(Somewhat) Amusing musings.

That Ain't Right

2008-12-10T19:00:00.003-05:00

Here's an exchange I had with Erin yesterday. I was pretty tired at this point.

Me: This is gonna be more fun than shooting monkeys.

Erin: Do you mean fish in a barrel?

Me: I meant to say "more fun than a barrel of monkeys."

Erin: Well, you didn't.

I didn't want to tell her, but I've shot monkeys in the past. Hella fun!

Yes we can!

2008-11-17T21:41:00.005-05:00

So, the president elect is biracial, crazy white people are buying up guns like its the end of days, football games are ending in ties. Shit has just been crazy lately! You know what's NOT crazy? Well, hopefully the prez elect. But also, Wiis. Not only are Wiis not crazy, Wiis are just about the most fun you can have standing up.

I don't know how many of you folks own a Wii or have ever played a Wii, or have ever looked lustfully on as others played their Wii, but it really is the best way to spend 250 greenbacks without orgasming or feeling the shame of paying a prostitute (definitely NOT a good use of $250).

The only thing better than buying a Wii is getting one for free. And now YOU can get a free Wii. Well, not for you, per se... But you can help a friend get a free Wii. My friend Xtina is apparently in a contest where the winner gets a Wii. I think the plan is to give it to her husband, cuz he deserves it. I mean, if you know Xtina, then you definitely know he deserves the bestest console in the universe!

So, let's do a gal a solid and click here to make the world a bit of a better place. Vote for Christina Gainor! Oh, and if you need a reason why you should help, when Xtina was 16, she hit Coach Brooks with her parents' truck (don't worry, he was in a car. It was really more of a love tap). Anyway, he was kind of an ass. That one act alone made the world SUCH a better place!

A vote for Xtina is a vote for America. Yes we can... Change... Hope... Um, apple pie... Just vote, dammit!

My girlfriend can tell you which comes first...

2008-09-24T16:52:00.002-05:00

I think a Good Idea for marriage would be for people to only marry those who have the same view on critical issues to get together. Sounds a bit complicated, I know. That’s why there should also be a social networking website to help. Now, when I say “critical issues” I mean those big hulking questions that have been plaguing mankind for eons.

For example, are you a chicken person or an egg person? The question of course being, “what came first, the chicken or the egg?” Duh. The chicken. It says so. Reread the sentence… Pretty obvious, right??? But for some reason people tend to disagree. That’s where the website comes into play. All the egg people will form an egg network and all the chicken people will form a chicken network and they’ll start to pair up.

Now, this isn’t even the best part of my Good Idea. After pairing up and getting married, or socially unioned, or what ever it is your particular state or province will allow the couples will have two kids (or adopt… or get a dingo as a pet and let it do its thing). Now here’s where the genius comes into play. If you’re a chicken couple, you name your first kid Chicken and your second kid Egg. If you’re an egg person, you name your first kid Egg and your second kid Chicken. This way you solidify your union, have concrete proof of what came first, and as a kicker it’s a nice reminder to your kids that in the grand scheme of things they are insignificant and really just the butt of some cosmic joke. It builds character.

Another good coupling would be people who don’t believe in the theory of evolution. I think they could all get together and maybe create communities where they shut out the rest of world, except maybe to share their wares and possilbly teach us how to make barrels and such. And I think we’ll call them Amish.

You know who else should have an exclusive social networking site for people who only believe the same thing? People who want to see Sarah Palin naked. Now, I know I’m not the only one. In fact, I’ve read blogs and overheard conversations in bars, so I know I’m not the only one. Now, don’t get it twisted, I’m not saying anyone wants to actually sleep with her, but there’s just something about a crazy-gun totin’-no foreign policy havin’-vengeful-shot gun marriage forcin’-I shouln’t have rights to my own body-govna that makes me want to see her better assets. Or maybe it’s just me. I’ve always had a thing for women with power (or in her case, potential power… I cringed after I typed that). I mean, I wouldn’t mind having a peek at that queen lady across the pond either. Hot. Stuff. More than likely, it has something to do with the fact that she looks like so many famous to moderately famous women that I’m thinking if I saw her naked I could just sort of cross all the others off my list. It’s efficient. I like efficiency. Except that crappy apartment I had for a year. $575 for a box with a bathroom that’s just a step up from a chamber pot??? Where do I sign!

Oh, I’m rambling again. I should stop that. Where’s my Ritalin? But seriously, let’s make this chicken-egg thing happen!

Oh, it's pronounced "jim"

2008-06-23T19:32:00.001-05:00

So, I’m thinking about joining a gym. Now, I don’t know if I’m actually going to join a gym, but I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. I know what people are probably thinking: “Achan, you don’t need to join a gym. You’re like an African Adonis. We’re kinda amazed that you don’t spend all day in front of a full length mirror gazing at the magnificence that is you.” And to that I say, don’t be silly. I don’t even own a full length mirror… oh, but if I did. My, the gazing I would do.

Sorry. Got side tracked. But I’m back now. So, I’ve been thinking about joining a gym. Even though you can’t tell (at least that’s what I like to tell myself) I’m getting a bit soft in the middle. Every few nights I wake up covered in sweat and breathing hard. Those are usually the nights Erin slips me a blue pill and has her way with me while I’m sleeping… but other nights I wake up sweating and breathing hard because of The Dream.

You know The Dream. Everyone knows The Dream. One second you’re sprightly and vernal, frolicking in the hallowed halls of high school with nary a care in the world. The next second you blink and you’re a rounding, graying, sore joint, back pain having old ass twenty-seven year old. We’ve all had that dream. And if you say you haven’t I’m gonna come over and kick you. Right in the baby maker. I know you know what I’m talking about. So, yeah, I’m thinking about joining a gym.

But you see, the trouble with gyms, or rather gym memberships, is that they cost money. I wouldn’t have so much of a problem with this if I felt like I would actually be a member of something… or if I had money. I mean, who came up with THAT scheme??? Seriously, what are the benefits? “You give us you’re money, and in return we won’t make sure you come at least 3 times a week (or even once), we won’t invite you to our house for drinks and/or dinner (but mostly drinks), and in ten years saying you are a member of this gym won’t exactly give you the extra umph you need to hobnob with the rich and famous. We’ll be taking your money now. Or, if you’d rather, we can take it right out of your bank account. Little by little, month by month.” Wow, I guess when it’s put THAT way why wouldn’t I want to join a gym???

Okay, so truthfully, I’m not thinking about joining a gym. I just thought all that shit would be fun to say. That WAS fun! I feel much better now. Oh, but seriously I’m looking for a gym.

Apparently there are only three kinds of gyms in Philly. Type 1: Your Bally’s and Bally’s-like gyms. The place where pretty people go to see and be scene. Clearly, I don’t fit the bill for this. No, it’s not because I’m hideous, but thanks for asking. It’s mostly because I don’t want to deal with avoiding strangers that are eye fucking. If there’s one lesson I’ve taken from college it’s this: the only thing more awkward than pretending the be asleep while your roommate is fucking, is being in a room where complete strangers are eye fucking. It’s like there’s a party in the room, but you weren’t invited. And that’s just plain sad. So, Bally’s is probably out of the picture. Did I mention you might just have to take out a second mortgage to pay for the membership?

Type 2: Your Mighty Mick’s type gym. If you’ve ever seen Rocky, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t seen Rocky, stop reading this… wait, not yet. Read to the end of this sentence then stop reading this, go rent or buy Rocky, watch it, and then discuss. It’s ok. I’ll wait…

See it was good, wasn’t it? Maybe you decided you liked it so much you want to watch all six of the Rocky movies. Well, don’t. Stop after IV. Once he takes down Drago the whole series just goes to pot. Right. Down. The. Crapper.

So Mighty Mick’s is basically a cave with a naked bulb swinging on a frayed wire and dingy windows that barely let any light into the place. The owner will be about seven hundred years old and call everyone a bum, and the equipment will typically look like it was made by the owner’s father. Pretty sweet, I know. And surprisingly membership goes for only about $20 a month. Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried one of these.

Type 3: Your happy medium. Something like your Young Men’s Christian Association-type gyms. I hear they’re even letting the non-Christians join these days. SCORE! No matter where you go there’s gotta be some kind of guideline as to how crappy or nice these places can be. You can be sure that you won’t have to wait two hours for a machine because the person using it is really just checking him/her self out in the wall to wall mirror. But at the same time, you don’t have to worry about getting an STD from the equipment. It’s pretty much a win-win situation.

The only problem I’m having with the YMCA is that they charge you extra for tons of shit you’ll never use. They’re like your local cable provider. I mean, I know I could save so much money if I could go a la carte. Seriously, how much of my $44 a month will go towards aquatics? AQUATICS??? Really? Me? I don’t think so. How about we knock it down to $40 a month and I stay out of the pool? Sounds fair to me.

