Saturday, December 01, 2007


Profanity has always been very close to me. If I wasn't saying it, I was hearing it. I tried for years to clean my mouth up. I actually went for a few years without uttering a profanity, but sometimes a well-placed fricative just feels better.

I have bifurcated my tongue. This is a trick I learned as a kid. On the schoolyard, I would let it flow like oatmeal-coaxed feces out of my mouth. But at home, around my mother and father, it was all about "oh darn it."

I've had my seasons of profanity, but I also have kids, and I have tried to raise them without their hearing too much of that trash. In this process, I have searched for substitutes for the words that really cut to the chase. I have searched for and adopted an arsenal of knock-off profanities. That is what they feel like when I say them too. It feels like I am speaking from a 3rd generation tape recording where I should be using the crisp CD sound with no crackle or pop.

I can't really explain how I got to this point of two different tongues, but there it is. At work, I keep it relatively clean, but if I feel you are in my inner circle, you might get more vulgarities than you expected. Overall, I have a foul mouth and I am very conscious of it.

Enter ten years ago, I started to say "waterdrinker" as a kid-friendly way of getting around the popular four-syllable profanity that sounds sort of like "mothersucker." It was a good substitute around the kids when I would repeat whatever raps I had been listening to.

"The waterdrinkin' saga continues."

"1-8-7 on a waterdrinkin' cop."
"What's up now waterdrinker?"

I have this thing about whatever music I am listening to: I blab it constantly. Lately it has been stuff from the new PRONG album which isn't really that questionable...but I digress.

Recently, I have been going through my mental four-syllable bank for a newer replacement to my classic "waterdrinker." Furthermore, some of the social emails at work have been concerned with the syndicated television language edits that cover our favorite profane quotes in movies. It seems like this is the time to bring the waterdrinker to the next level.

Last week, I started with "helicopter" as the four-syllable replacement for "waterdrinker". It is a complex attempt at a utility modifier that has been slightly modified. However, statements like, "Pass the helicoptin' potatoes," are going to be a hard sell. Helicopter is still in its beta stage, but well on its way.

Last night, Yzzy showed me her movie du jour called THE FREEDOM WRITERS. I need to also clarify that I have been coming off of a throat-splitting, scrambled-eggs-and-carpet-in-the-back-of-the-throat-flu bender, where I have been in and out of consciousness while sprawled on the couch watching WALL STREET, TRAINING DAY and the third and fourth seasons of RESCUE ME.

WALL STREET is amusing and the two seasons of RESCUE ME made me realize that Tommy Gavin's life makes mine look like an all-day pass with no lines at Disneyland. The one that I need to fine tune for you is TRAINING DAY. I watched TRAINING DAY with a bunch of my juniors and seniors back when I was a high school English teacher. The movie was supposed to come out the week of 9/11, but then some yahoos flew their planes into some buildings and the movie got delayed. When it did come out, I took a day off from work and picked up a bunch of guys who were willing to take a cut on their attendance records and we went to go see the film. It was devastating and mesmerizing at the same time. I have seen it at least 10 times since then.

This time through it, I stayed focused on Scott Glenn. Scott gets the short end of the stick in TRAINING DAY, but he still holds it down. I would argue that he upstages Denzel Washington at a few points. I realized that I dig the Glenn more and more every time I watch that film. Furthermore, every time that craggy faced waterdrinker is in a film, you have at least something interesting to look at, whether he has phoned in the part or is actually acting. I believe Glenn is guilty of phoning in his BOURNE IDENTITY part 3 role. But what I can remember of the man are all heavy hitting parts. SILVERADO, SILENCE OF THE LAMBS and some mountain, ice-climbing movie that was really lame, but Scott was there.

So, last night I am watching THE FREEDOM WRITERS with Yzzy and I am getting queasy. The movie is about a teacher who sacrifices everything for a class of delinquents and in the end gets props for it. We have all seen it before in the forms of THE CONCRETE JUNGLE, DANGEROUS MINDS and WELCOME BACK WATERDRINKING KOTTER. I am still angry with Hillary Swank for her rape epic BOYS DON'T CRY. I can't get behind her career. Yes, yes, someone had to do the job, and that someone would have to bear the brunt of my hatred, so Hillary, it was predestined on some level...get over it.

THE FREEDOM WRITERS is one of those darts crafted in one of the coldest rings of hell to make you want to cry. It is a corny voyage into the hearts and hyperbolized lives of people you normally wouldn't give a rip about. I remained steadfast. It didn't crack my armor. I was a teacher, I know what it is like to love your students. I also know that if your students write journal entries about carrying guns, being abused by your parents or being put up for prostitution, you are supposed to call social services. You aren't supposed to publish the stories, make a quick buck and get associated with rape advocates like Hillary Swank.

