Saturday, August 19, 2006
Goddamnit Boston...
I just want to say how disgusted I am with the Red Sox pitching. You can't throw fucking strikes? Stop walking in fucking runs! Are you shitting me? How did you assholes make the big leagues?
This will be three losses in two days, to the Yankees no less. Way to go Boston.
I want to punch the fucking TV.
This will be three losses in two days, to the Yankees no less. Way to go Boston.
I want to punch the fucking TV.
Friday, August 18, 2006
The Approach of Fall
I'm working on a couple essays about Boston right now, and I'm so hungover I want to fucking die.
However, I will say today that football season is not the only reason I'm looking forward to the fall...the elections draw near, and Democrats loom, poised to snatch the Congress back from evil men with evil minds.
"Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, drawing nigher,
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly dying fire."
God help us.
However, I will say today that football season is not the only reason I'm looking forward to the fall...the elections draw near, and Democrats loom, poised to snatch the Congress back from evil men with evil minds.
"Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, drawing nigher,
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly dying fire."
God help us.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Deck of Cards
Our lives are far easier than they ever have been. There has been no generation of Americans before this one who have had easier, more sedentary lives.
Fifty years ago, most of New Jersey was farms- New Jersey! The work is hard, and the labor is tough. It kept men in shape whether they wanted to be or not. "He who did not work, did not eat". There were no options.
In all of the years before this, America was a wild country, filled with constant threats of war, invasion, Indians, etc. This was a hundred years ago...so figure two generations of men ago, there were still Indians to be fought in their back yards.
Now, we fight traffic in a race to a dentist's appointment, or to be on time for a meeting at the office. Life has lost its fury for us. Simply put, there is no enemy left to fight. We who weightlift and work out are the few who are prepared anyway, I guess you could say...us and the right wing militias hiding out in stores of AK-47's in Utah...
----------------------------------------------
Last night I did a murderous workout at work that I was surprised I could even finish. I'm trying to take this week a little light, as my joints have been hurting, namely my shoulder with the bum rotator cuff. Staying away from heavy weights is important for now, but I can't go the whole week without doing anything...I'll feel like a pussy if I do.
In the heat of the August night last night, I read my novel of the American Revolution, hung up on the words of this tale where the ending is already beknownst to me but is enchanting anyway. The way Jeff Shaara writes, you can almost see the long line of farmers and workers, lined up with their rifles facing the greatest army on the face of the planet. They had to go through this to defend their homes, and I...must do nothing. My life is easy.
Of course, one day that could change. I doubt the men who fought in the Revolution ever thought that there would be a war in their own backyards, as there was in 1776. After reading all of this, though, it gave me some sort of inspriration to do the infamous "Deck of Cards" workout that I was planning on doing. I mean, it was half inspiration and half extreme boredom from that mind numbing job, but whatever. Besides this, there is always something inherently noble about working out with your own bodyweight. Don't get me wrong, I'm no Matt Furey, and I'm not under any illusions as to what doing this kind of workout does. However, it is knowing that I can be in reasonable shape no matter where I am in the world or what I'm doing, all with a decent circuit of pushups, pullups, and squats.
Yea, yea, these are the things that comfort me. Fucked up, I know.
Anyway, the workout is pretty simple, and is used in jails all across the country (I learned this from a friend of mine who'd sat in county for a while). You take the colors in a deck of cards, and divide them into exercises. Last night I made black equal pushups, and red equal squats. For every card you flip, you do the amount said on the card. Because I was pretty shot by the time I did this workout, I made Jacks equal 10, Queens equal 14, and Kings equal 15. Aces meant I did pushups to failure.
The results were impressive. Halfway through, I felt my chest burning like an oil fire, and my legs were shaking like a fiend with epilepsy. I could only just keep pushing on, because I knew that I wanted to finish that deck more than anything else in the world.
It took maybe 25 mintues to do the whole thing, but I finally did. It took some rest-pause sets and some light- headed-shit-I'm-gonna-puke sickness, but I did it. When it was said and done, I ended up doing about 175 pushups and the same number of squats.
With that, I tip my hat to the decaying graves of those Revolutionary War soldiers. It ain't much, of course. But if I have to defend my home the way you men did yours, I'll be ready, just as you were.