Alright. Now I guess I just have to make my decision. If anyone out there reading this has extensive gym experience, you’re advice would actually be welcomed. Seriously. I want to pump. Me. Up.

Monday sLAUGHTER

2008-04-14T20:10:00.004-05:00

I hate Mondays. I hate people who come into work on Mondays all chipper like it's Friday. I guess that means I hate Ms. Young... Well, I don't (not really), but she's probably on something. And if she isn't, well, she should be.

This is how my day started today:

On my way out from The Room That Controls My Destiny (otherwise known as the "that place where we keep the copier that's supposed to be a teacher's lounge but isn't because certain people use it at random times and make it totally uncomfortable for teachers to lounge in, and oh by the way did I mention that it's got a huge glass wall and everyone can see inside so you don't have any privacy anyway" room. TRTCMD pretty much dictates whether or not I'll have a good or bad day. Get copies done = good day... Crazy copier on the fritz = should have stayed in bed and practiced self love, or what ever it is that people do when they take sick days. I mean, I wouldn't know, since I only get 5. Plus, I'm pretty sure they'd send someone to my apartment to run some tests and make sure I was actually sick in the event that a sick day was used. But then again, that could just be me being paranoid and bitter, but dear me, I digress, and yes, this is another run on sentence, but it doesn't matter because I have a master's degree.

I didn't get much sleep last night, so my brain's pretty much as useful as a bowl of cold oatmeal. That being the case, I'll get to the point: As I was leaving TRTCMD none other then Ms. Young, aka Sworn Enemy Number Two, came waltzing in on a sun beam as a golden shower of light radiated from her hundred watt smile. That last sentence was kind of funny, because I thought of golden showers, the R Kelly type. THAT would be an interesting day at work if I was greeted with a golden shower first thing in the morning, or any time of the day for that matter. I'd probably have to talk to legal about that. I think our conversation went something like this:

Ms. Young: Hi, Achan!
Me: *incoherent mumbling*
Ms. Young: High Five!
Now, I'd just like to take this time to say that I am perhaps the world's biggest high five fan. It's like a weird applaud you do with a friend that says, good job world. We did it. God bless the high five. Anyway, I gave her the high five before I realized what what happening.
Me: What was that about?
Ms. Young: Its Monday!
Me: I hate you...

Man, I love my co-workers. G'night.

House 1, Achan 0.

2008-03-26T17:35:00.006-05:00

I just came back from hauling a coupla boxes to my house. Yeah, house. Mine. It makes me feel grown up to say that. Well, as grown up as a 27 year old who still reads comic books, plays Wii, thinks a bowl of cereal and cartoons are a fine way to spend a Saturday morning, and often replies to students with "your face" when he doesn't agree with what they think can feel. A pseudo grown up. I even called my contractor to complain about a few things. I mean, we're only like, what, a month behind schedule. I guess he figures, "heck what's a little more time between friends!" Well, I don't think we're friends, I have like 3 friends and last time I checked, sir, none of them are named Larry. Maybe he thinks he's getting paid by the hour. Or better yet, maybe it's like the crazy Winchester lady. My contractor probably thinks that if he stops building, he will die. That guy's got problems. But I digress.

While I was at my house I got my hands a little dirty, so I did what any normal person would do: I washed my hands. Or, rather, I attempted to wash my hands. I turned on the hot water, let it run for a few seconds, put my hand in the water, and then marveled at the smell of delicious boiling dark meat. Turns out that oh-so-alluring-aroma was coming from my hand. I didn't get any third degree burns, but it kinda smarted a bit. And I might have cried a little. But I'm not ashamed to admit that. I'm secure enough in my masculinity. To cry. Just not in front of people. That would be a pansy thing to do. I'm a pansy. So, after getting almost burned I decided to go check out the hot water heater. I don't know how many of you have experience with heaters, so I'll describe mine.

My gas heater is the prettiest gas heater on the block. She's big and cylindrical and enjoys long walks on warm beaches. Those things aren't really that important. What is important is that there is a dial on the heater with notches that stand for various temperatures. It would be super duper awesome if someone was smart enough to label each notch with its temperature setting, but I guess that's not going to happen until we perfect the flying car and meal in a pill. Bigger fish to fry, right? After a few minutes of fishing around, I found the heater's manual where there was a lovely diagram of the temperature setting for each dial. My water heater was set to 140 degrees Fahrenheit. 140 F may not sound so bad (at least it didn't to me). That is, it didn't sound so bad until I read the half page opposite from the diagram.

It went something like this: Warning families with small children or the elderly may want to use lower settings to avoid burns blah, blah, blah. This was followed by a brief description of how many seconds it would take for skin to burn at each temperature. It goes a little something like this:

120 F - 10 minutes
125 F - 2 minutes
140 F - 6 seconds
150 F - 2 seconds
160 F - 0.5 seconds
170 F - 0.25 seconds
180 F - There wasn't a time given, just a skull and bones with the eyes x'd out. Damn that's hot!

Ok, so I made the last part up. However, my heater goes up to 160 F. I mean, I guess I could see why you would want 160 F temperature water coming out of your faucet. Maybe you wanted a boiled potato, like, right now... at this very moment. You just pick it up and hold it under the faucet for a minute or so and PRESTO! Ready to mash! And before anyone say anything, yes, I know that water boils at 212 F and you'd probably have to hold that potato for quite some time under your hundred sixty degree water, but I can guarantee you that somewhere in America someone is attempting to do this at this very moment. So, that's how it goes. Apparently someone saw it fit to have hot water that could take your skin off in six seconds. For those of you who are big fans of hot water, but not so much of skin. Between 120 and 125 degrees if what the manufacturer recommends the heater is set to, in case you were wondering. 125 degrees is significantly less than 140, give or take a few degrees.

I just thought this was a fucking weird thing that my tiny boy brain just happened to latch on to. Yeah, I know, kinda weak for my first post in about a kajillion years, but fuck it, it's my blog, and if you don't like it, go to hell.

Oh, and if you started reading this thinking it had anything to do with that time Hugh Laurie beat me at tennis, well I apologize. Maybe some other time.

I smell like shit, but that's ok.

2007-12-28T12:45:00.000-05:00

Anyway.

I got up this morning and went on my morning constitutional. Now, for most people “morning constitutional” means the little bit of walking-slash-exercise they squeeze into their waking hours to fool themselves that they are promoting good health. My morning constitutional, however, consists of me walking over to my bathroom and squeezing some thing out of my bum. Taking a twosies. Dropping a deuce… Bombs over Baghdad. Depositing a Mr. Hanky and what not.

Where am I going with this? Excellent question. In my bathroom I keep a can of air freshener, it’s vanilla, I think. Aerosol. It makes my bathroom smell like, um… vanilla, while causing minute damage to the ozone layer, so I guess win-win situation, huh? But I’ve had this thing for, like, four years. Literally four years. I’m not even shitting you. I’ve had this one can of air freshener (which by the way kills me. They call it “air freshener” but does it really freshen the air? I think not. They should just call it shit odor mixer upper, because, let’s face it, all it does is mix whatever smell comes out of the bottle with the smell of shit. They should have fragrances like Lilac and Pooh or Cinnamon Poop or Fill-in-the-blank-and-ass. I have never in all my lives gone into a bathroom after someone had two’d it up and then used half a bottle of air freshener and just inhaled deeply thinking, “wow, this place smells great! The canned air really disguises the fact that someone just took a massive DUMP in here.” Nope, never happened. Probably not once in the history of poopdom). I think I’m going to name my vanilla shit cover upper. Might as well, I’ve had it longer than I’ve had some friends. Hell, I’ve had it longer than Britney Spears has had custody of her kids, and they let her name them, right?

Why do single people even have air freshener? Since when did that make sense? Like, I don’t sit around my apartment after using the bathroom thinking, “geez, what the hell is that smell? I smell really bad… I should cover that up, or maybe mix it in with fresh jasmine or some other nice smelling flower…” It just doesn’t happen. Hell, I could take a bath in my own pooh and then sit around all day and not mind, and you know why? Because it’s my pooh and dammit,I love myself… especially late at night… when I’m lonely. But I digress.

If it were up to me I’d just say fuck it, let the whole world know about my lovely poopie creation. I guess most of society doesn’t share the same outlook as I do on this subject. Four years. At this rate I’m thinking of buying little miniature air fresheners and starting up a family, but every time I go to the store to pick them up, I just get the feeling that my vanilla doesn’t want to raise a family in the city and would much rather prefer to wait until it had a house in the burbs where it could raise a family. Some place with a nice school and maybe a scout troop for the little ones. Definitely a good public library. That damn aerosol can and his aerosol family are gonna be living la vida dulce while I’m stuck here in the city. You know what? Never mind. Fuck my aerosol can’s happiness.

Just as an aside, there was a fairly interesting introduction to the original post, but I’m apparently being censored by Big Sister. She’s watching me right now. Probably making sure I don’t reference anyone as a douche.

