me know, okay? I really mean it, Universe.
Sincerely,
J
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Zombie Talk 2
Me: Welcome again to “Zombie Talk,” the show that brings the past back to life – literally! I’m flying solo this episode, as Ms. Eulabelle is having some trouble with Immigration – something about her worker visa not being valid, as a “witchdoctor” isn’t, technically speaking, a medically trained professional. So, filling in today is ZT’s booking agent, Phil Henson. Good to see you again, Phil.
Phil: Thanks, Jay. Glad to be here.
Me: So, trying to put the whole Paris Hilton nightmare behind us, who’d you line up for us today, Phil? George Washington? Albert Einstein? Hervé Villechaize?
Pleeease tell you got Hervé Villechaize!
Phil: No, no & no. I scored someone even better than any of those!
Me: Really? Cool! Then let’s bring out our guest!
(Curtain draws back & out shambles…)
Me: …Keith Richards?
Phil: Yeah! Isn’t it sweet?!
Me: Phil, he’s not dead. I mean, he looks & smells like a rotted corpse, but…
Phil: Dude, he’s been declared clinically dead & then revived at least seven times! And he claims to have snorted his dead father’s ashes, making him a cannibal of sorts. Doesn’t that qualify as a zombie?
Me: Hmm…you have a point, there. OK, let’s do it.
(A zombie handler straps Keith Richards to the guest chair)
Me: Good day, Mr. Richards, & thank you for joining us. Sorry about the straps, but, after the whole Paris Hilton fiasco, our insurance company decided that we couldn’t have our guests roaming about freely.
Keith Richards: mrph blarrgle murgle bleh, mate.
Me: Um…OK. Uh…how’s life/death/life been treating you?
Keith Richards: mlllble graaah plbbbt, mate. Hahahahahaa…
Me: Good, good. I must say, that, despite being completely unintelligible, you’re still quite articulate for a zombie. You have quite the wide range of gurgles & moans. What’s your secret?
Keith Richards: glarrrrble phlehhh, mate.
Me: Really? Shooting embalming fluid? I guess that explains your semi-well preserved body, too, eh? Heh heh…
Keith Richards: Moooaaan, mate.
Me: So, will we be seeing any more Stones records? I hear another “Farewell” tour is in the works. That makes, what – fifteen farewell tours?
Keith Richards: hurglbleh, mate.
Me: Oh, sorry. Eighteen. One last question before we wrap things up – Charlie Watts – vampire living off the blood of young virgins or animatronic robot?
Keith Richards: slurplpleg mlurblguh, mate.
Me: Wow - sold his soul to Satan? I would’ve never guessed.
Well, thank you Mr. Richards. It’s been a pleasure to talk with such a legend among the undead.
Keith Richards: mlbleglzzzz, mate
Me: Please join us again, ladies & gentlemen, for the next episode of “Zombie Talk,” the show that brings history to life – literally!
Me: Welcome again to “Zombie Talk,” the show that brings the past back to life – literally! I’m flying solo this episode, as Ms. Eulabelle is having some trouble with Immigration – something about her worker visa not being valid, as a “witchdoctor” isn’t, technically speaking, a medically trained professional. So, filling in today is ZT’s booking agent, Phil Henson. Good to see you again, Phil.
Phil: Thanks, Jay. Glad to be here.
Me: So, trying to put the whole Paris Hilton nightmare behind us, who’d you line up for us today, Phil? George Washington? Albert Einstein? Hervé Villechaize?
Pleeease tell you got Hervé Villechaize!
Phil: No, no & no. I scored someone even better than any of those!
Me: Really? Cool! Then let’s bring out our guest!
(Curtain draws back & out shambles…)
Me: …Keith Richards?
Phil: Yeah! Isn’t it sweet?!
Me: Phil, he’s not dead. I mean, he looks & smells like a rotted corpse, but…
Phil: Dude, he’s been declared clinically dead & then revived at least seven times! And he claims to have snorted his dead father’s ashes, making him a cannibal of sorts. Doesn’t that qualify as a zombie?
Me: Hmm…you have a point, there. OK, let’s do it.
(A zombie handler straps Keith Richards to the guest chair)
Me: Good day, Mr. Richards, & thank you for joining us. Sorry about the straps, but, after the whole Paris Hilton fiasco, our insurance company decided that we couldn’t have our guests roaming about freely.
Keith Richards: mrph blarrgle murgle bleh, mate.
Me: Um…OK. Uh…how’s life/death/life been treating you?
Keith Richards: mlllble graaah plbbbt, mate. Hahahahahaa…
Me: Good, good. I must say, that, despite being completely unintelligible, you’re still quite articulate for a zombie. You have quite the wide range of gurgles & moans. What’s your secret?
Keith Richards: glarrrrble phlehhh, mate.
Me: Really? Shooting embalming fluid? I guess that explains your semi-well preserved body, too, eh? Heh heh…
Keith Richards: Moooaaan, mate.