There is nothing that could have saved this film from its saccharine pillow sprinkled with NutraSweet crystals. This movie was American cheese, individually wrapped, that looks like burnt plastic when put under the broiler. As I worked the bile back in my cough-torn throat, I saw the saving grace: Scott Glenn. Scott didn't phone this role in. Scott is in the trenches, out-acting everyone in his path and putting a serious upstage to whatever Hillary "I-like-acting-like-a-boy-who-is-a-girl- not-a-boy-but-eventually-gets-raped" Swank was doing.

Then the revelation hit me. Helicopter needs to be just that: helicopter. To say "helicopterin'" begs it too much. I said it inside my head a few times and it stuck. Then I began to shop it.


It has a ring to it. A ridiculous ring. Not as ridiculous as "Scott Waterdrinkin' Glenn" sounds, and not as ridiculous as Scott Motherf*cking Glenn sounds. I think Scott Helicopter Glenn hits the mark. Furthermore, Scott was the helicopter MAN in THE FREEDOM WRITERS. If Scott hadn't been there to save that helicopter, I would have clawed my helicopter eyes out by now. I sure in the chopper (oooh, you see that?) wouldn't have anything to helicopter blog about. Scott Helicopter Glenn is where I am at on this rainy helicopter Saturday afternoon in the helicopter Santa Cruz Mountains.

And as I finish this post, I am realizing that my entire substitute profanity catalog needs a serious overhaul. I said "summon a witch" the other day and the look I got was the look that says, "Why didn't you just say son of a bitch?"

The word "stink" has been played out, and so is "frick". I still say "damage" instead of dammit, and there seems to be no end to the use of "fuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" in all of its unfinished glory. Doggonnit is still a usable substitute for when I don't quite want to ask God to blot something out, and the ever present "shoot" will stay in place of the shorter version with a different vowel.

I suppose that I will still live my double life in and out of profanity until my kids all hit 18. And then, it's gonna break helicopter loose.


"Let's get some Farty Nut Cheerios."

So wrong, so wrong.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007


So I shambled.
For about a year.
My wounds oozing,
my blackened,
browning teeth falling out.

I was forced
to dab my pustules,
pretend that
I had
a smile
I was close
to my family.

It was basically an Ebola thing.
Internally, I was turning into paste.

Inside I was a jar of drippings
from a fat pork roast,
grey and unhealthy,
thick and smelling
slightly off.

One would think
that in the midst
of such a crisis
one would be able
to reach to those
that one had known
for one's entire life
for an assist.

An arm to lean on,
a bicep to clutch
as I stumbled,
dragging naked
toes against the gravel.

But things kept me back,
society and religion
being the small ones.
Fear of rejection
being the big one.

I would scrape
my fears about
in my mental vat
downward mustard twist.

Paralyzed by the thoughts
of rejection and disapproval.

Knowing there was no acceptable
path for me but the one
I had been
hammering out
for close to twenty years and three kids.

As the mucous and blood
clotted in the back of my throat,
my eyes bled slow,
thick, round, red tears,
I would smile and sit at the big meals
unable to digest
that which was before me.
My intestines
had knotted
twisted long before;
I wasn't ready to claw
my stomach open
and mix it up
with my digestive juices.

I did talk to him about my pain.
He didn't understand.
He said he would love me just the same;
that meant the world to me,
My ears frothed.
I wondered if I had heard him correctly.

But then he left.

And now,
my feet blister and pop,
with swelling layers
embedded with the burrs
and syringes of too many
polluted walks on the beach

The realizations are hitting me.

I look into my hands
and see the veins pushing
the polluted blood.
I fall back onto
my hopelessly bruised ass
and fumble in my wet
shirt pocket for a cigarette.

I cannot feel the Camel.
My bone sticks
through my finger meat,
fingertips shredded raw
from so much
Grasping for

Everything that I
touch or think
brings me
a flash of pain
I flick the lighter
with the remains
of my right thumb.

My nails have long
since given out
to cracking.
The sensitive flesh
under my nails
festers and throbs
I scratch them open
with a thumbtack
or a car key

Or rub them
into the asphalt
on days when I
wheeze blood
out in the street,
sitting on a curb
like I am today
looking at the black ink sky
that is probably
smiling on someone else.

With the flame
in the 89 cent
purple lighter intact,
I bring it
to the cigarette
that dangles
from my torn lips.
As I clench
my lips together
to draw the smoke through,
they bleed and wear open
with the pressure.
The few teeth
that I have left
chime a dull note
as they press
into the sockets
of their fallen comrades.

My eyes widen
as I pull the smoke
into my shredded lungs
I feel them fill
with my blood and phlegm,
and that
cancerous, black, sandstorm
that I paid my money for.

Veins in my left eye pop,
weep over the white
over my jagged eyelid
into a tear-track
that has furrowed
itself into
my cheek
of late.

The wrinkles
in my forehead
knot and rip.
My skin is too thin
to take this kind of abuse.

I exhale.

It tastes cooked,
meat that has been burning
in the oven for an hour too much.

I stand,
in a shudder,
jitter fashion.

My knees pop.
My calves balance.
I look down
at my shins
covered with sores
that wink and weep
clear juices
that are hot,
like the cooked juices
of a thanksgiving turkey.