Fifty years ago, most of New Jersey was farms- New Jersey! The work is hard, and the labor is tough. It kept men in shape whether they wanted to be or not. "He who did not work, did not eat". There were no options.
In all of the years before this, America was a wild country, filled with constant threats of war, invasion, Indians, etc. This was a hundred years ago...so figure two generations of men ago, there were still Indians to be fought in their back yards.
Now, we fight traffic in a race to a dentist's appointment, or to be on time for a meeting at the office. Life has lost its fury for us. Simply put, there is no enemy left to fight. We who weightlift and work out are the few who are prepared anyway, I guess you could say...us and the right wing militias hiding out in stores of AK-47's in Utah...
----------------------------------------------
Last night I did a murderous workout at work that I was surprised I could even finish. I'm trying to take this week a little light, as my joints have been hurting, namely my shoulder with the bum rotator cuff. Staying away from heavy weights is important for now, but I can't go the whole week without doing anything...I'll feel like a pussy if I do.
In the heat of the August night last night, I read my novel of the American Revolution, hung up on the words of this tale where the ending is already beknownst to me but is enchanting anyway. The way Jeff Shaara writes, you can almost see the long line of farmers and workers, lined up with their rifles facing the greatest army on the face of the planet. They had to go through this to defend their homes, and I...must do nothing. My life is easy.
Of course, one day that could change. I doubt the men who fought in the Revolution ever thought that there would be a war in their own backyards, as there was in 1776. After reading all of this, though, it gave me some sort of inspriration to do the infamous "Deck of Cards" workout that I was planning on doing. I mean, it was half inspiration and half extreme boredom from that mind numbing job, but whatever. Besides this, there is always something inherently noble about working out with your own bodyweight. Don't get me wrong, I'm no Matt Furey, and I'm not under any illusions as to what doing this kind of workout does. However, it is knowing that I can be in reasonable shape no matter where I am in the world or what I'm doing, all with a decent circuit of pushups, pullups, and squats.
Yea, yea, these are the things that comfort me. Fucked up, I know.
Anyway, the workout is pretty simple, and is used in jails all across the country (I learned this from a friend of mine who'd sat in county for a while). You take the colors in a deck of cards, and divide them into exercises. Last night I made black equal pushups, and red equal squats. For every card you flip, you do the amount said on the card. Because I was pretty shot by the time I did this workout, I made Jacks equal 10, Queens equal 14, and Kings equal 15. Aces meant I did pushups to failure.
The results were impressive. Halfway through, I felt my chest burning like an oil fire, and my legs were shaking like a fiend with epilepsy. I could only just keep pushing on, because I knew that I wanted to finish that deck more than anything else in the world.
It took maybe 25 mintues to do the whole thing, but I finally did. It took some rest-pause sets and some light- headed-shit-I'm-gonna-puke sickness, but I did it. When it was said and done, I ended up doing about 175 pushups and the same number of squats.
With that, I tip my hat to the decaying graves of those Revolutionary War soldiers. It ain't much, of course. But if I have to defend my home the way you men did yours, I'll be ready, just as you were.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Old souls and Irish Votes
Is it wrong that I always cringe when I see a guy with an Irish last name running as a Republican?
They forget their roots so quickly for the promise of land and money...bah. They always said I was an old soul.
They forget their roots so quickly for the promise of land and money...bah. They always said I was an old soul.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
The Fight Begins...
Joe Lieberman is finally out. That wolf in sheep's clothing has been outed, and now his party moves on to the future and back to the Left.
Thank fucking God.
Sleeping with the enemy....Peace, Joe, you traitorous prick
Thank fucking God.
Sleeping with the enemy....Peace, Joe, you traitorous prick
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
The Wrath of An Angry God....
Tonight crossed the line. I've had some strange shit happen to me, some things that even make me wonder what the hell is going on, but tonight was something that has scared the shit out of me in a way that I just can't explain.
If you've read any of my other things, you understand my well documented problems with God and religion. Half of it is the philosophical argument that man has had since he first came up with the idea for a god, and the other half is my own selfish anger about how God, if he exists, tends to kill people I love indiscrimately. Either way, we've had issues in the past. I've gotten too drunk, too drunk to remember, and sworn him off, cursed him up and down.
Fuck God. Fuck him.