Me: So, will we be seeing any more Stones records? I hear another “Farewell” tour is in the works. That makes, what – fifteen farewell tours?
Keith Richards: hurglbleh, mate.
Me: Oh, sorry. Eighteen. One last question before we wrap things up – Charlie Watts – vampire living off the blood of young virgins or animatronic robot?
Keith Richards: slurplpleg mlurblguh, mate.
Me: Wow - sold his soul to Satan? I would’ve never guessed.
Well, thank you Mr. Richards. It’s been a pleasure to talk with such a legend among the undead.
Keith Richards: mlbleglzzzz, mate
Me: Please join us again, ladies & gentlemen, for the next episode of “Zombie Talk,” the show that brings history to life – literally!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
MI:5: Electronic Goodies Edition
OK. So, I’ve been a total flake about these; I’m going to try to mend my wayward ways, though.
Starting with Billy Rhythm’s Little Electronic Gadget 5:
1) Do you use some form of PDA (personal digital assistant)/MP3 player/smart phone for contacts and calendar items? If so, what is it, and what do you use it for? If you don't use some sort of digital calendar, what do you use?
The only thing I use for calendars/contacts is my MS Outlook at work. As much as I love gadgets, I’m still quite the Luddite; I don’t have (nor do I really want) a PDA or cell phone. T & I like to be able to take off for the weekend & not be tracked down by everyone.
We’re just that popular.
2) Do you use any sort of MP3 player? If not, do you use anything for "music on the go"?
Now, an MP3 player is another story; I loves me my playa! I think we have three small ones (2gb or less) floating around Casa de Jota, one each for T, The Boy & me. Mine is also a jump drive, so it carries schoolwork & other miscellaneous files, in addition to being almost filled to the gills with tunes.
Now, isn't that thrilling?
3) Do you have a favorite application you run on your PDA/MP3/smart phone? What is it? If you don't use one, how about some cool application you like on your computer?
My player’s not that fancy; strictly plays music or carries files (I gunnin’ for the Creative Zen 32gb jobbie as soon as the price is a bit more reasonable). You’d think that, with as much as I use my computers at work & home that I’d have some interesting application, but about the coolest thing I can think of is being able to switch the time zones on the system clock.
Exciting, no?
4) How about a favorite game on your widget? If you're non-widget-ized, what games do you like to play on your computer?
Widget? What is this “widget” that you speak of? As for games on the computer, my love for all of the Civilization games knows no bounds.
Neither does my wife’s scorn for all of the Civilization games.
5) Most little gadgets have a way to personalize them, like a cover or faceplate or something. What's on yours? If you don't own one, tell us about something else you've personalized.
Alas, my MP3 player’s too small, physically, to do any customization (unless you count the crack on the battery cover as a customization).
OK. So, I’ve been a total flake about these; I’m going to try to mend my wayward ways, though.
Starting with Billy Rhythm’s Little Electronic Gadget 5:
1) Do you use some form of PDA (personal digital assistant)/MP3 player/smart phone for contacts and calendar items? If so, what is it, and what do you use it for? If you don't use some sort of digital calendar, what do you use?
The only thing I use for calendars/contacts is my MS Outlook at work. As much as I love gadgets, I’m still quite the Luddite; I don’t have (nor do I really want) a PDA or cell phone. T & I like to be able to take off for the weekend & not be tracked down by everyone.
We’re just that popular.
2) Do you use any sort of MP3 player? If not, do you use anything for "music on the go"?
Now, an MP3 player is another story; I loves me my playa! I think we have three small ones (2gb or less) floating around Casa de Jota, one each for T, The Boy & me. Mine is also a jump drive, so it carries schoolwork & other miscellaneous files, in addition to being almost filled to the gills with tunes.
Now, isn't that thrilling?
3) Do you have a favorite application you run on your PDA/MP3/smart phone? What is it? If you don't use one, how about some cool application you like on your computer?
My player’s not that fancy; strictly plays music or carries files (I gunnin’ for the Creative Zen 32gb jobbie as soon as the price is a bit more reasonable). You’d think that, with as much as I use my computers at work & home that I’d have some interesting application, but about the coolest thing I can think of is being able to switch the time zones on the system clock.
Exciting, no?
4) How about a favorite game on your widget? If you're non-widget-ized, what games do you like to play on your computer?
Widget? What is this “widget” that you speak of? As for games on the computer, my love for all of the Civilization games knows no bounds.
Neither does my wife’s scorn for all of the Civilization games.
5) Most little gadgets have a way to personalize them, like a cover or faceplate or something. What's on yours? If you don't own one, tell us about something else you've personalized.
Alas, my MP3 player’s too small, physically, to do any customization (unless you count the crack on the battery cover as a customization).
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Zombie Talk
Me: Hello & welcome to the first installment of “Zombie Talk.” I’ll be your host as we scour history, raise the dead via the magic of the Voodoo & pick the brains, or what’s left of them, of some of the greatest figures of the past. On my left is my co-host, noted Haitian Voodoo priestess, Ms. Eulabelle. Welcome Ms. Eulabelle…
Ms. Eulabelle: ‘allo, chile. I’m happy ta bein here.