Baby, it's cold outside

2007-11-17T23:00:00.001-05:00

So, Erin wants a new coat, you know, for when the weather gets cold. Like it is now. It’s supposed to be one of those “down-water-resistant-I-ski-on-the-weekend” type coats. Personally, I don’t know why she’s even bothering since she makes fun of my “George Castanza Coat”. For those of you who were possibly in a coma or Amish during the 90’s, the “George Castanza Coat” also known as “The Puffy Coat” is the greatest piece of winter wear ever invented. I mean, it’s gore-tex, after all.

Anyway, I love my coat. It’s big and it’s puffy and it keeps me warm. When I’m going through my “What am I looking for in a coat?” checklist, it pretty much fits the bill. I went out and got my coat the old fashioned way: I drove down to the department store, searched through a few billion racks until I found a coat that would satisfy my needs (sadly, it didn’t satisfy ALL of my “keep me warm in the winter” needs, but that’s neither here nor there) and also didn’t cost roughly the same as the GDP of a third world country. I got my coat, paid in cash, and left one satisfied customer.

Erin, on the other hand, is going about things in a slightly more high-tech manner. Currently, she’s looking at coats/jackets on-line and making comments while I’m pretending to pay attention, though, I’m pretty sure she’s figured out that I usually tune out at times like this and think about who to start and sit on my fantasy football team or the next Carolina game. You know, things of high importance.

Anyway, as I pretend to pay attention to Erin’s quest for the perfect winter coat I can’t help but think, “isn’t it amazing how technology has let us streamline our lives to the point where we can have minimal human contact in just about everything we do?” It’s GREAT! Let’s face it, people suck, and the less we have to do with each other, the better off we’ll be. Good riddance, I say! It’s like the credit card commercials where everyone’s so in tune with each other that they move in theatrical harmony as they pay for their whatever-they’re-buyings with the electronic swipey card (not the actual name, but I’m sure it’s pretty close). Well, in these commercials there’s always one loser (probably the type of person who didn’t watch Seinfeld) who tries to pay with cash. This is when everything goes to pot. The music screeches to a halt, random items tumble and topple, in short, paying with cash leads to the onset of Revelations. So, as Erin surfs from website to website looking for that special something to keep her warm during the cold, cold, winter months, I can’t help but smile. I smile because I know one thing that she doesn’t: no matter what her coat looks like or how warm it keeps her I will make fun of it and call it her George Castanza Coat. God bless technology.

Only 49%???

2007-11-04T15:59:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since I put up one of these things, so I guess I should do this dang thang. You know, to ensure that I make quota or whatever it is that keeps this site running. Plus my reader has been really bummed that I haven't posted anything in a while.

So what's the haps? Other than the fact that my job is killing me. Slowly, but surely... and enjoying every minute of it... the only new thing in my life is that I will soon be paying mortgage instead of rent soon. Yeah, who knew? THAT was unexpected! Holla! Excuse me, I misspelled that. Hola! That one was for all my South American peeps. Represent!

Anyway, the whole getting a house and renovating a house has led me to find out, nee - discover, a few things about myself. Things that I find slightly alarming, but I am not ashamed to admit them.

1. I secretly want to be an interior decorator. And have been buying magazines that confirm this.

2. You know that really annoying Ikea commercial? The one where the girl sings, "Be brave not beige. Build a rainbow palace not an oatmeal cage!" While her living room tries to become a walk-in bag of Skittles? Well, not literally, but I'm pretty sure they managed to fit in every color visable to the human eye, and if you look close enough, even a few that aren't. Erin hates this commercial and changes the channel every time it comes on. But me, I secretly like it. Don't tell her.

3. The thought of being able to run laundry and get shit done in my own home and NOT having to wait in line for a washer or dryer at the laundry mat gives me a bit of a chubby.

4. While I will have a gas range of some kind, I'm REALLY looking forward to barbecuing every meal on my back patio. And trust me, when I say every meal I mean EVERY MEAL. If breakfast is a bowl of cereal you can bet your sweet ass that I'm gonna figure out a way to bbq or grill it.

5. I'm a bit on the fence about this one, but I figure you can't have a home without cable, right? So the thought of cable puts a smile on my face. And it'll make Erin happy since I'm sure she thinks I live in the stone age. Or I'm Amish. And I am neither of those things, though I do really, really enjoy stones.

And on an unrelated note, I now have a new tv show on dvd that makes me feel all happy in my happy place for those times when I'm not feeling so jolly. Sorry Scrubs, but you have officially been replaced by The Office. Over the past two weekends I've watched seasons 1-3 and it's the bomb like Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Office marathons are way better than weekly installations. Jeez, I've wasted a lot of time writing this silly lil' thing. Maybe if I had more time for procrastination I could write more. We should set the clocks back every weekend. That would be sweet.

Isn't It Ironic?

2007-09-28T05:03:00.000-05:00

Hey, Erin, this one's for you. I hope you enjoy my proper use of the word IRONIC.

So last weekend I bought a new watch because the digital display on my old one stopped working and I need it to time the kids in class (and the workers in the sweat shop I have recently invested in). This week for reasons unknown to me, the alarm started going off on the old watch at 5:15AM everyday like... clockwork (rim shot, please). Usually, this doesn't bother me, but the last few days I've gotten very little sleep and so it drove me a little crazy today. (I know, you're probably thinking why didn't you just throw the watch away, idiot???). Well, clearly I didn't just throw the watch away because I'M AN IDIOT. So, like I was saying, haven't been getting much sleep lately, so I was super annoyed when the alarm went off today. I grabbed the watch and threw it across the room. It continued to beep, but now I could detect a sinister, mocking undertone in the beeping. This led me to grab the watch and put it in a choke hold of Homer Simpson proportions. In doing so I pushed all the buttons on the damn thing at once. There was one final beep (which I assumed to be the watches version of Hell's wind staff) and then thinking I had won, I placed the watch down. A few minutes later I noticed that the digital display on the watch was working again and all it took was for me to buy a new watch and then treat the old one like a red headed step child. Isn't that ironic? Don't ya think? A little too ironic. Who would have thought? It figures... It's like rayyyyyyyyyyyyyy yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnn on your wedding day.

PSA for all my lady friends.

2007-08-30T18:31:00.000-05:00

Alright ladies, let's stop beating around the bush. I mean, I'm as big a fan of women going au naturale as the next guy. It's your body, YOU do what you want to do. Ya know, you wanna experiment with drugs, go right ahead. You wanna put it on display and slide up and down a pole? Heck, who am I to tell you otherwise? You don't feel like shaving your legs, I'm OK with that. Hell, you can even let chia pets sprout out of your arm. I'm. OK. With. That. But the line's gotta be drawn somewhere and much like the good Captain Picard said oh so long ago, "The line must be drawn HE-YAH!" Extreme facial hair.

If you've seen me recently or not so recently, you know I'm a bit on the scruffy side. Luckily I'm a guy and I can look as bummy as I want and that's ok. This is America: home of the double Whopper and the double standard. But let's not delve into the deep dark depths of the abyss which is Achan. Not just yet. Oh, no, we still have an ever mounting army of fuzzy faced females we gotta put to bed before we even THINK about climbing aboard the Achan train. Over the past two days I have seen 3 woman with more facial hair than me. This ratio would be unacceptable even to the French.

The first wolf lady I encountered on my way home from dropping a friend off way the fuck off in Norristown. Sorry. You're gonna have to ignore the tone on that last one, it's just that when you drive for like a bagillion miles and it's rush hour and hot, the last thing you want to see is the wolf woman on your trip. I approached the toll and honestly thought I would howl and ask her if she happened to have ever seen or maybe even starred in a lil' 80s flick by the name of Teen Wolf. Instead I kind of gave/tossed my buck twenty-five at here as I drove through. I didn't really feel like sticking around as I had no silver bullets and she looked semi-underfed.

Fuzzy faced female number two I ran into on the way into work today. There were some people doing last minute cleaning and I must say, I might actually give her a pass since the staff spent the first five minutes of the day trying to decide whether or not she was actually a she. We decided to go the democratic route and the majority ruled: female. After which it was unanimously decided that she was one hairy faced female.

The last leg of my odyssey took place on the El on my way home. There was a lady who got on the train (and this one I knew right away to be a lady because she had, like, triple M breast that she was carrying around in a basket because someone told her that bras were out of style. Anyway, this lady was wearing a Dr. J shirt. Maybe you've seen the picture: he's smiling and facing the camera with one hand placed contemplatively on his chin. In this particular flick, the good doctor is sporting a fresh goatee. I looked from the shirt to the lady's face to the shirt and back again before concluding that she must be the world's biggest Julius Erving fan or had been on the losing end of the world's worst bet. Said lady was rockin' (yeah, we're bring 'rockin' back, them other slang words better watch their backs) the exact same style of facial hair as Dr. J. I tried to avoid staring, but of course, as with any good train wreck I kept glancing, which caused her to think I was interested, which caused me to get off two stops early and walk home.