The day I looked out over the second casket, and watched it slowly drop into the ground, is the day I stopped giving a shit. But then, I am a Catholic. So I never really stop giving a shit, and that goddamn Church is the thing that binds me to that ridiculous faith in a way little else can. The grounds are sacred to me. They bring back old memories, so old that I wonder if they ever happened, or if I made them up in one of my drunken delusions to lull myself into thinking that I was once happy, and not the rage filled blasphemous lout that I am now. I remember warm days, getting out of Church into the bright light of the sun, and seeing my grandfather bullshitting with the Monsieur outside in the garden that the old priest worked so hard to maintain. It swelled that old man's chest to see how beautiful those grounds remained, and that his garden never, ever fell into disrepair.
Both of them are dead now. My grandfather died years ago on Halloween from an unseen weakness, and the course of my life was forever altered. In the old priest, pride was not the only thing that swelled in his breast... cancer grew there also. He was dead soon after.
That garden was never beautiful again. The plants were no longer a deep green- sides began to brown and die off. Bricks twisted up from the ground, broke, and did not get replaced. Weeds grew through the cracks, and though they try, the original beauty can never be reclaimed.
I still go there, though, on dark cold nights, and get on my knees in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary, and say the rosary. Sometimes I am sober, sometimes not. Sometimes I'm enraged, sometimes breaking down, always a mess. It helps me though, it's as close to therapy as I'll ever get. It makes me think that all that shit is real, and that the dogma and the bullshit and the crosses and the pomp and ritual actually means that this crap life isn't all that we've got.
Tonight was different though. I may have crossed the line in the last couple years, because God, if he's there, is fucking pissed.
The feeling I had in that garden when I stumbled in there tonight for solace was one of anger, of rage; not on my part, mind you- on His. As I said the rosary under the streetlights, a chill ran up my back, up and down. I looked around, expecting someone to be there. There was not.
I walked around, having my conversation with the dead that I normally have, but it was all wrong. That knife being dragged down my back was still there, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. The cross was lit oddly, illuminated more than I remember it- a show of strength no doubt from the man who runs the universe (yes ladies, its a man- don't kid yourselves).
A low whisper then came from the bushes. It may have been a metaphorical whisper, such as when squirrels tread lightly through old leaves, but it sounded like a human one to me. The words were those that I could not understand...but they were damning. They were angry, the tone was harsh and low, and they wanted me out. It was a low scream, an attack on this unholy man who has stepped foot on this hallowed ground, this house of God. It got cold.
I said the Hail Mary aloud, and proclaimed that this was my fucking garden, and that the bodies that had lain in that Church were those of all my family. I would not fucking leave.
The whispers ceased as suddenly as they began, but the sound haunts me still. I was not welcome there. I am not welcome there. I, the ignorant kid who thought he could curse God and have no retribution, I've been shown the door in God's House.
Not like it matters I guess. I've left that House alone for so long, it's a wonder I remember how to get there. Images flash through my mind like a black and white newsreel, like the scenes in the Ferrari in Rocky IV as "No Easy Way Out" plays over the top. The shining gray casket, the door on the hearse slamming, the cold face and a dozen roses falling into the hole that was dug the same day, the drunken nights wailing in the streets....
Fuck God. Kill Jesus.
I don't mean that.
Fuck.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Ryer
I sit here in the propane shed and it's been nearly a year and a half since he died. I, for one, have the worst case of survivor's guilt in the world.
No matter what is actually true, I should be the one who is dead. I, he who drinks too much, who eats McDonalds' every day, who wants no kids and no family, who is little more than a drunken writer following in the footsteps of all those idiots who came before. I am useless to society, I have no expectations, and I am cursed to unhappiness.
He, on the other hand, actually wanted a normal life. He wanted a beautiful wife, and children that he could hand down the beliefs handed down to him from his own parents. He wanted a nice house that he could raise them in, and he already had names picked out for them. There were to be no girls, of course, because there just wouldn't be. All boys. God forbid he had daughters, he came up with new and interesting ways to torture would- be boyfriends...it was one of those things where you knew that even though he wouldn't admit it, he sat home sometimes and thought up ways he could terrify teenage boys. Sick fucker....