Me: It’s good to have you here. To give you, the audience, a little idea as to what we’ll be doing here on “Zombie Talk,” or ZT for short, every episode, Ms. Eulabelle will attempt to raise a famous person from the annals of history for me to interview; depending on how much of the brain’s left & how many vestigial memories are left, things could get interesting. We’ll even take requests for guests from the audience from time to time, but, remember to be patient, as digging up the body…er…acquiring the proper permissions to reanimate our guest takes a little time. And it’s also a little difficult to get some guests, as they’ve decomposed to the point where there’s not much to bring back.
Ms. Eulabelle: Dat’s right, honey. I be bringin’ back da zombies, not da ghosts. ‘Tis not my specialty, ha!
Me: Hahaha! Oh, Ms. Eulabelle, you’re such the card!
Anyway, as this is our inaugural episode, I wanted to be completely surprised by our first guest, so I let Ms. Eulabelle pick them out. So, let’s meet our first interviewee on “Zombie Talk.”
(Curtain draws back; blonde zombie comes shambling out)
Wow, Ms. Eulabelle – you got a fresh one, didn’t you?
Ms. Eulabelle: Dat’s not de zombie that I brought back, tho. I be reanimatin’ Isaac Hayes, chile!
Me: What do you mean? Those blank, soulless eyes; that vacant look; off-kilter walk; & - oh, man! That smell! Are you sure? I mean, look – it keeps stopping every time a light comes on.
Paris Hilton: Shiiiiiny! (drool)
Me: If that’s not a zombie, then I don’t know what is.
Paris Hilton: (stops & strikes a pose) Caaaaaameraaaaaas…(gurgle)
Me: I thought you couldn’t reanimate brainless people? Can you de-animate beings, Ms. Eulabelle?
Paris Hilton: Parrrrrteeeee…
Ms. Eulabelle: I don’ know, chile. Lemme tryin’ ‘dis –
(Smacks Hilton with a dead chicken)
Me: No, don’t go for the head – there’s nothing in there to damage! Do you have a wooden stake or a silver bullet or something?
Ms. Eulabelle: Those don’ workin’ on de undead –
Me: What about the just plain stupid? Here – let’s try this –
(Busts out camera, sets off the flash)
Paris Hilton: Cheeeeeeese…
(Starts shambling toward the flash)
Me: Quick, Ms. Eulabelle! Open the door!
(Following the flashes, Hilton staggers out the door, stopping after every burst to pose)
*SLAM!*
Me: Whew! That was…too close!
(Sounds of scraping on the door)
Join us next time on Zombie Talk, when we try to interview a real, undead zombie, as opposed to a living idiot.
Me: Hello & welcome to the first installment of “Zombie Talk.” I’ll be your host as we scour history, raise the dead via the magic of the Voodoo & pick the brains, or what’s left of them, of some of the greatest figures of the past. On my left is my co-host, noted Haitian Voodoo priestess, Ms. Eulabelle. Welcome Ms. Eulabelle…
Ms. Eulabelle: ‘allo, chile. I’m happy ta bein here.
Me: It’s good to have you here. To give you, the audience, a little idea as to what we’ll be doing here on “Zombie Talk,” or ZT for short, every episode, Ms. Eulabelle will attempt to raise a famous person from the annals of history for me to interview; depending on how much of the brain’s left & how many vestigial memories are left, things could get interesting. We’ll even take requests for guests from the audience from time to time, but, remember to be patient, as digging up the body…er…acquiring the proper permissions to reanimate our guest takes a little time. And it’s also a little difficult to get some guests, as they’ve decomposed to the point where there’s not much to bring back.
Ms. Eulabelle: Dat’s right, honey. I be bringin’ back da zombies, not da ghosts. ‘Tis not my specialty, ha!
Me: Hahaha! Oh, Ms. Eulabelle, you’re such the card!
Anyway, as this is our inaugural episode, I wanted to be completely surprised by our first guest, so I let Ms. Eulabelle pick them out. So, let’s meet our first interviewee on “Zombie Talk.”
(Curtain draws back; blonde zombie comes shambling out)
Wow, Ms. Eulabelle – you got a fresh one, didn’t you?
Ms. Eulabelle: Dat’s not de zombie that I brought back, tho. I be reanimatin’ Isaac Hayes, chile!
Me: What do you mean? Those blank, soulless eyes; that vacant look; off-kilter walk; & - oh, man! That smell! Are you sure? I mean, look – it keeps stopping every time a light comes on.
Paris Hilton: Shiiiiiny! (drool)
Me: If that’s not a zombie, then I don’t know what is.
Paris Hilton: (stops & strikes a pose) Caaaaaameraaaaaas…(gurgle)
Me: I thought you couldn’t reanimate brainless people? Can you de-animate beings, Ms. Eulabelle?