OK. I'm bored of this silly little thing now. Plus the rant's basically over. And it's Thursday, so there's good TV on NBC again. Weird, huh? Seacrest OUT!

Super Bowl, Tecmo Style

2007-07-21T09:32:00.000-05:00

This morning I woke up and had a crazy, cracked out urge to play some football. That's right. Football. N. F. L. Not the pansy-shamnsy stuff they play in Europe and like, um, 90% of the world. I'm talking about REAL football, as only the Americans and Tecmo can do. Now, I know there are some out there who are wondering WTF I'm talking about. But, if you're a child of the 90's there's no way you could NOT remember Tecmo Super Bowl. Matter of fact you'd have to have been a total vegetable throughout the 90's to not know what I'm talking about. Or Amish. If you're Amish you might have missed it. But then again, if you're Amish, chances are pretty good you're not reading this anyway. What with your backwardness and all. Silly Amish.

Anyway, I played Tecmo Super Bowl online for like an hour and you know what? I'm ranking it right up there with the best season of Madden in terms of fun factor. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love technology. Hell, I keep hoping I find a girl whose parents were crazy enough to name her Technology just so I could fall in love with her, get married, and have an army of nerds. I'd go around telling people how much I love Technology and I'd keep pictures in my wallet to show them all the great technology I possess. Then there'd be times when we'd be on the outs, and I'd be all like, FUCK TECHNOLOGY!!! I fucking HATE Technology. But, you know, eventually I'd get over it and we'd be a happy couple again... but I digress. Anywayyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Super Tecmo Bowl. One of the greatest of all time. And I bet everyone remembers the best part about this game. That's right: Bo Jackson. Way before Jack Bauer and Robo Vick, there was Bo Jackson. The man was a monster. Nee, he wasn't even a man. He was a god in 8-bit black and white and would rain down fear in the hearts of all those who lined up against him. With the help of Bo I was able to post a 56-0 win in a game I haven't played in years. For those of you that never got a chance to check out the brilliance that was Tecmo Bo, here's a little something to remind you of how deprived your childhoods were:

Greatest Touchdown EVER

Yeah. Now that's what I call football. Long live Super Techmo Bowl. Long live Techmo Bo Jackson.

Happy (belated) birthday, America

2007-07-05T10:58:00.000-05:00

Sigh.

You know things have been a bit iffy when you start a monologue with a sigh. That's hardly a good sign. That's the way the near death/dying hero or heroine starts their final, well written and carefully crafted words in any death scene worth it's salt. I, however, lacking a team of writers or a really creative editor to tell me how to not make my writing suck (or to at least make it suck as little as possible) begin with a sigh simply because that's how I feel at the moment.

It's July 5, 2007. America just celebrated her 231st birthday and, is it just me or is she starting to show her age? A few days before the big 2-3-1 our president decides to commute the sentence of Scooter Libby, who up to this point was the only tangible evidence of this administration holding themselves accountable for any wrong doing of anything. Ever. Now, I have two problems with that. The first is that no grown man should go by the nickname "Scooter". Especially if you're expected to hold a position of power. You know what, fuck that, name one profession where if you found out the person you just hired was named Scooter you wouldn't immediately check all his references before conducting your search for his replacement. The only grown people who should be aloud to refer to themselves and have other refer to them as Scooter work for Vespa. That should be a law. Scooter. That ranks up there with grown ups who never drop the "ie" or "y" endings from their names. There are exceptions, but not many.

The other thing that bothers me is that on September 30, 2003 George Walker had this to say, and I quote,

"If there is a leak out of my administration, I want to know who it is. And if the person has violated the law, the person will be taken care of."

I guess he meant taken care of in the old boys club "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine" sort of way. But then I was never much for political science, so what do I know?

Also, the 4th of July got rained out in Philly and all along the east coast. I guess it was only fitting, right? Maybe it was just America weeping. I prefer the image of America peeing on the Constitution and burning the Magna Carter. But, like I said, she's getting old. I guess most of the fight has gone out of the old girl, so the rebel imagery probably doesn't hold anymore, now does it?

But I digress. What I really wanted to do was share one of my new favorite poems. It's by a guy named Brian Dykstra. He seems like a solid cat, at least from what I gleamed from googling him. Who knows, maybe we'll hit it off and I'll ask him to be my myspace buddy. If you like stalking as much as I do you can start at his official website

www.briandykstra.net

The name of this poem is Pushing Bush, and it goes a little something like dis:

I wish to push Bush on his tush.
George Walker,
Not much of a talker.
Raised in his cushy nest in Texas.
Earning nothing; discerning less than.
His mess with Texas distress
Concerning our yearning for returning this country to peace
And earning some relief from his intelligence spurning.
He’s just another Bush we’d be better off burning.

I wish to push Bush on his tush
And beat on Rumsfeld like drums on a battle field
Of which he prattles and wields nonsensical deals
Of unarmored vehicles from the comfort of home
Where he answers to nicknames like “Rummy,”
Proving once and for all that his chummy
President boss and his white house of whores isn’t the first and last dummy.

I wish to push Bush on his tush
And stir in the sleaze of Condoleeza,
Our dreaded in over her head
Secretary of fake.
So that with this burning Bush, it might be twice as nice
To stir in a spicy side of hot, sizzling Rice.

I wish to push Bush with a knife
In a rainy day drained with Dicky Cheney
Who can’t wrap his brain around what it’s like to be a detainee.
So Geneva gets the stick
While the troops get sick
Of dreading beheadings.
It’s sick how quick these tricky oil men fancy themselves slick
When the truth is everybody knows that Cheney’s a dick.

When push comes to shove Bush is too dumb to love
Let’s stop saying he isn’t stupid. Everybody, enough:
He believes in Santa Claus.
“If I’m the right kinda Christian I’ll get better stuff.”
I wish to push Bush on his duff.
No, that’s not it.
I’d like to slap him senseless with a Crawford caught bass.
Give him a transfusion of at least second-class.
Explain the relationship between critical and mass,
Blur the one between crude oil and gas.
Ponder if there exist even one test he can pass.
Choke him to death on his own Texas sass.
In short: I’d love to shove Bush up his ass.

Well, there it is I hope everyone had an enjoyable 4th of July.

New Cell Phone Rings

2007-06-06T14:58:00.001-05:00

So, we're just chillin' in the office when Konrad's new phone begans to ring. Not such a big deal as there are no kids around and we're all just pretending to work anyway. I mean, it's the end of the year for Pete's sakes. What, you want us to EARN our paychecks? Ha! I think not. Besides, it ain't like we do a lot of work anyway. I'm just kidding. We work like African immigrants fresh off the boat. Anyway, apparently Konrad doesn't know how to do anything with his new phone so we all have to be subjected to crazy random rings.

That's when I get my Great Idea. Yeah, it's such a fantabulous idea that it gets it's own name. My Great Idea. It's like family or something. "You know what?" I ask the room. After about thirty seconds of random guessing (it was sort of a rhetorical question, be tee double you) I unleash my Great Idea upon the rest of the 3-1-2.

"I'm gonna invent a cell phone ring that's just a person sneezing or coughing. That way instead of people getting pissed and telling you to shut it the fuck off, all they're gonna do is look at you and say 'God bless you.'" We took a quick vote and decided that this was, in fact, a Great Idea. I had even made plans to tender my resignation so I could devote all of my free time to making this happen. Little did I know that my hopes and dreams would gonna come crashing down harder than a meth addicted mom at the Betty Ford Center. That analagy made WAY more sense in my head than it did once I actually got it out of my head.

"Check this out," Konrad says to no one in particular. He then proceeds to play what sounds like a cross between a baby great white shark choking on a smaller, less menacing animal and a chainsaw. It turns out somebody already invented the cough/sneeze ringtone. I mean, they already invented it if you happen to sound like a 107 year old woman with emphasima when you cough. Which I don't. But if grandma's looking for an inconspicuous ringtone for her telegraph machine. Well, it's out there. Anyway, good thing I didn't resign. I guess I'll just keep teaching till a stroke of genius comes along. Or till a stroke comes along... whichever comes first.

I'm a raving idiot... no, really.

2007-06-04T21:25:00.000-05:00

So. Here I am. Lazing around on my couch, pretending to work on the IEP that’s been open for the past hour or so. Maybe if I tell myself “I’ve been working hard” enough times I will believe it. But really, does that work with anything other than “I’msopretty, I’msopretty, I’msopretty”? Probably not. Though, it never hurts to try. I guess all I’ve really been doing for the past hour is admiring the bargain curtains that I put up, which look simply SMASHING hanging from the faux brass shower rods in my living room. The Taj Mahal ain’t got shit on me!