He wanted to be a cop. Even if he didn't do that, he would have been a decent, law abiding, constructive, useful member of society. Anything that this country asked of him, he would have done. A draft for a war? He'd have volunteered. He was the soldier type anyway, and he'd have always done what was needed of him.
He was not like me.
"Let it Be" just came on the radio, as it always tends to when my soul is in turmoil. I never like when peple say this song is about weed, because it loses so much meaning when they do. This is the only song that makes me think there might be a God.
Either way, I want to let it be, I want to let it go. It should, by now, be dead. But it isn't. It haunts me everyday, it follows me like a dog that smells another dog's scent on your shoe, and you can't shake the fucking thing off. It will probably do this until I am in the ground also.
He'd be infuriated if he knew how badly I've gone off the handle because of his death. He'd smack me and say, "You're still alive you fucking idiot. Live your own life, do what I never could! Have kids, have fun, enjoy it! If you don't, than your an asshole who deserves what he gets."
But then again, I'm drunk right now off of rum and beer. It's your fault I'm drunk, dick, and I'll be there to join you eventually, be it heaven or hell. We will drink and be merry....for tomorrow we are dead.
No matter what is actually true, I should be the one who is dead. I, he who drinks too much, who eats McDonalds' every day, who wants no kids and no family, who is little more than a drunken writer following in the footsteps of all those idiots who came before. I am useless to society, I have no expectations, and I am cursed to unhappiness.
He, on the other hand, actually wanted a normal life. He wanted a beautiful wife, and children that he could hand down the beliefs handed down to him from his own parents. He wanted a nice house that he could raise them in, and he already had names picked out for them. There were to be no girls, of course, because there just wouldn't be. All boys. God forbid he had daughters, he came up with new and interesting ways to torture would- be boyfriends...it was one of those things where you knew that even though he wouldn't admit it, he sat home sometimes and thought up ways he could terrify teenage boys. Sick fucker....
He wanted to be a cop. Even if he didn't do that, he would have been a decent, law abiding, constructive, useful member of society. Anything that this country asked of him, he would have done. A draft for a war? He'd have volunteered. He was the soldier type anyway, and he'd have always done what was needed of him.
He was not like me.
"Let it Be" just came on the radio, as it always tends to when my soul is in turmoil. I never like when peple say this song is about weed, because it loses so much meaning when they do. This is the only song that makes me think there might be a God.
Either way, I want to let it be, I want to let it go. It should, by now, be dead. But it isn't. It haunts me everyday, it follows me like a dog that smells another dog's scent on your shoe, and you can't shake the fucking thing off. It will probably do this until I am in the ground also.
He'd be infuriated if he knew how badly I've gone off the handle because of his death. He'd smack me and say, "You're still alive you fucking idiot. Live your own life, do what I never could! Have kids, have fun, enjoy it! If you don't, than your an asshole who deserves what he gets."
But then again, I'm drunk right now off of rum and beer. It's your fault I'm drunk, dick, and I'll be there to join you eventually, be it heaven or hell. We will drink and be merry....for tomorrow we are dead.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Hunter S. Thompson
I've been reading a lot by him right now, and every passing day I realize how much this country needed him at this point in time. I also realize how he couldn't possibly stand being here to witness all this shit that was going on.
Sometimes I think people dislike my writing because I don't use over the top phrasing, huge words, or beautiful syntax. It's as if they feel that if they're reading it, I should've have made it as fancy as I possibly could for their wandering eyes, and the direct way I write isn't enough for them. Well, I learned it from guys like Hunter, who wrote his books in a simple way, a way that makes you think if you saw him in a bar, he'd tell it the exact same way. To be able to do this is a gift, not a curse. I write for guys who don't read books. The professors and scholars might not dig it, but the day I care about them is the day I slam my dick in a door. So hats off to Hunter.
If you wonder if he's gone to Heaven or Hell —rest assured he will check out them both, find out which one Richard Milhous Nixon went to —and go there.
- Ralph Steadman
Sometimes I think people dislike my writing because I don't use over the top phrasing, huge words, or beautiful syntax. It's as if they feel that if they're reading it, I should've have made it as fancy as I possibly could for their wandering eyes, and the direct way I write isn't enough for them. Well, I learned it from guys like Hunter, who wrote his books in a simple way, a way that makes you think if you saw him in a bar, he'd tell it the exact same way. To be able to do this is a gift, not a curse. I write for guys who don't read books. The professors and scholars might not dig it, but the day I care about them is the day I slam my dick in a door. So hats off to Hunter.