Paris Hilton: Parrrrrteeeee…
Ms. Eulabelle: I don’ know, chile. Lemme tryin’ ‘dis –
(Smacks Hilton with a dead chicken)
Me: No, don’t go for the head – there’s nothing in there to damage! Do you have a wooden stake or a silver bullet or something?
Ms. Eulabelle: Those don’ workin’ on de undead –
Me: What about the just plain stupid? Here – let’s try this –
(Busts out camera, sets off the flash)
Paris Hilton: Cheeeeeeese…
(Starts shambling toward the flash)
Me: Quick, Ms. Eulabelle! Open the door!
(Following the flashes, Hilton staggers out the door, stopping after every burst to pose)
*SLAM!*
Me: Whew! That was…too close!
(Sounds of scraping on the door)
Join us next time on Zombie Talk, when we try to interview a real, undead zombie, as opposed to a living idiot.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Yet Another Timekiller
I've finally put something to look at on my new photoblog, Life In 8 Megapixels.
Go on - have a look. Who knows - I may put two posts up! Um...someday.
I've finally put something to look at on my new photoblog, Life In 8 Megapixels.
Go on - have a look. Who knows - I may put two posts up! Um...someday.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
It's Nearly 10p, I Have A Research Paper Due Friday...
...but I'm blogging instead.
Probably not the most productive use of my time, but the paper is sooooo frickin' boring. I've actually enjoyed the other writing assignments in this English class, so far.
Once I figured out what I could get away with, at least.
The topic for this research paper is so mind-numbingly boring, though. We have to write a 6-8 page paper about civil rights. Yes, it's an important topic. Yes, it's something that should be kept in the public spotlight until true equality for everyone is achieved.
(whine) It's just so boring though! (/whine)
I mean, with the other topics, I've been able to be a bit light about the subject matter (one that I wrote was review for "Manos: The Hands of Fate"; got an A on it, too - was told that, while others had reviewed bad movies, I was the first to do so with such enthusiasm. Go me!). This, though...is it possible to write a paper about a "serious" subject & be kinda glib about it?
I guess my grade at the end of the week will answer that one.
OK...back to the grind.
(whine)But, it's soooo boring!!!(/whine)
...but I'm blogging instead.
Probably not the most productive use of my time, but the paper is sooooo frickin' boring. I've actually enjoyed the other writing assignments in this English class, so far.
Once I figured out what I could get away with, at least.
The topic for this research paper is so mind-numbingly boring, though. We have to write a 6-8 page paper about civil rights. Yes, it's an important topic. Yes, it's something that should be kept in the public spotlight until true equality for everyone is achieved.
(whine) It's just so boring though! (/whine)
I mean, with the other topics, I've been able to be a bit light about the subject matter (one that I wrote was review for "Manos: The Hands of Fate"; got an A on it, too - was told that, while others had reviewed bad movies, I was the first to do so with such enthusiasm. Go me!). This, though...is it possible to write a paper about a "serious" subject & be kinda glib about it?
I guess my grade at the end of the week will answer that one.
OK...back to the grind.
(whine)But, it's soooo boring!!!(/whine)
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Donner, Party Of Twelve…
I’m supposed to be reading an excerpt from Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants,” a story that I am completely convinced he wrote while A) inebriated & B) playing MadLibs, but, instead, am going to amuse you, Loyal Readers, with an anecdote about a recent happening in my life. I mean, it’s what you come here for, isn’t it?
*ahem* I said, ”Isn’t it?”
Whatever…
For the past two years,against all common sense I have volunteered at our church’s Wednesday night 5th & 6th grade youth group in spite of the voice screaming in my head to run the other way. It’s so difficult to fight the urge to put them all in a burlap sack & throw them in the river rewarding to see the blank looks on their faces look of joy on their faces as we give them candy in an attempt to bribe them into sitting still for five seconds lead them down the path of righteousness.*
[*I kid, of course.]
[A little…]
Anyway, we had a deal with thelittle hellions kids that whomever said a set amount of Bible verses from memory would be invited to a barbeque/hike at the end of this year’s session. We were to meet at one of the gems of our little town, the highly touted local soccer ‘complex’ (which is pretty much one weed choked field; man, I’ve gotta move somewhere else) to set up & then trek on over to the trailhead. When I found out which trail we were going to be taking, I pointed out to another one of the group leaders that this particular trail, according to the local trail map, was a ‘red’ trail.
Now, let me ask you – when has the color red ever signified anything good? Stop lights are red. Communists are red. Infections are red. Red is typically a color indicating ‘alert’ or ‘danger’, right? The red on this trail proved to be no exception.
The red on my face as we reached the first switchback after climbing what seemed to be a straight vertical ascent was a good indication of the danger my heart was in of popping out the top of my head.
We all started out in a tight little group. As I made it to the first switchback, the group had turned into two groups: the first being the trail guide, kids & most of the other group leaders & the second consisting of me & one other leader. He stayed behind with me either because he thought I was pretty cool & wanted to kick it with me or he was wanting to make a note of where I collapsed so he could retrieve my carcass on the way back - & let the kids poke me with sticks & laugh.