Aren’t girls great? Whoa, where’d that come from? One minute you’re staring at drapes, the next minute you’re thinking about girls. One would think that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but since I’m doing the thinking and not this One fella, I guess it doesn’t matter what One thinks. Anyway I like girls. I like drapes. They both make me horny and um, I guess they both turn a house into a home. Yeah. Drapes and girls, they go together like Fox News and unbiased reporting. Back to my earlier statement: aren’t girls great? Well, ok. Let’s amend that: some girls are great. Some girls are great at making life suck. Those girls aren’t great. Then again, maybe you’re, like, some tortured Goth teen in such for the perfect girl to make your life suck. In which case, those girls are great too. So I guess it’s unanimous: girls are great.

Jeezus Christ on a popsicle stick. What the hell am I talking about? I guess I really don’t want to write this IEP. Maybe I should say something coherent before I wrap this up. In keeping my streak of most-consecutive-months-as-the-world’s-coolest-person in tact, I decided to watch the national spelling bee last Thursday. Aside from learning there’s some strange sect that manages to produce bigger and bigger dorks each year, and that spelling bee parents are only slightly less crazy than pre-teen beauty pageant parents (by the way, you know what would be the best reality show ever? If we filmed the parents of a bunch of beauty pageant contestants and the parents of a bunch of spelling be contestants and made the audience guess who was who. I mean, wouldn’t that be at least as entertaining as the show about the 5th graders? See, this is why I should move to Cali… but I digress). The other thing I learned is what is quickly becoming my new favorite word: kakistocracy. Kakistocracy – n – government by the worst persons; a form of government in which the worst persons are in power. Has this word been around forever? Why am I only hearing about it now? Personally, I blame the public school system. I think I’m going to call it a night. With all these crazy thoughts in my head I’ll probably dream of a great girl or an inept government. Either way, it promises to be entertaining.

Sorry, Peter. Wendy doesn't live here any more.

2007-05-20T16:32:00.000-05:00

Growing up, growing old. That’s how I feel. Time to put childish toys to bed. So I spent most of my afternoon in bookstores. Looking at books. Browsing. Inhaling their aroma, if you will. And I ended up buying Wicked by Gregory Maguire, I Love You, Beth Cooper by Larry Doyle, and 28 Days Later: The Aftermath by Steve Niles. Ok, so maybe one of those IS a graphic novel, but the operative word here is NOVEL.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Achan is one sexy mofo.”

Stop, you’re making me blush. Seriously, cut that shit out!

Ok, so maybe you’re not thinking that. You’re probably thinking something along the lines of, “Since when did buying books make you grown up?” Well, apparently since I said it did. There. But really, it’s what goes along with buying the books. About six months ago I retired my PS2. At the time I figured I’d just unplug her and free up some space in the living room. But since she’s been away I’ve been reading WAY more. So, yeah, while my reflexes and hand-eye coordination may be suffering slightly, I’m feeling just a tab bit more worldly and mature.

Well, actually, I unplugged my PS2 because I was planning to buy a Nintendo Wii. Pronounced “wee” as in “this is so much fun! WEEEEEE!!!!!” Either than or, “Thinking about the amount of money I just spent on another video game system makes me want to wee my pants.” I’m sure one of those applies. So I was supposed to be saving money for this game system, and every time I buy a new book I can hear my inner child muffle a scream.

“Why don’t you love me anymore,” is what Inner Child Achan said to me today as I took more Wii money and put it towards books. I was feeling a little guilty at the way Inner Child Achan was looking at me, so I made him go to his room, sans dinner. Problem solved.

Also, if you’re at all into what the Apocalypse might be like if it were to be handled by somewhat less than capable Satanists, demons, and angels, might I suggest you pick up Good Omens by Neil Gaiman. Seriously, the end of the world has never been so hilarious. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go beat my inner child into silent submission.

haiku # 39

2007-04-08T14:00:00.000-05:00

I tried to think of
something GRAND to write. But my
pen had other plans.

sometimes i

2007-04-08T13:43:00.000-05:00

sometimes i write
to right wrongs
to take me back to earlier times
that i know are long gone

sometimes i write
to wrong rights
take back some of the choices i made
just to simplify life

sometimes i write for life and liberty
and because i fear wasting everything
that life has given me

sometime i write for the pursuit of happiness
because though we never catch it
it's nice to believe in what it promises

sometimes i'm tired and i just write
to jot down glimses of life,
that shape my perspectives like
i'm in a cave and catch shadows off the glimpses of light

Happy Easter. But not really. and stuff.

2007-04-08T11:34:00.000-05:00

I always get nostalgic around the holidays. It doesn't even matter what holiday we're talking about: Christmas, Easter, Yom Kippur, Saturnalia, Winter Solstice, whatever. It's like I can set my biological clock by them. Usually this isn't such a good thing, as it tends to make my depression worse, but due to the miracle of electro-shock and happy pills (god, I love me some happy pills, sigh) I'm pretty much back to my good ole homeostatic self. This lack of crazy, psychotic thoughts in my head tends to give me a little more free time to think thoughts. Usually thinking is a dangerous hobby, and today's topic of discussion (I use the term discussion loosely, as it's probably difficult to have a discussion between yourself and the voices in your head) is nostalgia. So I just sit back and let the nostalgia wash over me.

Today I got to thinking about relationships and friendships and what defines those two concepts. I always thought that when I was all growed up I would have these wonderful adult friendships like the ones on those 30 minute sitcoms where there's a core group of friends that I would go adventuring with and we'd make each other laugh when appropriate and hug it out when needed. I dunno. Maybe I'm just not grown up, but sadly my life has never been that way. At the rate I'm going, I'll never grow up, then I won't even have Wendy as a friend.

So, yeah... I guess the topic of friendship has been on my mind since we got back from the college trip. It's always been pretty easy for me to make a fool of myself and get people to laugh a little bit and say, "you know, I wouldn't mind kicking it with that guy for a while. Heck, maybe even a year or two. We'll see how long the Achan Train is running for before the shit gets totally derailed." See that's a relationship. i have plenty of relationships. Heck, I had a relationship with one of our waiters at dinner the other night. I don't think he's calling me up when he gets the news that his mom's battling breast cancer. So see... relationship, but not friendship.

I've been working on a theory, and this is based solely on observations from my life, and on no empirical data what so ever. So if you happen to be writing your final on The Effects of Stressers on Friendships and Relationships and this comes up when you google articles, remember: NOT A RELIABLE SOURCE! Well, unless you're last name is Piaget or something. But that's a great segue to my next little fluffy thought balloon.

Reliable sources. Those are your true friends. Any way, my theory is that at any given point in your life, you only have two people who are truly friends. That's right, two. I know. Fucking hard to believe, right? But since it's my study/observation, what the fuck are YOU gonna do about it. That's what I thought.

So yeah a friendship means you show up at that person's door at 3AM covered in blood and the first thing they say is, "where's the body? I'll help you get rid of it." See, THAT'S a friendship. Anyway, I sometimes verbalize my feeling of not having "friends" and people (though, not my friends) look at me like I'm a raving looney bird.

"But Achan," they say, "you know people!" Yeah, I also know algebra, but is algebra my friend? I think NOT! And that's how it goes with friendships. You meet someone and you start a relationship and that morphs into a friendship and it's all good for a year, or two, or three, or whatever, and then back to a relationship. In my final write up I'll be sure to include the bell curve that fully illustrates this concept. After all, I know how much people like illustration. Heck, you get to know an illustration long enough and eventually it'll become your friend.

This being Easter and all, I guess I'll take a few minutes to tie the holiday into my random madness, observations. So. You think Jesus considered the Apostles friends? I bet at one point he did. You see, this fits perfectly in with my theory (and the bell curve, which I just realized would be an oscillating wave, but fuck it.)

So, for like 30 years J.C. is just going around, he's on chill mode, you know hanging out, learning. And then one day he's like, "yo, you wanna join my club?" So he gathers up a rag tag bunch of individuals who at first are just his road dogs and they form relationships. Then that bond shifts and solidifies and friendships are formed and every one's like, "dude, I would DEFINITELY die for my man J.C." and you know, they actually mean it. But then we hit that downward slope and all of a sudden you find yourself betrayed, no body's got your back, and the next thing you know, you're literally hanging out on a giant kite frame with a couple of losers taking shots at you. So, it's been a while since I've done the whole Catholic religious thing, but that's pretty much how I remember it.

Anyway, my point is, if that was Jesus' experience with relationships and friendships, how do I even stand a chance? So, yeah. Happy Easter everyone, take that home and chew on it when you run out of Jelly Beans.