As my brain synapses
through its Rolodex
of pain and regret,
I bring that cigarette up,
spilling ash
across my open, razor torn chest,
I realize one thing:
One truth:
it forces me to focus
through my bleeding
bloodshot eyes.

These losses,

this hole in my dying heart
spins and sucks the life out of me,
feasting on whatever life
I once had,
this complete step
away from all I know,

this welling anger and
that makes me feel
as if I am spinning
twenty feet
above you
taking lightning blasts
that cause my flesh
to rip outward
the way the
earth rips
in an earthquake,

will all pass.

This pain will heal.
This season will end.

And I am not the only one suffering.

Thursday, October 18, 2007


Check out this glowing from page story at the Herald earlier this week:

I have to speak at the funeral tomorrow. This is what I have pulled together. It is rough, but you, gentle blog-reader, get the sneak preview.
*EDIT* I opted for the story about how my father broke down the birds and the bees and my vomiting afterwards over the racetrack "Get the hell off the track" story.

It is amazing all of the outpouring of positive talk about my father. I know that at funerals you are supposed to talk about how good a person is, and in my father's case, it will be rather easy.

He had a lot of interesting ways about him. There was a lesson to be learned in everything...even if he didn't overtly tell you that you were learning a lesson, it was there nonetheless. A thing about the guy was that he was always paying attention and marvelling.

About 20 years ago we had a long discussion about what it was to sleepwalk through life. How some people sleepwalk through their lives and never wake up to some sort of consciousness. We talked about people who choose to sleepwalk rather then face their realities. Yes, the man was religious, and yes he lived by a solid moral code, but I would posit that the greatest sin that my father could see in practice was the one where people don't take the moment of life and squeeze all truth out of it. He constantly pondered the slightest interactions with people in an attempt to grasp every last piece of truth for the moment.

It is easy to talk about someone who you work with, or an acquaintance. But to attempt to encapsulate a man who really became a force in almost all aspects of my life? I could stand here all day and tell you stories and experiences and it wouldn't come close.

I have a few stories that I would like to put to you, as a sort of summation of this guy, this man who taught me so much that I couldn't begin to record a sizable fraction of it:

He was always one or two steps ahead of me on anything that remotely interested him. We lived in an apartment complex in Canada while he was working for the Edmonton Report. My understanding is that anyone who worked for "the company" got room and board (there was a store room stocked for meals) and received one dollar a day. If you needed to go somewhere, you checked out a car (at that time it was a fleet of Vegas to choose from). The point that I am making is that all of the parents worked with each other at the Edmonton Report, and all of their offspring hung out in the backyard of this Apartment complex on 149th street in Edmonton.

One morning, I was out with several kids and we found the remains of a roman candle. We asked around for the origin of this thing. Who had fired it off? What was it doing out there? I was in second grade at the time. That night I told my father about this thing before bedtime. "Oh that thing? Me and so and so shot it off last night!"

This was the first of many experiences that I had with him where he had already tread the ground that I was trying to figure out.

When I was probably about 9 or 10 in Canada, he suggested that we race down a path. We were camping and he had time to entertain such little things as footracing. I put everything that had into that run. I passed the finish line and beat him. For months afterward, I told everyone that I could outrun my father. Perhaps it was the next year at the same spot, we raced again, and this time he tore me up. Left me in the dust.

I had given it my all and I couldn't touch him. I learned multiple lessons from that exchange. It wasn't necessary for him to brag about his beating me. Perhaps he had let me win the first time? Perhaps he had underestimated me? I will never know, but I knew later th at he had re-thunk his opponent and applied some skills to take me out. Perhaps some late-night running session? I dunno, but he took me out.I remember telling people within earshot of him that I could outrun him and he never contested me. He never said anything to downplay his loss.I learned that when I throw down with my kids in levels of competition (most lately video games) that I have to throw down hard and not be beaten. When they take it from me, it is fair and square...they earned it, but I will be back.

Another story that I remember about him was that one time in Canada he took us all to the racetrack. It was some sort of fundraiser and all of the local guys from local stores and magazines were going to do the driving of the cars. For some reason, the thing never got off of the ground. My father was supposed to be a driver in a stock car but he wasn't able to drive for some reason. No one was. The whole event was a wash for some reason. One car did in fact leave the pit stop and start tearing around the track at top speed. As it made its first lap, a guy jumped out into the speedway waving a black flag.
"Do you know what a black flag means?" He asked me."No." I replied."It means get the hell off of the track." He said.
Lesson learned.

In the 60s and 70s, my father sported longer hair. The pictures show that it was well over the collar. Casson and I both grew our hair out in the late 80s through the 90s. We came up with some impressive "length" as we called it. We talked about hair constantly. We always noted people with long hair. We would be driving with my father and point out people on the side of the road and say "That guy has length!" At one point, my father asked us what this whole thing was about. I pointed out that he was a longhair at one time. He said that indeed he was, but he didn't sit around talking about "length" all the time. It took awhile, but as you can see, his message did ultimately sink in.