If you wonder if he's gone to Heaven or Hell —rest assured he will check out them both, find out which one Richard Milhous Nixon went to —and go there.
- Ralph Steadman
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Damn the Superchristians
Today I was told by some bible thumping loon that Pope John Paul II is in hell right now because he worshiped false idols and was not of the born-again breed. It was, apparently, "Right there in the scripture".
Yea, I bet it was.. you fucking idiot.
I have had it up to my fucking eyes with these self-righteous souls that have the gall to tell me that the Pope is in hell right now. I don't where it came from or why it is here, but the Superchristian movement needs to take a hike.
Thomas Jefferson once said, in "Notes on the State of Virgina", that it does him no harm if his neighbor has one god or twenty. As far as this Founding Father was concerned, everyone had the right to simply believe what they want to, and be done with it. However, this fanatical variation of Christianity is just as bad as the radical Muslims that they claim to hate so much.
In this bastardized version of christianity, they feel the need to "save" everyone. Everyone must be saved, everyone must believe, as they do, that, "Oh no, my book of fairytales is sooo much more true than your book of fairytales. Look? See the part about the flood? Your book doesn't even mention Noah! Ha! Now how retarded do you feel? Wait, what? How do I know all this is true? GOD WROTE IT!"
No, bitch, God didn't fucking write it. Supposed prophets wrote it, and then monks copied and recopied it for thousands of years, and things got changed as they went. Remember that game of "telephone" you used to play as a kid? There was always one jerkoff who changed the thing around and made it seemed like you were an idiot? Yea, well that hasn't changed. My money is on the fact that there was two monks (probably a million, being as they were all guys) who sat around laughing like Beavis and Butthead when they rearranged a couple things so that Babylon was taking it up the ass instead of just being, "A really bad town".
C'mon now. Men are fallible, and the road to hell is paved with good intentions. With how insanely devious the Church has been in the last couple thousand years, it wouldn't surprise me in the least if they changed the story a bit to make themselves seem a little better, and the Jews or Muslims sound just a little bit worse. This may have been especially important during things like the Inquisition or the Crusades, when villifying the enemy was kind of important.
Jesus would hate these superchristians, ironically- judgemental, damning, close minded, hateful and warlike.
On a related n0te, what the fuck ever happened to seperation of Church and State? There are many founding fathers who are angry about the way this country is going I think...all that work in the Continental Congress, the Constitutional Convention, all so these horse's asses can turn America into a theocracy. Where are you Thomas Paine....the age of reason has passed!
Yea, I bet it was.. you fucking idiot.
I have had it up to my fucking eyes with these self-righteous souls that have the gall to tell me that the Pope is in hell right now. I don't where it came from or why it is here, but the Superchristian movement needs to take a hike.
Thomas Jefferson once said, in "Notes on the State of Virgina", that it does him no harm if his neighbor has one god or twenty. As far as this Founding Father was concerned, everyone had the right to simply believe what they want to, and be done with it. However, this fanatical variation of Christianity is just as bad as the radical Muslims that they claim to hate so much.
In this bastardized version of christianity, they feel the need to "save" everyone. Everyone must be saved, everyone must believe, as they do, that, "Oh no, my book of fairytales is sooo much more true than your book of fairytales. Look? See the part about the flood? Your book doesn't even mention Noah! Ha! Now how retarded do you feel? Wait, what? How do I know all this is true? GOD WROTE IT!"
No, bitch, God didn't fucking write it. Supposed prophets wrote it, and then monks copied and recopied it for thousands of years, and things got changed as they went. Remember that game of "telephone" you used to play as a kid? There was always one jerkoff who changed the thing around and made it seemed like you were an idiot? Yea, well that hasn't changed. My money is on the fact that there was two monks (probably a million, being as they were all guys) who sat around laughing like Beavis and Butthead when they rearranged a couple things so that Babylon was taking it up the ass instead of just being, "A really bad town".