Initially, trying to play it cool, I’d stop when I needed to get my pulse down below 200 & take a few pictures (I figured I’d document my last moments on Earth for T to cherish). About ten minutes later, I gave up the charade, as the sound of me gasping for air & clutching my chest kind of ruined the illusion that I was just stopping to take pictures. I would’ve gladly passed out & fallen into the brush on either side of the trail, were it not for my innate dislike of being eaten by rattlesnakes.
We finally caught up with the rest of the group at a level spot in the trail where I decided that I’d uh…set up base camp & sent the rest onward. One of the kids was going to stay, but decided to go along with the rest. I guess the thought of climbing another 800 feet straight up sounded better than keeping the coyotes from eating my body after I keeled over. Kids these days, I tell you; no sense of adventure.
As I stood there, alone with only the sound of the wind through the tall grass & the machinegun pounding of my pulse in my ears, a voice that I hadn’t heard in a long time started speaking. It was the voice of the explorer in me, the explorer that, when I was a kid, would’ve had all of the hills & mines in this area thoroughly explored & mapped out; the explorer who always wanted to see what was over the next hill. So, at the behest of that voice, I pushed onward & upward from my comfortable little flat spot. About a hundred feet later, when met with another nearly vertical climb, the explorer in me, who apparently hadn’t looked in the mirror anytime lately & noticed that he was about a hundred pounds heavier, pressed me to go on, saying “It’s only a little further! We can do it!”
The explorer in me was then issued a severe beat down by my common sense & sense of self-preservation, bound, gagged & forbidden to offer any input for the rest of the hike.
Soon, the others were making there way on down the hill & I proceeded to do the same. As it was on the way up, I was soon passed by one group & left to forge my own way down. (At least this time there was another group a ways behind me, so I didn’t feel like a complete loser.) Now, most people will tell you that it’s harder to go down a hill than to climb one, saying that it’s hard on the knees trying to control your descent. While this is true, going downhill didn’t cause my aortic valve to nearly burst, as going uphill did. The way I see it, I can recover from knee replacement surgery a lot quicker than I can a heart attack.
I finally made it back down, just in time for one of the leaders to return from dropping off the first batch of hikers. We went back to our picnic area, ‘qued up some hot dogs (which probably didn’t do my heart any favors, but, hey, I could at least breathe & my case of jelly legs had momentarily ceased) & then called it a night.
So, since this entry didn’t start out with “Day 2: Rations dwindling. Have eaten all the children. Forced to eat own socks & a soup made from rocks & sweat. Can’t go on much longer,” I’d say that the hike wasn’t a complete wash. I even learned something in the process:
If anyone ever suggests taking the red trail again, I’ll stay at the picnic area & cook up dinner.
Ooo…maybe some cinnamon chili or squeeze cheese nachos!
I’m supposed to be reading an excerpt from Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants,” a story that I am completely convinced he wrote while A) inebriated & B) playing MadLibs, but, instead, am going to amuse you, Loyal Readers, with an anecdote about a recent happening in my life. I mean, it’s what you come here for, isn’t it?
*ahem* I said, ”Isn’t it?”
Whatever…
For the past two years,
[*I kid, of course.]
[A little…]
Anyway, we had a deal with the
Now, let me ask you – when has the color red ever signified anything good? Stop lights are red. Communists are red. Infections are red. Red is typically a color indicating ‘alert’ or ‘danger’, right? The red on this trail proved to be no exception.
The red on my face as we reached the first switchback after climbing what seemed to be a straight vertical ascent was a good indication of the danger my heart was in of popping out the top of my head.
We all started out in a tight little group. As I made it to the first switchback, the group had turned into two groups: the first being the trail guide, kids & most of the other group leaders & the second consisting of me & one other leader. He stayed behind with me either because he thought I was pretty cool & wanted to kick it with me or he was wanting to make a note of where I collapsed so he could retrieve my carcass on the way back - & let the kids poke me with sticks & laugh.
Initially, trying to play it cool, I’d stop when I needed to get my pulse down below 200 & take a few pictures (I figured I’d document my last moments on Earth for T to cherish). About ten minutes later, I gave up the charade, as the sound of me gasping for air & clutching my chest kind of ruined the illusion that I was just stopping to take pictures. I would’ve gladly passed out & fallen into the brush on either side of the trail, were it not for my innate dislike of being eaten by rattlesnakes.
We finally caught up with the rest of the group at a level spot in the trail where I decided that I’d uh…set up base camp & sent the rest onward. One of the kids was going to stay, but decided to go along with the rest. I guess the thought of climbing another 800 feet straight up sounded better than keeping the coyotes from eating my body after I keeled over. Kids these days, I tell you; no sense of adventure.