An example of his wit:
My father taught me how to drive. He had this 1963 Volvo (which he later gave to me and I didn't have the patience that he had with it). Anyways, he taught me how to drive at the cemetery by Dennis the Menace Park in Monterey. As I ground the gears and swerved about and shuddered that poor classic clutch, he told me that it didn't matter, there were a lot of people in the immediate area and no one was going to complain.

One arena that my father and I saw each other SQUARE IN THE EYE was with cinema. He took us to see Star Wars in 1977 and that was the beginning of a lifetime of film with a man who had a knowledge base in regards to film that staggered me until the very end. Blockbuster films became a thing for him and "the boys" which would be Casson and myself. It was a clique that involved all of the family members, but he really pushed it with Casson and I. We went to go see Battlestar Galactica in sensurround. We went to go see the Creature from the Black Lagoon and It Came from Outer Space in 3-d. He took us to see Raiders of the Lost Ark. He took us to see Close Encounters. He took us to see Ghostbusters. If it was interesting and on the big screen, he took us there. One of my fondest memories of this whole exchange happened several years ago when I took him to go see Memento for his birthday. He got into my Van afterward and looked me in and said that was one of the best movies he had seen in his life. This meant an awful lot to me. When able, I brought my kids into this same mix. I would pull them out of school for the day so that we could see the new Star Wars movies. Once, Luther and I spent the night at Mom and Dad's place and got up at the crack of dawn to get to the theatre to beat all of the people in line and get a good seat.

He took the family to Disneyland more times than I can count. Part of this had to do with being a member of the press and getting those 4 free press tickets.

He took Casson and I to the other parks in the LA area on what seemed to be a bi-monthly basis. He loved his roller coasters and we rode them all. Magic Mountain, Knotts Berry Farm, and later after we moved up here, Great America and The Boardwalk.

Another thing that I must reference is my father's tremendous faith. I might live in the house not paying much rent, but I HAD to go to church every Sunday with him. This was the deal. There was no excuse, no late night, no possible reason to miss church on Sunday. This was something that he was serious about and the seriousness that he had on the subject also fueled the way he lived his principled life.

One thing that I would like to stress is that I really feel about as good as I can about this situation. I ran my old man hard at times. I pushed the limits of his patience. That being said, at times he pushed mine. Years ago, when driving back to California from Texas and my Granny's funeral, my father and I had a serious heart to heart. It was about 4 in the morning and everyone else in the car was asleep. He was in a new space in life and so was I. We both basically committed to working through all of our issues and keeping the air clear between us. We both cried together as we spoke of old hurts and new hope. He told me that he was proud of me as I told him that I was proud of him.

He was smart. God he was smart. I can't tell you how many times I have told others that I wished I had just a quarter of his brainpower. That brain was a weapon, a juggernaut and your greatest ally if you needed some resource material. The amount of information in that obscene databank must have tripled with the onset of the Internet. It was rare that you could bring something to him that he knew nothing about. And if he knew nothing about it, the next time you would meet him, he would know more about it than you ever did. Knowledge bred and multiplied in his brain. How had he read so many books? How did he know so many people? How had he packed as much life experience into that frame of his? I am still in awe. I am no slouch. I have put in my time on this planet, but when I reach his age will my life be comparable to his?

Yes, he brought me into this world. Yes he was my father. Yes he taught me an incredible amount of things. But the fact of the matter is that he was a good friend. The kind of guy who wanted the best for you. The guy who played fair. The guy who would sacrifice his time to help you out. The guy who reached into his wallet and threw down his last dollar for your cause. He was a great friend. I am going to miss my father, but I am also going to miss my buddy. I loved him. I also know that he loved me, and it is a wonderful way to end this chapter of my life.
To say that I am going to miss him would be an understatement. The wisdom that he imparted to me and attempted to impart will be considered and studied by me for the rest of my life. I have been blessed beyond what I can calculate by being able to able to point this guy out and say, "See that guy? He is my father."

Yes, I am sad because of the loss. But I am also happy, because as far as a father/son relationship is supposed to go, I personally feel that ours was right, sorted and balanced.

Friday, October 12, 2007

Radio Silence (to Todd)

Here is a pic of my Dad last year at Veronica's wedding rehearsal. This is more how I remember him of late. Sincere but distracted. Sharp yet wounded. Tired and determined. All of these things. Most recently, it has been a situation where the ailments have gotten between our communications of the world and the spirits within it. The conversations have been more of a hard-sell on whether he was going to eat his lunch or not. They have also been the research into whether he's already had his meds for the day or not. He would ask me about my job, and I would explain that I was on satanical. He would laugh. Then he would ask me about my job again.


Yeah, I have been scarce of late.

Lots of things on the go.

So...My father died 2 days ago after a bitter year-long, all-out war with cancer.

We all saw it coming. I had been spending a lot of time with him and monitoring his slippage down the mountain called survival.