C'mon now. Men are fallible, and the road to hell is paved with good intentions. With how insanely devious the Church has been in the last couple thousand years, it wouldn't surprise me in the least if they changed the story a bit to make themselves seem a little better, and the Jews or Muslims sound just a little bit worse. This may have been especially important during things like the Inquisition or the Crusades, when villifying the enemy was kind of important.
Jesus would hate these superchristians, ironically- judgemental, damning, close minded, hateful and warlike.
On a related n0te, what the fuck ever happened to seperation of Church and State? There are many founding fathers who are angry about the way this country is going I think...all that work in the Continental Congress, the Constitutional Convention, all so these horse's asses can turn America into a theocracy. Where are you Thomas Paine....the age of reason has passed!
Friday, July 28, 2006
Windows
When the temperatures rise in the long summer days, it becomes the season when the roadways are jammed with people trying to escape the heat. What I've found is that there are two distinct groups: the red blooded men in work trucks and Jeeps who roll their windows down, and those stuck up blue bloods whose windows are tightly clamped down to make sure the air conditioning doesn't escape (though there is another breed, those who have the air conditioning on with their windows open...I'm not going to even go into these crazy bastards).
As you might imagine, I'm the kind of guy whose window is always down. Some might say that this is because I'm a smoker; no, that's the reason my window is down in the winter. In the summer, however, there is just something special about being in a pickup truck barrelling down Route 23 with bad shocks and shot out hub bearings with all three windows open, making it as windy in the car as you'd imagine Mount Everest. I hear some folks say that it "messes up their hair", and that they can't go to work like that. I say toughen up you fucking Nancies; I'm from Jersey, and if I don't want my hair going anywhere, its not fucking going anywhere (I swear though, from the way most women drive you'd think their hair and their cell phone was more important than that puppy they just ran over).
When your windows are down, you smell the street. I feel the humidity, the dryness, or whatever else nature has to offer me. If it's too rough, I'll take my shirt off and drive like that. People either think that's white trash or gay, of course, but being as I'm driving a ickup truck I figure its the former.
There's also a war going on between the two camps, ironically, one that is far bigger than I thought. The old wives' tale persists that a car driving around with the windows closed and the air conditioning on gets better gas mileage- something to do with aerodynamics or whatever. Guys like me point out that we think Mythbusters did a show where they debunked that ridiculous notion, even though I've never actually met anyone who saw that particular episode (not that it matters, because I'm sure it's true).
When it comes down to it though, it has nothing to do with gas mileage. It's that feeling of being young and alive, and feeling the air physically moving past you, so you actually feel that 75 MPH going by in air particles screaming around my head and out the back, tossed back onto the road after I'm gone. It's the look on people's faces when I pull up to their Lexus' or Mercedes', blaring my brand of callous rock n' roll, and getting to watch them dissaprovingly roll up their own windows because of me. YES!! I am young, I am the new generation, the world is at my feet, and I have nothing to lose! Roll up your window you old fuck, because I will not play my music any lower! I will spread it to the masses from through the doors of my black chariot, and you will make that right turn (even though you don't have to) just to get away from me!
Having my windows down all the time means that everyone around me hears what's going on, sees my tanned arm lazily hanging out the window with a cigarette...they're getting an image of me whether they like it or not. And when I drive along the River, I smell that summer scent of rotting bodies, dead raccoons, and nuclear waste permeating off the water's edge, and it is beautiful, and I dig it.
If you don't... then roll your fucking window up.
As you might imagine, I'm the kind of guy whose window is always down. Some might say that this is because I'm a smoker; no, that's the reason my window is down in the winter. In the summer, however, there is just something special about being in a pickup truck barrelling down Route 23 with bad shocks and shot out hub bearings with all three windows open, making it as windy in the car as you'd imagine Mount Everest. I hear some folks say that it "messes up their hair", and that they can't go to work like that. I say toughen up you fucking Nancies; I'm from Jersey, and if I don't want my hair going anywhere, its not fucking going anywhere (I swear though, from the way most women drive you'd think their hair and their cell phone was more important than that puppy they just ran over).
When your windows are down, you smell the street. I feel the humidity, the dryness, or whatever else nature has to offer me. If it's too rough, I'll take my shirt off and drive like that. People either think that's white trash or gay, of course, but being as I'm driving a ickup truck I figure its the former.