Apparently it's rude to call people "white"

2007-04-07T20:00:00.000-05:00

So, one of the things I missed out on was growing up in the 60s and 70s. Sure, I know what you're thinking: "What? You're upset because you missed out on the beatings and threats???" I know, right. I mean who wouldn't be upset about that. But I also missed out on the free love and um, recreational experiences. But most of all, I missed out on calling The Man "Whitey". Sure, I could do it now, but these days it just doesn't mean the same. I mean, heck, some of my best friends are NAMED Whitey for pete's sake. It just doesn't have the same ring to it. I don't think many people would bat an eye these days if you referred to a random caucasion individual as "whitey"

But little did I know that is is unPC to call some one "white". Well, at least that's the prevailing thought amongst Philadelphia youth. Even the failry intelligent ones. I've heard stories of the whole white disrespect thing, but only recently got to see it in action. It's sort of like the giant squid. Sure, you and your buddies sit around and tell stories about it, but until you land one yourself, it's just a bunch of hooey. Yeah, I said it: hooey.

As we're sitting for our last dinner with the kids on the Great HBCU Tour of '07 everyone was passing around digital cameras and sharing all the fond memories that were captured throughout the week. If only Kodak could come up with a way to capture staying up till 2 AM to ensure that all the kiddies remianed celibate. But I'm pretty sure Hallmark has a card for that, so it's all good. But I digress. A group of young men were going through my pics, nee, flicks (or flickety-flicks, but only if you're cool like that) and marveling at my picture taking skillz. They soon finished with the tour pics and went through the Chrismas pictures, asking me 101 questions about my family along the way. Then they got to a few pictures and before asking any questions there was a brief huddle. This sort of worried me. Usually when young adults huddle like that it means only one of two things. I have forgotten what those two things are, but trust me, they ain't good.

After their mini conference, one of the guys (who I can only assume had won some kind of election during the huddle and was not representing the group) asked me, "Mr. F, who's the light skinned lady in the pictures?" I thought for a few seconds, and since I don't know any "light skinned ladies" told them that my sisters aren't light skinned and I had no idea about who they were talking about.

There was another mini conference and Fearless leader came back to me. "We mean, who's the really light skinned lady in the picture?" Now I'm starting to think that I'm the crazy one. I mean, I would remember taking pictures of my really light skinned lady friend right? I mean, I've been tired lately, but I usually do a good job remember the people in my life. Especially if I'm taking picture of them. One of the kids must have seen my quickly increasing fears that I had developed early onset Alzhiemer's. This student of above average intelligence finally bursts out, "Mr. F, we not trying to be rude, but who's the... white girl?"

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"See we knew you were gonna get mad if we called her white," someone said to me. I started to laugh and the look of coyness on the students' faces was quickly replaced by confusion.

"Guys, she IS white. What's the big deal?" I asked.

"See, I told y'all," someone said. "I was gonna ask you who the white girl was but everyone else said that would be rude. So we just called her light skinned."

"Light skinned, though?" I asked, some what amused for what passed for light skinned these days and thinking that it would have been REALLY hard to pass way back in the day if those were the standards.

"Well, technically, I guess she's really, really, really, really light skinned." And then, dinner was served.

just babbling

2007-02-11T20:23:00.000-05:00

Earlier today I wasn't feeling too good. I was feelin kinda old and kinda alone. It was just a kinda kinda day. But then something magical happened. Something so splenderfully great that it erased all my worldy worries. I took a trip to Best Buy. I know, I know... I buy things when I'm depressed and spend money that I could use on better things like books, tithings, food, etc. But this time I wasn't really depressed. Just a bit under the weather until the Best Buy gods openned the heavens and reached down to me saying, "Lo, Achan. Behold the $5.99 movie movie deal." That's right, people, can you say A Few Good Men and The Last Dragon (one of the ALL TIME GREATEST MOVIES EVER). I'm not kidding when I say this, but I almost creamed my pants. That's right, there in the L section of DVDs. It was a very close call.

But hold on, sportsfans, there's more! In keeping in line with my addiction to tv, I got seaon 2 of two of my favorite tv shows for almost half price EACH! That's right Lost and Grey's Anatomy for only $30 a piece. This time I did cream my pants. The store associates were non too happy about that. So now I'm left hoping for a snow day so I can stay in my jammies and watch kick ass dvds. On the negative side, the highlight of my week occured on Sunday. That means it's all downhill from here. Now, if only Seaon 3 of the wire didn't go for eighty-three freakin dollars I'd be a happy camper.

Growing old and alone

2007-02-11T12:05:00.000-05:00

So, this morning, when I woke up I was feeling some kinda way. I had just had the most fucked up dream probably in the history or dreams (which I'm still too traumatized to even think about right now. Let's just say, some therapist will be able to send his/her kids to an Ivy after they get done with me. There'll probably be money left over for grad school too) and am still going through Valentine's withdrawl. This, by the way, is the first time in quite some time that I have been valentineless. I remember giving advice once to a single friend that Valentine's Day isn't about being in love, it's about being loved. That, of course, was a bunch of crock. Christmas is about being loved. Thanksgiving is about being loved. Valentine's Day is about being in love, or if failing that, having somebody willing to share a bit or really, really good sex. But I digress.

So, I woke up from my fucked up dream and my feelings of ill will and still I was having an ok morning. But then IT happened. I went into the bathroom to do my morning ritual (not the morning masturbation, I mean the OTHER morning ritual). As I stare at my haggared reflection in the mirror, I notice, to my horror that my grey hair has gone white. I mean, white as the newly driven snow, white. White as the viewer base ot CMT, white. Before, when the bastard was gray, I didn't much mind (well, I did, but it didn't make me crazy. Ok, so it did. But, it didn't make me THIS crazy). I mean, seriously, my head looks like a KKK member at a Public Enemy concert. And if there's one thing I'm not a huge fan of, well, that'd be the KKK.

Since we're on the subject of gray that goes white... What if I went the Chief route. Yes, this is a Grey's Anatomy reference. After all, the chief dyed his hair and only looked slightly weired. I'm sure I could pull it off. I mean, I'm young and virile, right? I'm such a loser... sigh. Oh well. I guess what this leads to is me solicitating any mildly attractive to very attractive single females out there who are looking for true love on Valentine's Day, or maybe you're just looking for true love making. At this point I'm none too picky.

What happens when I pay attention to politics

2007-01-23T21:13:00.000-05:00

Is it just me, or is Dick Chaney like, 50 times more frightening in high def? Jesus Christ, if there was one person I would NOT want to take along with me as I did the handshaking, baby-kissing thing, it would be that man. I bet the boogie man scares his kids by telling them that there's a Dick Chaney hiding under beds and in closets just waiting to gobble up bad little boogie boys and girls.

Also, I would just like to say: Nancy Pelosi, thank you. Not only were you the perfect compliment to the gargoyle who stayed perched on the left side of the screen for much of the State of the Union, but, um, you've finally given horny young men every where a reason to watch this thing. Powerful women are SO hot. Well, except for Reno. I still have nightmares about her...

To make things more entertaining (and to keep me focused) I'll try to keep track of how many times Pelosi and Chaney blink. You know, just for shiggles.

But why, pretty lady were you looking like Bush's cheerleader? Jimminy, the way she applauded reminded me of when Grandma was still alive and would occasionally go into crazy clapping fits because she thought we had the clapper. We didn't. One of the kids would usually turn the lights on/off eventually cuz watching Grandma have a clapping seizure got kinda old, kinda quick.

Great shot of Hilary Clinton with her "I can't wait till I'm president and get my one free kill" look on her face. Meanwhile Senator Obama looked like he was nodding off. I bet he was thinking, "Damn, I was giving better speeches when I was three. This guy's president? For real? Damn."

Haha. Crazy talk about education. Of course he wants to leave the power in the hands of the communities and local schools. That way the government takes even less responsibility. Stupid partisanship. I wish we had NCLB when Bush was in school, then maybe he would have gotten some of those special services instead of his family having to buy his way out of school.

Dammit. I like the health insurance reform bit. I wonder who thought it up? Jeb, for the millionth time: George will NEVER learn if you keep doing his homework for him! Pelosi, seriously, calm the fuck down. No more caffeine before public appearances. Understood? Good.

Haha, Kerry just stood up. He had a "I lost to him??? I can't believe I lost to him" look on his face. Why does ABC feel the need to show people at the most awkward times? Do they pay a guy to just scan the crowd and say... "there! Right there! Oh, that's the one. (S)he looks really uncomfortable. Let's get em on TV." Um, I'm not 100% sure, but I think McCain just winked at me. Right back at you, soldier. You sexy, sexy man.

I don't even know who the silver haired fellow they just showed was. But I thought that it was pretty funny that even before he finished applauding he was already averting his attention to the pamphlet he had brought along.

I'm worried now. Chaney's smirking. Somewhere in America, a virgin has just been sacrificed.

Oh, here we go again with the terrorist talk. "To win the war on terror we must take the fight to the enemy." Hmmmm, now if we could just figure out where terror has been holed up all this time, we could REALLY sock it to The Enemy. Maybe we should put Justin Timberlake on this. Hell, the man brought sexy back. I'm sure he can pinpoint the location of "terror" and "the enemy" and we'll all be home in time for dinner. First you show us Janet's nipple and now this? God bless you, Justin Timberlake. God bless you.