The family is starting to strike an orbit around Marina California and there are a lot of duties. My cellphone is blowing up nonstop. There are also babies who need to be consoled in regards to the loss of Grandpa. There are siblings who are processing this whole thing. Then there is Mom, who has been so damn tough through this whole thing.

We all miss him.

If ever there was a magnificent bastard, he was my old man.

I'll be back around.

Monday, September 10, 2007


I struggled initially with Robert Downey Jr. as Tony Stark. Casson made it clear that RDJ has a prison build. So I accepted it. I was sure they were gonna have to CG his ass up.

I like John Favreau. Who doesn't. SWINGERS, fool. Gwenyth? Dunno. Terrence Howard? Dunno. But that suit. DEAR LORD, the pre release pics and footage online have had me sold on the suit for months.

Here is the trailer. If youtube pulls it, speak up, I have already ripped this fool to my cellphone. Furthermore L-Dogg has the HD version coming. It might be up at the official site for all I know. If it is, I'll fix this link later.

BAD MOVE with the Sabbath nod. BAD MOVE. We have all thought it, but no one was supposed to go there.

It looks mildly corny, but it also looks like fun.

Thursday, September 06, 2007


Today was a bummer day. I had images of last night's laptop screening of HALLOWEEN haunting me. This was not good. The movie completely sucks.

I am glad I watched it on the laptop. Zombie gets screwed again. When HOUSE OF A THOUSAND CORPSES dropped, the DVD rip was online instantly. That was another situation where I was glad I got my hands on the bootleg. I didn't check right out of the gate for the rip of DEVIL'S REJECTS. I was ready to hear that the movie was crap. But then, the buzz came that the movie was alright. I still held out. The trailer made the film look completely sadistic. I'll tell you though, after much prodding from people, I watched it and I loved it. Yes, it was sadistic to a drastic level, but it had some merit. It gave me hope for the Zombie re-imagining of Halloween. I was feeling the hype. But after watching it on my desktop, I realize I would have been pissed if I had dropped cash on this pig. Overall, this movie is crap with a capital K.

Rob Zombie, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? I thought you were waking up to film making when the Devil's Rejects rolled around, but it is the same ruse you have always pulled. Like back in the 90s when I thought you were waking up to decent music when MORE HUMAN THAN HUMAN dropped. Yes, MORE HUMAN THAN HUMAN had pop 40 written all over it, but it was coherent and it was deep. Then you went back into your hellbilly self and proceeded to pump out the oversampled porn-rock you have always pumped out. Rob Zombie, you retarded child, you always retreat to your silly little masturbatory world and we are all left realizing again that you sir, are a worthless hack.

I understand exploitation. I understand shock value. I also understand that Rob Zombie has built a career out of the marriage of the two. Shock value is what this film serves up, with the gusto. But watching two mental institution guards rape a patient and having the camera linger and ogle the scene was a level of shock that seeped into the exploitation that I personally don't appreciate. This is the kind of exploitation that only a weirdo like Rob Zombie would throw at you and force-feed you with. I kick myself, because I should have sensed this kind of assault coming years ago. The porn sound samples that he throws into his mediocre music straight heralded this offensive scene and I missed the moaning omens. I understand that Mr. Zombie's career is a celebration of exploitation and shock value. I am forced to understand that I am a fool to expect any less from a man who goes by the christian name of "Robert Zombie." I am a fool, because I gave this smart-ass too much credit. I thought that he was actually tapping into something. That he was going to do something new.




Everyone complains that Tarantino bites everyone's style. Take that complaint, multiply it by about four and then drink 4 adios motherf*ckers back to back to back to back. That is about all Mr. Zombie is good for.

I understand his use of William Forsythe. Forsythe is a presence. He did good in the Devil's Rejects. He has been doing good for years. But what an absolute waste this was of the man's talents. This film doesn't come close to brushing the excellence that it could have brushed. This film doesn't use Forsythe. This film doesn't employ Forsythe. This film so so completely locked in it's own navel gaze that it lets the goodness of an actor like Forsythe slip away. I watched the movie specifically for Forsythe and he couldn't deliver. Why? Rob Zombie wouldn't let him. The script has Forsythe limited to chairs and in what seems to be a body cast. There is no real explanation as to why the mobility of the best actor of the film has been shunted, but there it is. All we get from Sir William Forsythe is a steady overkill patter of profanity. It is a waste of talent. He looks good when his throat is slashed, but that one is a reach too. If he is drunk and passed out in his chair enough to be duct taped in place the way he is (over the face, etc), then there is no reason for him to wake up when his throat gets cut.