As I stood there, alone with only the sound of the wind through the tall grass & the machinegun pounding of my pulse in my ears, a voice that I hadn’t heard in a long time started speaking. It was the voice of the explorer in me, the explorer that, when I was a kid, would’ve had all of the hills & mines in this area thoroughly explored & mapped out; the explorer who always wanted to see what was over the next hill. So, at the behest of that voice, I pushed onward & upward from my comfortable little flat spot. About a hundred feet later, when met with another nearly vertical climb, the explorer in me, who apparently hadn’t looked in the mirror anytime lately & noticed that he was about a hundred pounds heavier, pressed me to go on, saying “It’s only a little further! We can do it!”
The explorer in me was then issued a severe beat down by my common sense & sense of self-preservation, bound, gagged & forbidden to offer any input for the rest of the hike.
Soon, the others were making there way on down the hill & I proceeded to do the same. As it was on the way up, I was soon passed by one group & left to forge my own way down. (At least this time there was another group a ways behind me, so I didn’t feel like a complete loser.) Now, most people will tell you that it’s harder to go down a hill than to climb one, saying that it’s hard on the knees trying to control your descent. While this is true, going downhill didn’t cause my aortic valve to nearly burst, as going uphill did. The way I see it, I can recover from knee replacement surgery a lot quicker than I can a heart attack.
I finally made it back down, just in time for one of the leaders to return from dropping off the first batch of hikers. We went back to our picnic area, ‘qued up some hot dogs (which probably didn’t do my heart any favors, but, hey, I could at least breathe & my case of jelly legs had momentarily ceased) & then called it a night.
So, since this entry didn’t start out with “Day 2: Rations dwindling. Have eaten all the children. Forced to eat own socks & a soup made from rocks & sweat. Can’t go on much longer,” I’d say that the hike wasn’t a complete wash. I even learned something in the process:
If anyone ever suggests taking the red trail again, I’ll stay at the picnic area & cook up dinner.
Ooo…maybe some cinnamon chili or squeeze cheese nachos!
Friday, June 13, 2008
Surfacing
Hello, Loyal Readers!
Just a quick note to say that I haven't forgotten to post, nor am I at a loss for witty & humorous things to write about. It's just that I've taken on an online English class this summer that's kind of consuming a lot of my writing time & mental resources. Fortunately, for both you & I, it's only a six week class & I've just finished week two.
And there was much rejoicing (yay)...
In the meantime, I've noticed a few regulars pinging MLCotW, as well as a few direct hits (I'm in somebody's bookmark list), so, turn off your cloaking devices & delurk! Say hi! Have a cookie!
Please? Knowing that strangers are peeking in on me is doing things to my head. Weird things...
Don't make me call out my unholy robot-armed monkey army!
PS - The first one of you who makes a comment about how the class is obviously not helping with my writing skilz gets a robot monkey arm delivered wedgie.
Hello, Loyal Readers!
Just a quick note to say that I haven't forgotten to post, nor am I at a loss for witty & humorous things to write about. It's just that I've taken on an online English class this summer that's kind of consuming a lot of my writing time & mental resources. Fortunately, for both you & I, it's only a six week class & I've just finished week two.
And there was much rejoicing (yay)...
In the meantime, I've noticed a few regulars pinging MLCotW, as well as a few direct hits (I'm in somebody's bookmark list), so, turn off your cloaking devices & delurk! Say hi! Have a cookie!
Please? Knowing that strangers are peeking in on me is doing things to my head. Weird things...
Don't make me call out my unholy robot-armed monkey army!
PS - The first one of you who makes a comment about how the class is obviously not helping with my writing skilz gets a robot monkey arm delivered wedgie.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Robot Monkey Arms
On the way back to work from lunch on Friday’s, I usually listen to ‘Science Friday’ on the local NPR station. They almost always have something that my trivia & useless knowledge hungry brain finds interesting. Today proved to be no exception, for the topic was something about implanting electrodes into the brains of monkeys & training them to use the connection to control a robotic arm, in hopes of one day applying the technology to human quadriplegics & amputees. This was all terribly fascinating, as it usually is.
Unfortunately, though, they let people call in & ask questions. Sometimes, the questions are well thought out, insightful & help to move the topic along. Usually, though, the callers are retards who don’t understand the idea of ‘staying on topic’, ie, the nimrod who called in &, instead of asking something like, oh, “Can the monkeys open bananas with their bionic appendages?”, went on about the degradation of some natural watershed somewhere in New England. (Thankfully, the host got the show back on topic by hanging up on the guy.)
One that actually gave me a giggle, though, was a guy who called up & apparently gave the screener one question that he wanted to ask in order to get on &, instead, asked about the ramifications of outfitting monkeys with robotic arms & the potential for conquest by simian cyborgs in retaliation for all the things we’ve done to them like medical testing, making them wear diapers in public & teaching them how to smoke (lung cancer is the #3 cause of death in chimpanzees, following being eaten by tigers & unicycle accidents). The host & guest kind of laughed it off, but you could hear the concern in their chuckling, as they imagined a world dominated by Coco & Mr. Bubbles.
It could happen, people! Monkeys with robot arms! Haven’t you seen ‘Planet of the Apes’?