Volunteer civilian reserve corps. Um... Thanks, but no thanks. This is one of those things that starts off great. You know, like paying to see a man or woman make love to a horse for a certain friend's 21st birthday. But 9 times out of 10, everyone starts to feel like, gee, maybe this ISN'T quite as great as we thought it would be when we drunkenly dreamed it up at 4AM AFTER splitting that 8 ball. So, ladies and gents, can we please not applaud this one? Please?

AFRICA! Big ups! AIDS, um... big downs? But on the plus side, a lot of people seem to look really, really good in red. And we have AIDS to thank for that. See. The old me would not have been quite this "look on the bright side"ish. The only thing that would have made this better was if Mutumbo actually went to the podium and gave a brief speech. Christ! Was I the only one who expected him to yell "Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum!" When he stood up and was about two feet taller than the Bushes? This is why I watch this stuff, people. Oh, and Mutumbo, the Bushes? Really? Seriously? Eh.

I guess this is the part where Dubya just gives shout outs to all his peeps before wrapping shit up. I thought it was pretty cool that Wesley Autry (a.k.a. subway hero guy, um, no not Jared... the OTHER subway hero guy) got invited and he got a huge applause. I thought it was even cooler that he started pointing out various people in the crowd like they were part of his posse and he had just won best new rap artist of the year. Comedy. High Comedy. State of the Union.

Oh, and for those of you who were curious (you know who you are) final blink tally: Pelosi 45,798; Chaney 2. How freaky was that? Yes, how freaky was that, indeed?

Build a bear? Build a kid!

2007-01-08T21:26:00.000-05:00

So. Apparently we've just about reached that point where life imitates art. Don't you love it when life imitates art? Like people start singing about crazy shit and then you have school shootings (so of course it's because of the crazy shit the kids have been listening to. Two and two make four right?) I mean, personally, I've been listening to crazy ass lyrics since I was like 10 and I'm a relative maladjusted individual. But I've never had the urge to do anything TOO crazy. At least not to others. No, all my damage is self-deprecating.

But where was I??? Something about life imitating art. I especially like it when life is like a Dali painting. But that usually only happens after a really good buzz. Which hasn't happened in a while. Honest. I swear. Officer, this isn't even my car. I borrowed it from my grandma, and she has glaucoma. Apparently, we're almost to the point where we can genetically engineer a kid, like in the movie Gattaca.

Some people are saying this is so unethical and it's such a horrible, unnatural thing. And to them I say, "I love the movie Gattaca. The movie Gattaca is an entertaining, insightful science fiction movie. Also, the movie Gattaca is just Gattaca, but I think it adds to the depth of the movie if I refer to it as the movie Gattaca." Also, think about how cool it would be to have a kid with one green eye and blue eye? They could go around hypnotizing people and making them do funny tricks. Not malicious tricks, though. No one likes a multi-eye colored hypnotists who uses his/her powers for evil. That shit's just not cool.

The claim was that people would be able engineer the easy things like eye/hair/skin color, height, general body type first and eventually we'd be able to do the same with intelligence, demeanor, personality, etc. I can't wait. I bet there'll be huge baby cannels and prospective "parents" will rummage around looking for the perfect child/pet. Who knew there'd eventually be something to replace tiny shivering dogs as the most have fashion accessory. Although I have seen those baby leash things, you know, the one where the kid is strapped into a harness and the harness is attached to a leash and some idiot parent is leading his/her kid around and saying things like, "C'mere, Spot! Sit, Spot! Good boy!" Now, it is my personal opinion that if you make you child wear a kiddie leash and then also name him Spot, well, you're just an ass.

And of course you know they'll be those antiestablishment types who will want to prove a point by engineering some incredibly dumb, incredibly mean, incredibly ugly, Quasi Modo kid. Um, maybe it's even happened in certain parts of Philly, but that's neither here nor there. Well, I've gotten to the point in my rant where I don't remember exactly what the point I was trying to make was, so I'll have to wrap it up.

We're getting to the point where life will imitate art. I pray God it's not directed by Mel Gibson.

God Help Us All

2007-01-01T21:42:00.000-05:00

So, Nas recently took a lot of heat for declaring that hip hop is dead. Well, while it may not be dead, it is definitely wasting away in some understaffed, resident abusing nursing home. The stuff that's getting play flat out sucks and the stuff that doesn't suck never gets to see the light of day.

Even with all that I was doing fine living off the scraps that get put out every now and then: the Nases, Mos Defs, Talibs, Commons, and so on. But after seeing this video I'm already looking for a dark suit to wear to the funeral.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1KUzFGMLMC8

That's right, two things that should never EVER be associated under any circumstances. When the fuck did this happen? It's a shame that Kool Herc had to be alive to witness this. It's a bigger shame that hip hop is turning over in its grave.

Hip Hop is dead. Long live Hip Hop.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vrzy4Bp_k2Y

Here we go again...

2006-12-19T21:44:00.000-05:00

So, I've spent the whole day feeling pretty much blah. At least the depression's been kept at bay, but still today was a toughy. As I was listening to my top rated songs on the ole (and it does feel like old, since about a month after i purchased mine they started making them with color screens and video capabilities. Fuckers) iPod. Anyway, I thought the song pretty much summed up how I was/am feeling.

Take Me by Jean Grae

Oh lord, I'm having issues, more deep than American missiles
Shooting commuter planes and filing 'em missions official
I've hit depression hard and started to pick at the scabs
From the scar, I'm a mess addressing pain in a bar, I confess
'Cause all the rest just mar shit, chest in a cast
Feeling urges just to test out a casket, bless me I'm blasphemous
Jesus pass the fifth, I...have to get lit
Masochist self I'm only half of the health I was born with
(Baby) Save me, take me up high like 'dro
But way far past the stars and the sky
I'm blinding pain like I'm a junkie shooting up with
Emotional novacaine, I'm floating provoking the angels to jump me
In Lehman's terms, face been blurred, even early
I scratched crayon in between the holy word I pray on, but still
(Baby) Three gone, and maybe I'm in barren land
God help me, I'm having trouble with your master plan so

Chorus:
(Take Me) Through the shadows of valley of death, God
(Take me) when I'm shooting, taking last breaths hard
(Baby) I want to walk through the valleys praying lord
Will you help me, save me God, won't you tell me, tell me
(Take me) 'Cause I'm losing my faith, bless me
(Take me) 'Cause this world just want to test me

You see this dirty knife on the floor, this chrome nine in my hand
These foul thoughts in my conscious, constantly understand
See we taught to believe if you can touch it and see it, it must
Be real so go believe it. But I've never seen Jesus
I've never seen God, so he's only a thesis
And I'm questioning all these things in my time to depart
I know it's written suicide is giving hell and devils privilege
Only wicked heathens commit it, sin of ages, well fuck it, bring it!
Lately I've been waking early mornings screaming
"Save me," dreams of seven horsemen chasing Jean, hastening speed
So I'm raising the barrel envisioning marrow
Splashed on the wall and polka dotting all my apparel
And maybe, Ginsu blades through skin will slay
And split thin veins instead of loading clips that spray
And if I'm meant to stay, then I'll just pass through the gates
And fall a long way back to Earth, so why don't you just

Chorus

You can see the pain twist my face from a distance
The body's windows glistening red hot from all of the indo
Thinking of my next of kinfolk, my mama
Opening doors, crimson billows spread out on the pillows and floor
I gotta block it out. I'm set on knocking out
Lock and aim and I'm dropping my frame quick when I pop in the brain
And if God's omnipotent, will he slip in and change
And move the pistol so it shoots out of range and the lead whistles
(Baby) Maybe he's just playing; it'll ricochet and cripple me
Strictly for questioning, give me life to the pain
Sickle shaped body bent in the middle, so little
Kids who pass me harass me and giggle. My figure's
Itching to touch on the answers. Hard headed like
Exotic dancers' nipples, picturing the bullets ripping the skin
On the mantle I'm holding, pull back and blow the wick
Right off the candle, throw a kiss and told the world how to focus
So now (take me...take me)

Totally like whatever, you know?

2006-12-17T10:14:00.000-05:00

by Taylor Mali

In case you hadn't noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you're talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you're saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?

Declarative sentences - so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not -
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It's like what I've heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?

What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally . . .
I mean absolutely . . . You know?
That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like . . .
whatever!

And so actually our disarticulation . . . ness
is just a clever sort of . . . thing
to disguise the fact that we've become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since . . .
you know, a long, long time ago!

I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it too.