This is a movie about Michael freaking Myers, not some lame-duck "Jason" or "Freddy." Michael Myers has always had teeth. Michael Myers was always the zombie that just kicked ass a little too hard. Michael Myers has always had an agenda. That agenda was to rid the earth of his family members. Rob Hack Zombie has made the first half of this atrocious film a dedication to the disgusting Myers family. They all suck. They are all bad. They are all dysfunctioned the hell out. But the extremities that Mr. Zombie takes to demonstrate this leaves me to think that young Michael Myers' household is in need of a comedy laugh track. It is so over the top that I was reminded of the jacked up family headed by Rodney Dangerfield in NATURAL BORN KILLERS. It is that bad. It is that awful, it is that over the top. Natural Born Killers gave you a way out though. There was a self-parodying nature to the whole thing. It was completely putrid, but there was that laugh track, to show us that this was an allegory, and that this couldn't possibly be real. Michael Myers' home is as messed up as the I LOVE MALLORY set, but just mean, mean, mean. It is no fun and it is abusive to the audience.


I was hoping for something for the cerebellum. What I finished with was a heavy dosage of disappointment coupled with the 4 adios motherf*cker haze. It is a retread in the worst of senses. Think of the original Halloween while on crystal meth or something, 'cos that's what it is. The first half is the Rob Zombie addition. The second half is literally John Carpenter's Halloween on steroids with a runtime of about 40 minutes. This is a retread that you will see on the side of the road in about 50 miles. This isn't a "re-imagining" at all, this is some fast track defecation. This is a money grab. Well, Mr. Zombie, the joke is on you, because there is a sweet rip of your current blasphemy all over the INTARWEB. Normally, I pull a rip across and give it about 15 minutes. If it is good, I park it and go enjoy the theatrical experience. In this case, it never crossed my mind to get up from the office chair and go watch it at the drive-in. This thing is a mess. And for the record: Malcolm McDowell needs to hurry up and die already. Clockwork Orange and Caligula and now Rob Zombie's HALLOWEEN? Malcolm, die in a fire plzthx.

Sherri Moon Zombie shows her ass in every movie she is in, and I am getting tired of it. She isn't in any other movies than the ones that her wastoid husband makes. This lends to some perversity. The camera is wielded by the husband, who is ogling his wife and using his audience as a wanking proxy. I have already had the conversation where the counter to what I am presenting goes like this: "But I like Sherri Moon Zombie's ass!"
Aesthetically, her ass is a wonderful thing. Conceptually, I wonder why Robert continually serves his wife up as fap material. I am reminded of any number of disturbo relationships along these lines when I start to think about it. John and Bo Derek for example.

Save your money, this trash is gonna be in the bargain bin in no time.

I got a Rob Zombie's Halloween t-shirt for my b-day the other day. I didn't want to wear it until I had seen the movie. I wore it after I had pulled the rip across. Now I am in a serious quandary. Do I wear the shirt and be a poseur? I hated this movie. No, I am going to wear the shirt, because the Shatner mask and Michael Myers are bigger than Robert Hack Zombie ever will be. He can't ruin the series. He sure did try, but Michael Myers is the true zombie here, and Robert is merely a man with a name like Smith or something doing the posing.

I was bummed all day, with images of rape and sadistic mayhem dancing through my head. I will get better though, once I queue up the original Halloweens 1-6 and cover this atrocious experience with something a little classier.

Monday, September 03, 2007

The Headgame

I am going to be honest. The next post hurts me in some way, and I can't really determine how. This next post is dirty. It is sexual and it is rooted in some sort of lament over this up and coming generation. Times have changed and the roles have reversed. Checkitout:

4 years ago I taught a high school English class. There was this girl in there who I will refer to as L. L sat in the back and always stared me down. But I kinda blew it off, because 15 year old girls tend to be a tad hormonal. L one day took a sip of some kid's apple juice in class. The kid actually didn't have apple juice in the bottle, but piss and thought it would be funny to trick someone into drinking it. I ripped a verbal swath out of the back of this boy's neck and used all of my power to make the rest of his life that year completely miserable. L's father in turn ripped a verbal chunk out of me for keeping an "unsafe classroom" where kids could actually be tricked into drinking urine. In all of this time, L's staring didn't stop.

The thing about L was that she was a beautiful young woman. She just wasn't a cheerleader. My classroom was overrun with cheerleaders and these girls HATED L for her good looks. I basically ran interference for this kid. I also struggled with the fact that the schoolyard talk would probably destroy her in regards to her urine sipping. I pitied her greatly. That was my last teaching gig and I have moved on to a better job with better pay.

Fast forward to 3 days ago. L finds me in email. We have a few exchanges about life. I explain that I am currently in the process of a divorce (when I was teaching I was married). L explains her life at university and her sorority, etc. She explains how she is working towards her PHD and how she is going to become a psychologist like her father before her. Then she drops this on me:

"I want you."

I should have shut down all communication with her right then. But it was L, the girl I always felt sorry for in my class.

"You have got to be kidding me!
I am a fossil." Was my response.