Anyway, the last call that I heard was from a representative from the land of the tiny brained people, who asked if there has been any study, whilst attaching robot arm controlling electrodes to their heads, into whether or not monkeys have a conscience. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to hear the guest’s reply, but, if you’ll allow me, I think I can hazard an answer:
*ahem*
Monkeys don’t have consciences. The only thoughts going on in their tiny little skulls are “Ook, ook”, “Banana” & “I wonder how far I can fling my poo with this thing?”
There you have it. Any other deep, philosophical or ethical questions you need answered, Nature Boy? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Anyway – Robot Monkey Arms!
BOW BEFORE THE MIGHTY METAL LIMBS OF OUR PRIMATE OVERLORDS!
Note: Evil red eyes added for effect; our monkey rulers may or may not have red eyes. I mean, yeah, they'll still be evil & all, but...
On the way back to work from lunch on Friday’s, I usually listen to ‘Science Friday’ on the local NPR station. They almost always have something that my trivia & useless knowledge hungry brain finds interesting. Today proved to be no exception, for the topic was something about implanting electrodes into the brains of monkeys & training them to use the connection to control a robotic arm, in hopes of one day applying the technology to human quadriplegics & amputees. This was all terribly fascinating, as it usually is.
Unfortunately, though, they let people call in & ask questions. Sometimes, the questions are well thought out, insightful & help to move the topic along. Usually, though, the callers are retards who don’t understand the idea of ‘staying on topic’, ie, the nimrod who called in &, instead of asking something like, oh, “Can the monkeys open bananas with their bionic appendages?”, went on about the degradation of some natural watershed somewhere in New England. (Thankfully, the host got the show back on topic by hanging up on the guy.)
One that actually gave me a giggle, though, was a guy who called up & apparently gave the screener one question that he wanted to ask in order to get on &, instead, asked about the ramifications of outfitting monkeys with robotic arms & the potential for conquest by simian cyborgs in retaliation for all the things we’ve done to them like medical testing, making them wear diapers in public & teaching them how to smoke (lung cancer is the #3 cause of death in chimpanzees, following being eaten by tigers & unicycle accidents). The host & guest kind of laughed it off, but you could hear the concern in their chuckling, as they imagined a world dominated by Coco & Mr. Bubbles.
It could happen, people! Monkeys with robot arms! Haven’t you seen ‘Planet of the Apes’?
Anyway, the last call that I heard was from a representative from the land of the tiny brained people, who asked if there has been any study, whilst attaching robot arm controlling electrodes to their heads, into whether or not monkeys have a conscience. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to hear the guest’s reply, but, if you’ll allow me, I think I can hazard an answer:
*ahem*
Monkeys don’t have consciences. The only thoughts going on in their tiny little skulls are “Ook, ook”, “Banana” & “I wonder how far I can fling my poo with this thing?”
There you have it. Any other deep, philosophical or ethical questions you need answered, Nature Boy? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Anyway – Robot Monkey Arms!
BOW BEFORE THE MIGHTY METAL LIMBS OF OUR PRIMATE OVERLORDS!
Note: Evil red eyes added for effect; our monkey rulers may or may not have red eyes. I mean, yeah, they'll still be evil & all, but...
Thursday, May 29, 2008
"A world without Harvey Korman — it's a more serious world" - Mel Brooks
I remember watching the Carol Burnett Show as a kid & laughing my tail off at the skits with Harvey Korman & Tim Conway.
*sigh*
Rest In Peace, Mr. Korman. Thank you for the laughter. I know you're up there giving God a good laugh.
I remember watching the Carol Burnett Show as a kid & laughing my tail off at the skits with Harvey Korman & Tim Conway.
*sigh*
Rest In Peace, Mr. Korman. Thank you for the laughter. I know you're up there giving God a good laugh.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
No, No, No, No...
Why? Why would even a low budget company do this?
Plan 9 From Outer Space to be remade
I think I'll go put my head in the oven now.
Why? Why would even a low budget company do this?
Plan 9 From Outer Space to be remade
I think I'll go put my head in the oven now.
Friday, May 02, 2008
10,000!
I've finally reached 10,000 hits here at MLCotW!
And the 10,000th hit belongs to...
Amy of Bad Groove!
Congratulations Amy & thank you for helping my achieve this momentous milestone, only 5 years in the making!
Thanks to all of you who peek in here from time to time (even you lurkers - why don't you come out into the light?). I like knowing that there are a few people out there who take time from their busy routines to check in on the inane Star Wars related ramblings & deranged celebrity letters.
Thank you for not alerting the proper authorities.
I've finally reached 10,000 hits here at MLCotW!
And the 10,000th hit belongs to...
Amy of Bad Groove!
Congratulations Amy & thank you for helping my achieve this momentous milestone, only 5 years in the making!
Thanks to all of you who peek in here from time to time (even you lurkers - why don't you come out into the light?). I like knowing that there are a few people out there who take time from their busy routines to check in on the inane Star Wars related ramblings & deranged celebrity letters.