I really like this poem... kids are cool

2006-11-27T19:53:00.000-05:00

This poem by Nia Davis, a 17-year old junior at Northeast High School In Philadelphia, appears in Poetic Life, Davis' prize-winning play, which was produced by the Philadelphia Young Playwrights. The play is about a group of young women grappling with stereotypes.

"I Wanna"

I wanna hear a song not written to lower someone's self-esteem

I wanna live in a world where reality doesn't cut down on a colored kid's dream

I wanna write a poem where lyrically wise it's ahead of its time

I wanna go back to the days when you thought you were rich even when u didn't have a dime

I wanna be appreciated and loved not overlooked and shoved

Onto a bookshelf, where only the old and the worthless are placed

I wanna be proud to be black, and not ashamed to show my face

I wanna walk around a store and not be expected to steal

I wanna have people not give judgment and try to understand how I feel

I wanna be free

I don't wanna hear your opinions on what you think I should be

Just let me be me

That's how GOD intended it to be

You see

I wanna turn on the news without seeing something bad

Because in reality the news people are making money off of you being sad

I wanna be able to eat French fries all day

But instead I gotta worry about what my butt and thighs are going to say

I wanna live life to the fullest

Instead of turning corners and dodging bullets

I wanna be able to cross the street without having a drunk driver hit me

Walk through and alley without having a hormonal man rape me

I wanna be able to save all the children who don't have childhoods

Substitute reality for all the hopes in the hoods

Put food on the table

Knock down all negative labels

Love and be loved

Hug and be hugged

I wanna live in a world where racism wasn't even a thing of the past

And that the people in the white sheets never torture the people who sung free at last

I wanna live in a world were the name of your god doesn't matter

And the hearts of the tsunami victims weren't shattered

I wanna not have to write a poem where I have to say what I wanna do

I want good things to happen because they're suppose to

I wanna finish this poem and have it touch your heart

I wanna see families stay together and never fall apart

Most of all I want this world to be a better place

Where people are looked at from their inside and not just their face.

Hierarchy of Missing People

2006-11-25T12:52:00.000-05:00

On Wednesday morning there was some minor breaking news. A pair of brothers had been missing for a few hours. The news reported that the brothers may have wondered off and no foul play was suspected. On Thursday, the same thing. And on Friday, the same thing: two brothers missing, no foul play suspected. It wasn't until Saturday morning that the news started to say police suspect foul play may be involved in the disappearance of the two brothers.

Did I mention that the children in question are four and two years old??? Since when does a four year old and a two year old go missing for multiple days before "authorities" decide foul play may be involved? The answer, when the two kids are Native American.

I mean, seriously, what the fuck? Did they think the kids were hot on the trail of a herd of wild buffalo? Maybe they had decided to go on a vision quest? I dunno. Heck, maybe it being the time of year when all Americans give thanks (and especially the Native Americans: thanks for the displacement, and the disease, and oh yeah, thanks especially for eradicating a whole civilization) maybe the kids wondered off to find some white people they could lend a hand to. I bet that's what happened.

Anyway, this whole thing got me thinking about the hierarchy of "missing persons" and "foul play". Basically, the higher you are on the social economic totem poll (sorry for the bad pun) the shorter you have to wait before foul play is suspected. For example: if you're a 20 year old white girl and no one has seen you in eight or ten hours, you'll be considered missing and foul play will automatically be assumed. Matter of fact, when I was in college, my friend Erica took a nap at the library after her 8AM class and the National Gaurd was on campus before lunch time. Simply amazing. Then there's a steep drop-off as to when a person will be considered missing, let alone have foul play brought into the equation. If you're black and younger than seven, you won't be considered missing until channel 6 news is running a story on your distraught family. If you're older than seven, well, you might just be S.O.L.

Apparently for Native American children the cut off age is two. That's right two years old. If you're Native American and older than two, you will definately be S.O.L. And I don't care how well you can track or be one with the earth. When a kid is two (or even four, for that matter) and no one's seen or heard from them for more than a day, it's time to think about missing with foul play. Shit, not even baby Locke and Sayid could go as long as these kids went without someone thinking "maybe there's something not quite right here."

Well, I can't wait to see how much press this story doesn't get. I'll try to keep up this story, but I'm pretty sure some teenaged, upper-middle class white girl will decide to take an impromptu ski weekend and everyone will forget about the little lost Native american kids.

21 and up to open it up

2006-11-24T20:12:00.000-05:00

Every time my mom has ever seen me drinking (alcohol) she acts like it's the first time she's ever seen me drinking. This was kind of cute at first, until I realized that she wasn't acting. Now I find it a bit disturbing. I'm pretty sure ten years from now we'll look back on these moments as the doctors ask us if there were any warning signs for my mom's Alzheimer's-slash-dementia that we might have picked up on. Of course we'll all nervously chuckle and say no, none what so ever. Except I'll be thinking, well, now it all makes perfect sense. Here's to the future.

Well, my mom and Aunt Rachel were sitting down to glasses of wine (as they've been known to do after dinner... and before dinner... and during dinner... and well, pretty much any time they can come up with an excuse for a glass of wine) and I decided to crack open a cold one. As I sit down and start sipping my suds, my mom says to me, "How is it? I don't think I've ever seen you drink." I replied, "Um, you asked me that the last time you saw me drink, and also the time before that. It's ok."

"Well," she said, "I remember when you were little and would beg your dad and me for a taste. Was it worth the wait?" I kind of found this funny since I had been drinking since sophomore year in high school, so yeah... huge wait.

"Oh, it definitely is!" was how I replied. Then I quickly turned to my 14 year old sister and told her "But in your case, it taste horrible and you should never drink alcohol till you're at least 21. Or can do it without Mom and Dad finding out." My sister thought that was hilarious, Mom and Aunt Rachel, not so much.

I just think it's so cute that A: my parents pretend I didn't start drinking until I was 21 or B: they actually didn't know about any of the drinking I did before turning 21. See what being the good kid'll do for you? God bless older siblings. And with the way the world works, my sisters prolly started drinking like four years ago, but whatareyagonnado, huh?

Greens-friggin-boro, North Carolina

2006-11-24T14:16:00.000-05:00

Ahhhhhh, Greensboro North Carolina. My home town. The city that has made me the man-child I am today. Can you smell that??? Go ahead and inhale deeply. That's the scent of southern hospitality. Oh, and that slightly sulfuric odor? That's just racism; you'll get used to it.

I had almost forgotten just how damn boring Greensboro is. And when you don't have a car to get around in... I'm surprised that the suicide rate in children under 16 isn't much, much higher. Or the homicide rate. God, I would kill for a set of wheels right now.

I guess you know your home town is kinda country when the big news from the past year is they've torn down a grocery store to make way for a strip mall... relax, the grocery store was replaced, after all, this isn't Philly. Folks round these parts like not having to get all their essential living supplies from a black plastic bag via the corner store. But still. Not a whole lot going on.

The movie theater where I had my first job has been turned into a Bounce University. Basically, they filled the space with inflatable games we used to rent when ever the housing staff wanted to have an outdoor event, except now you can do all that stuff indoors. Take THAT Mr. Raincloud! I mean, I know I would much rather pay gross amounts of money to enjoy jumping around on plastic devices than pay $2 to see a movie that's already been out for like 50 months, but maybe that's just me. Oh, wait, no. I was being sarcastic. Bounce U. God, I hope this thing doesn't last more than a year. And you owe me, God, after I killed that guy and you still failed to deliver me some wheels. Bastard.

Anyway, I watched Sky High with my sisters earlier today. I know what you're thinking. CORNY!!! And you're right. It's family fun time corny. Which as my good friend Martha says, "Is a good thing. A very good thing." So it's worth checking out. Sky High. Next up is V for Vendetta. Clearly, I have nothing better to talk about in my life right now. That's usually a good sign that I should stop talking.

Goodnight to all and to all a good night.

Giving Thanks

2006-11-23T23:24:00.000-05:00

Today was Thanksgiving. This means today and the next few days afterward will be mandatory family time. Now, I have no problem with family time, I also have no problem with mandatory family time, just, does it have to be so much in one dose? Even though the road my parents and I have traveled down has been bumpy at times, I can honestly say I love them, but I swear to God if I have to spend more than 24 hours with them in an enclosed environment, well, one of us is gonna have to die. This isn't to say I'm gonna stick them in a home the first chance I get, it just means that when/if they do end up at the old folks center, don't expect me to visit... much.

Actually, this year wasn't so bad. We did some eating and I amused the fam with the latest volume of "not quite right" teaching stories. For example: a student who I met two years ago just showed up back at Fitzsimons after a year and a half absence. He was apparently incarcerated for rape (although, he didn't do it, of course. Says the student. You know how the police be). He still only comes to school about once a week and oh, yeah, he's a 17 year old freshman. Some thing's just not quite right. Anyway family time is very tiring and I'll have to write more tomorrow. Right now I'm going to bed. Just wanted to get the first post under my belt. Tune in... laterish. Same bat time, same bat channel.