She hasn't let up from this point yet. Until I severed it all, These were the messages she was flooding my in-box with:

"sorry i've just been having fantasy's (sic) about you for years"

"What would it take? I'd be willing to do alot"

When I asked to just be friends, her response was this:

"K sounds good. But i think that having a few drinks and hooking up on friday sounds better"

When I told her no, outright, I got:

"Your just full of excuses aren't you"

"Did i mention that i've wanted you/ been in love with you for like 5 years"

"Basically you turn me on and i want you to have sex with me. Repeatedly"

So what I have is a full-on proposition for sex in less than 24 hours of time via email with someone I haven't seen for 5 years. Gentle reader, there is no way that I could throw down and bone this chick. She is hot though. I should post her pic here, but that would really be beside the point. This whole thing was good for the ego on a primal level. I managed to counter just about every one of these with some sort of, "aren't you being a little forward?" and "let's talk about something else." Here are some other quotes that I have gotten in the past bit (cut and paste straight out of my Facebook account):

"I think that you can teach me things :-)"

"I just want to love you"

"I know you will love fucking me. Once you calm down and just do it."

"I want you to give me my first O."

"please fuck me! i just want you so bad. you'll love it i promise. i bet your so big"

"teach me how to give you head."

"i'm getting sooooo turned on just thinking about it. lets just hang out sometime have a few drinks and catch up. at your place. we don't HAVE to do anything. i don't want to seem desperate. let's just hang out and see what happens. i guarantee that i will make you the happiest man alive"

"You = lame
there just has to be something wrong with you if you don't want to fuck me. I'm hot i'm smart i'm funny i'm young"

Ego is ego, and pricktalk is pricktalk, but it was getting too tedious. It became obvious to me that her game was completely sexual and that there was going to be no give on anything that had to do with who L really was. I was bummed by this factor. I wanted to know something about this girl...more than her vagina. I didn't want to know about her vagina. I wanted to know what was in the mind behind this whole thing. I wanted to talk about the rest of her high school experience. I wanted to talk about the hurt that I had felt, and maybe even discuss the urine-gulping episode. That was about the distance of my intimate experience I was going to have with her. Clitorically speaking, I wasn't interested.

I talked to my friend Matt about it. I told him that there was a headgame underneath this all. I told him that I am nobody special, and that there was a rub somewhere, but I couldn't determine it. What was the rub? Why would an ex-student of mine simply chase me down 100% on the sex tip and not give up anything else? I don't want the sex. I am currently in a relationship with a wonderful woman and don't need this 19 year old bullshit. I finally came back at her with this:

"Why? Can't we have a good time? It isn't all about the sex it? I that all I am to you? A piece of meat?
If I was treating a girl the way you are treating me, they would lock my ass up and throw away the key."

She apologized, but the shit kept on popping. Her harranguing me for some form of sexual liason began to sicken me. It was like she was on autopilot, and this was all she could come at me with. When I would ask her about movies or music, she would twist it and make it a way to talk about sex. There was no way I was going to find the delicate L that I remembered when from when I used to teach. This was some sort of slut that had walls up on every front except the sexual one. When she finally realized that I wasn't going to grace her bed, she got sulky and started to back off. In frustration with this e-nympho, I pulled the plug and severed all lines of contact with her.

The headgame is that this is the reversal. Men used to do this kind of shit to women. Now the shoe is on the other foot. This is a woman doing this to a man. In all of this, even though I never bedded this chick down, I feel spent and used. I feel objectified. I don't get down like this. If I was in this life game to get whatever I could get, that would be one thing...but I am not. Driving over to her place, picking her up and going somewhere to toss her really doesn't appeal. I mean, it sounds so empty. It sounds so slutty. It sounds so wrong. I could use her as an object. A live piece of meat for my own masturbation and then what? Wait for her to call me again so that I could use her as a pleasant piece of meat again?

What is up with this up and coming generation?

My conclusion in the L case is that she has been used in the same way by a guy before me, and this is how she has chosen to work with men. She has a long road in front of her. There will of course, be slutty guys who will snap her up when she puts her ass on the table. She might get through her entire life with these sorts of liasons. There will also be the guys like me who want to know who she is and what makes her tick...who will ultimately feel sorry for her.

I feel like such a bitch. Society itself demands that I drive over there right now and hump her brains out. I have friends who will tell me that I should have gone and tossed her sideways because that is what she wanted. All I have to go on is what I feel internally, which is that there is something horribly wrong with this picture. I am disturbed by it all.

Fuck you, L. Not me, but someone else. I think that is what you want.


The person who is it rides the scooter. The rest are on foot. This is officially the game of my summer. Other aspects are that you bust a sweat and your legs are sore at the end. My scooter skills are up...I haven't spilled seriously yet. I even went to youtube to watch stunts on the Fuzion so I could get something on at times when we play "vehicle tag" where everyone is on something. I have a long way to go.

I am reminded of my sweaty summer nights playing kick the can at the top of Hellam Street. The immigrant neighbors would come out and tell us to keep it down, and I for one would not.

The key to these games is population; as you will note here, there is a population. The rest of the kids in this neighborhood are still a little shook, but they are starting to hover on the sidelines.