There's also a war going on between the two camps, ironically, one that is far bigger than I thought. The old wives' tale persists that a car driving around with the windows closed and the air conditioning on gets better gas mileage- something to do with aerodynamics or whatever. Guys like me point out that we think Mythbusters did a show where they debunked that ridiculous notion, even though I've never actually met anyone who saw that particular episode (not that it matters, because I'm sure it's true).
When it comes down to it though, it has nothing to do with gas mileage. It's that feeling of being young and alive, and feeling the air physically moving past you, so you actually feel that 75 MPH going by in air particles screaming around my head and out the back, tossed back onto the road after I'm gone. It's the look on people's faces when I pull up to their Lexus' or Mercedes', blaring my brand of callous rock n' roll, and getting to watch them dissaprovingly roll up their own windows because of me. YES!! I am young, I am the new generation, the world is at my feet, and I have nothing to lose! Roll up your window you old fuck, because I will not play my music any lower! I will spread it to the masses from through the doors of my black chariot, and you will make that right turn (even though you don't have to) just to get away from me!
Having my windows down all the time means that everyone around me hears what's going on, sees my tanned arm lazily hanging out the window with a cigarette...they're getting an image of me whether they like it or not. And when I drive along the River, I smell that summer scent of rotting bodies, dead raccoons, and nuclear waste permeating off the water's edge, and it is beautiful, and I dig it.
If you don't... then roll your fucking window up.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
La Revolucion!....or not
Just a word of advice to all you future revolutionaries on the college campuses everywhere: start fucking weightlifting!
Yes, I'm talking about you, you of the Che' Guevara t-shirt wearing, Fidel Castro "My beard is Meant to be This Sloppy" look. You who wear the berets with a silver star on the front (by the way, berets are for fags and Frenchmen, neither of which have won any kind of wars anywhere) and carry around plastic guns and take pictures of them and then put them up on Myspace. Discard for now your Little Red Book and your Communist Manifesto, and see if you can wrap your enlightened minds around this simple thing I just stated: you all need to weightlift.
You may be incredulous right now, looking around amongst yourselves saying, "But I am enlightened! My sheer force of will and intellect will win this coming war (ha) for me! Muscles are for idiots and Republicans, those who take too much pride in the individual and ignore the will of the masses! And for this, they will pay".
Well, I say that you're in for a rude awakening. Why? Because the cops, they're all like me. They sit around all day, eat, weightlift, and drink beers, waiting to crack some tree hugging potheads' head open- especially when they look like Fidel Castro. Your 5'10, 150 pound frame is not going to take the beating that these big ole' Irishman are going to deliver, and, like your trachea, your revolution will be crushed. Put down the bowl and get to the weightroom. You're going to need it.
Yea, I'm kind of drunk, and railing against people like this guy: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=11609
If you're on Myspace, tell'em his band sucks and he's a tool.
Yes, I'm talking about you, you of the Che' Guevara t-shirt wearing, Fidel Castro "My beard is Meant to be This Sloppy" look. You who wear the berets with a silver star on the front (by the way, berets are for fags and Frenchmen, neither of which have won any kind of wars anywhere) and carry around plastic guns and take pictures of them and then put them up on Myspace. Discard for now your Little Red Book and your Communist Manifesto, and see if you can wrap your enlightened minds around this simple thing I just stated: you all need to weightlift.
You may be incredulous right now, looking around amongst yourselves saying, "But I am enlightened! My sheer force of will and intellect will win this coming war (ha) for me! Muscles are for idiots and Republicans, those who take too much pride in the individual and ignore the will of the masses! And for this, they will pay".
Well, I say that you're in for a rude awakening. Why? Because the cops, they're all like me. They sit around all day, eat, weightlift, and drink beers, waiting to crack some tree hugging potheads' head open- especially when they look like Fidel Castro. Your 5'10, 150 pound frame is not going to take the beating that these big ole' Irishman are going to deliver, and, like your trachea, your revolution will be crushed. Put down the bowl and get to the weightroom. You're going to need it.
Yea, I'm kind of drunk, and railing against people like this guy: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=11609
If you're on Myspace, tell'em his band sucks and he's a tool.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
On the Israeli War
America needs to be away from this type of fighting.