Thank you for not alerting the proper authorities.
Friday, April 25, 2008
#1 Fan
I just don't understand why I'm always getting restraining orders from celebrities. I always write them the nicest letters...
Dear Yoda –
Hi! How are you? I am fine. I am your #1 fan.
I have been your #1 fan since I first saw you in The Empire Strikes Back (well, at that time, I was your #2 fan; Billy Jenkins in my class was #1 until his “accident” on the swing set at recess). I have dressed up like you every Halloween since then. Even though you are only 2 ½ feet tall & I’m 6’2”, I still dress up like you by wearing a really big t-shirt, pulling my knees up to my chest & tying them in place & draping the shirt over them; I also stop showering about a month before Halloween so I can even smell like you must have when you lived in the swamps on Dagobah. Because it is really hard to walk with your legs tied to your chest & my dad can’t carry me in his backpack (just like you & Luke Skywalker!) since he hurt his back on Halloween ’99, I built a replica of your Jedi hover chair out of balsa wood, tin foil & some of my mom’s Ladies Home Journal magazines. It fits over my old Radio Flyer wagon & my dad can pull me in it. It is so cool! I have even learned to talk like you (talk like you, I have learned. See? I really am your #1 fan! I mean - #1 fan, I am!).
Some people (my mom & dad, co-workers, doctors, other so-called “fans” on the StarWars.com forum) have told me that you are not real, that you were a Muppet in “Empire” & a computer image in Episodes I-III, but I do not believe them. I have seen Muppets before & you look nothing like Kermit the Frog or Grover. And how could they make a computer picture jump around like you did when you fought Count Dooku & Palpatine? You even talked to the other Jedi in the movie – computer pictures can’t do that! That is just silly! Someone even tried to tell me that you died in Return of the Jedi, but I know you were just play acting for the movie. I know that movies are not really real. Again, that is just silly.
You never responded to my last few letters asking you to me my Jedi teacher. I know you probably think that 37 is too old to start training, but I know I can do it. I’ve even cut my hair, except for a long piece behind my right ear that I braided into a Padawan Braid. I’ve tried building my own lightsaber, but have not had much success (I guess that is something to learn later in my training). Even so, I know the Force is strong in me. The other day, after I had eaten a Macho Combo Burrito from Del Taco, I farted in the TV room. By using my Jedi mind powers, though, I got everyone to believe that the dog had done it.
I have to go now because my mom needs to use the computer to look up some casserole recipe that she saw on Rachel Rae’s show.
May the Force be with you
Your #1 fan
-Jay
I just don't understand why I'm always getting restraining orders from celebrities. I always write them the nicest letters...
Dear Yoda –
Hi! How are you? I am fine. I am your #1 fan.
I have been your #1 fan since I first saw you in The Empire Strikes Back (well, at that time, I was your #2 fan; Billy Jenkins in my class was #1 until his “accident” on the swing set at recess). I have dressed up like you every Halloween since then. Even though you are only 2 ½ feet tall & I’m 6’2”, I still dress up like you by wearing a really big t-shirt, pulling my knees up to my chest & tying them in place & draping the shirt over them; I also stop showering about a month before Halloween so I can even smell like you must have when you lived in the swamps on Dagobah. Because it is really hard to walk with your legs tied to your chest & my dad can’t carry me in his backpack (just like you & Luke Skywalker!) since he hurt his back on Halloween ’99, I built a replica of your Jedi hover chair out of balsa wood, tin foil & some of my mom’s Ladies Home Journal magazines. It fits over my old Radio Flyer wagon & my dad can pull me in it. It is so cool! I have even learned to talk like you (talk like you, I have learned. See? I really am your #1 fan! I mean - #1 fan, I am!).
Some people (my mom & dad, co-workers, doctors, other so-called “fans” on the StarWars.com forum) have told me that you are not real, that you were a Muppet in “Empire” & a computer image in Episodes I-III, but I do not believe them. I have seen Muppets before & you look nothing like Kermit the Frog or Grover. And how could they make a computer picture jump around like you did when you fought Count Dooku & Palpatine? You even talked to the other Jedi in the movie – computer pictures can’t do that! That is just silly! Someone even tried to tell me that you died in Return of the Jedi, but I know you were just play acting for the movie. I know that movies are not really real. Again, that is just silly.
You never responded to my last few letters asking you to me my Jedi teacher. I know you probably think that 37 is too old to start training, but I know I can do it. I’ve even cut my hair, except for a long piece behind my right ear that I braided into a Padawan Braid. I’ve tried building my own lightsaber, but have not had much success (I guess that is something to learn later in my training). Even so, I know the Force is strong in me. The other day, after I had eaten a Macho Combo Burrito from Del Taco, I farted in the TV room. By using my Jedi mind powers, though, I got everyone to believe that the dog had done it.
I have to go now because my mom needs to use the computer to look up some casserole recipe that she saw on Rachel Rae’s show.
May the Force be with you
Your #1 fan
-Jay
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