As you can imgaine, I'm not pro-Israel. I think that the whole idea of their inception (being chartered by the UN out of pity) is ridiculous, and I understand why the Palestinians are ragingly angry. I think the Zionists in that country are more than willing to start World War III just to keep their little strip by the Mediterranean, and I think they are just as dangerous as the people they are fighting.
Of course, on the other side we do have radical Islam, which is not a side that I can root for either (for obvious reasons).
In Israel and Palestine, you have what I think is the "Democrat syndrome". We will bitch about Bush starting the war, and how terrible it is (some of us bitched before it started and were fucking ignored), but the time is past for that. All that can be done now is use it as a lesson, as Vietnam is, and try to figure out what we can do now to get us out. Ironically, by deposing Saddam, we have opened the door for Iran to create a massive Shi'ite empire, which will undoubtedly contribute to problems for Israel in the future.
Israel has gone above and beyond what is called for for these two soldiers. They want a war, and are showing it right now. Let them fight it. Let America stand to the sidelines and watch them fight for their own lives- they've been spoiled by American money and weapons for too long. And really, in the end, what has it gotten us? Three thousand dead, Trade Centers gone, and the hatred of the Muslim world, all for supporting this country's claim to land that they have no right to in the first place.
As you can imgaine, I'm not pro-Israel. I think that the whole idea of their inception (being chartered by the UN out of pity) is ridiculous, and I understand why the Palestinians are ragingly angry. I think the Zionists in that country are more than willing to start World War III just to keep their little strip by the Mediterranean, and I think they are just as dangerous as the people they are fighting.
Of course, on the other side we do have radical Islam, which is not a side that I can root for either (for obvious reasons).
In Israel and Palestine, you have what I think is the "Democrat syndrome". We will bitch about Bush starting the war, and how terrible it is (some of us bitched before it started and were fucking ignored), but the time is past for that. All that can be done now is use it as a lesson, as Vietnam is, and try to figure out what we can do now to get us out. Ironically, by deposing Saddam, we have opened the door for Iran to create a massive Shi'ite empire, which will undoubtedly contribute to problems for Israel in the future.
Israel has gone above and beyond what is called for for these two soldiers. They want a war, and are showing it right now. Let them fight it. Let America stand to the sidelines and watch them fight for their own lives- they've been spoiled by American money and weapons for too long. And really, in the end, what has it gotten us? Three thousand dead, Trade Centers gone, and the hatred of the Muslim world, all for supporting this country's claim to land that they have no right to in the first place.
Morbid Musings
At 6:00 in the morning, my girlfriend will board a plane for Puerto Rico for a vacation. There's a piece of my mind that is exceptionally loud (though it's still in the back) that says that tonight might be the last time I see her. The plane could crash, or get blown up by some mysterious missile, and crash land in warm waters. I'd never see her again. Half of me says it's impossible, the other half knows it isn't, because it's happened before and I've seen the crying girls and the gritty guys standing over caskets for people that should not be dead.
I turned 22 about a month and a half ago; I'm just about that age that Ryer was when he died last year. He always seemed so much older than me...and now I'm where he was. If I died in a week, we would have lived the same amount of time. It's incredibly unnerving. It took this realization to understand exactly how young he was when he died, and exactly how much life he had left.
I also realized that if I make it to 110, I might be able to spend as much time getting social security as I did working to put money into it. It's something to shoot for.
I turned 22 about a month and a half ago; I'm just about that age that Ryer was when he died last year. He always seemed so much older than me...and now I'm where he was. If I died in a week, we would have lived the same amount of time. It's incredibly unnerving. It took this realization to understand exactly how young he was when he died, and exactly how much life he had left.
I also realized that if I make it to 110, I might be able to spend as much time getting social security as I did working to put money into it. It's something to shoot for.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
A prologue to "On Manhood"
I finished two books today- one, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers, the other, Rat Bastards by John "Red" Shea. One is a work by a college educated writer who tryed to hit it big with a magazine before writing this book, and he always seemed on the cusp of fame; the other, a tough street kid from Southie who just got out of jail four years ago for running most of the Irish mob in Boston. Reading these books at the same time was an unintentional idea, but as it turns out they offer directly conflicting views on what it means to be a man in this world right now. I liked both books, probably (alright, obviously) saw something of myself in both of these guys, and admire them in seperate ways (one more so than the other, of course).
More to come.
More to come.
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