Here is an example of the action:

Sunday, August 26, 2007



Both the Alien and the Predator franchises eventually pissed me off. Every several years a new one pops up that might save the pack. I have hope for this one. AVP was one of the worst stillborn films I have ever seen. Thank the internet gods that I downloaded it and stole from 20th Century Fox. They wanted to obviously steal from me with that half-baked mistake.

Someone said that this was going to be good. I laughed in their face. Then they sent me the link for the new trailer and I soiled my underoos. It is an R-Rated trailer, so strap yourself in for some decent gore. Furthermore, the "F-YOU!" at the end really cuts to the chase; much like a knock-knock joke I have been telling to mature company that has the the same punchline.

Some great things have happened in both series. David Fincher got his start. Casson and I were discussing this probably less than a week ago. I still need to go back and see Alien Part 3 and see if it was as horrible as I remember it. Predator part one is still one of my all time favorites. My computer at work whispers "anytime" to me whenever a new email comes in. Bill Paxton's "game over" rant ranks as one of my most quoted movie passages.

That being said, I am sure that most if not all of the money is blown for us in the trailer. Lots of heads snapping and popping, and lots of alien acid blood. This definitely brings the action back that I recall from 1986's ALIENS...but will it cut the mustard? No idea, but this is the best trailer that has gone across my laptop in awhile. Check it out:

Friday, August 24, 2007

Mother Teresa

My father tells of a season when he was in the presence of Mother Teresa. When one says "Mother Teresa" one thinks of something completely good. When one thinks of a secular saint, like say "Princess Diana" one thinks of someone trying to good, but not quite nailing it. Mother Teresa nailed it. No doubt about it. She was good. She was good to the core.

My father breaks down his time in her presence as a powerful moment. How could it not be? But now there is all of this stuff that has been release talking about the darkness that she felt and how far away God seemed to her. This was a woman at the top of the spiritual game (in the Catholic sense). Now there is stuff out there that she wrote to her confessors about how abandoned she felt. How she even questioned this fantastic faith that we all knew she had. One argument that I have heard in all of this is that there is so much more power in the fact that she was struggling to "wear a mask" for her public, and that the faith that she demonstrated in that process is beautiful.

Part of me is pissed with the Catholic Church because she requested that these private messages that she would send to her confessors be destroyed. They were not. Leave it to the Catholics to bust out with this stuff. This is a backstab, if you ask me. I don't know the story behind how her papers were released, but it is dirty, whatever it is. If I was to actually confide in someone my deepest spiritual fears, I would expect that the stuff would be kept under wraps...even after my death. Someone is getting paid here, and it seems generous for me to go ahead and say that they can go to hell.

If the woman struggled as hard as the book is saying (based on the excerpts below)...well what kind of chance does a run-of-the-mill bastard like myself have of escaping total spiritual darkness? Not much. This information that is coming out has me flummoxed and shocked.

Here is a taste:

On Dec. 11, 1979, Mother Teresa, the "Saint of the Gutters," went to Oslo. Dressed in her signature blue-bordered sari and shod in sandals despite below-zero temperatures, the former Agnes Bojaxhiu received that ultimate worldly accolade, the Nobel Peace Prize. In her acceptance lecture, Teresa, whose Missionaries of Charity had grown from a one-woman folly in Calcutta in 1948 into a global beacon of self-abnegating care, delivered the kind of message the world had come to expect from her. "It is not enough for us to say, 'I love God, but I do not love my neighbor,'" she said, since in dying on the Cross, God had "[made] himself the hungry one — the naked one — the homeless one." Jesus' hunger, she said, is what "you and I must find" and alleviate. She condemned abortion and bemoaned youthful drug addiction in the West. Finally, she suggested that the upcoming Christmas holiday should remind the world "that radiating joy is real" because Christ is everywhere — "Christ in our hearts, Christ in the poor we meet, Christ in the smile we give and in the smile that we receive."
Yet less than three months earlier, in a letter to a spiritual confidant, the Rev. Michael van der Peet, that is only now being made public, she wrote with weary familiarity of a different Christ, an absent one. "Jesus has a very special love for you," she assured Van der Peet. "[But] as for me, the silence and the emptiness is so great, that I look and do not see, — Listen and do not hear — the tongue moves [in prayer] but does not speak ... I want you to pray for me — that I let Him have [a] free hand."
The two statements, 11 weeks apart, are extravagantly dissonant. The first is typical of the woman the world thought it knew. The second sounds as though it had wandered in from some 1950s existentialist drama. Together they suggest a startling portrait in self-contradiction — that one of the great human icons of the past 100 years, whose remarkable deeds seemed inextricably connected to her closeness to God and who was routinely observed in silent and seemingly peaceful prayer by her associates as well as the television camera, was living out a very different spiritual reality privately, an arid landscape from which the deity had disappeared.
And in fact, that appears to be the case. A new, innocuously titled book, Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light (Doubleday), consisting primarily of correspondence between Teresa and her confessors and superiors over a period of 66 years, provides the spiritual counterpoint to a life known mostly through its works. The letters, many of them preserved against her wishes (she had requested that they be destroyed but was overruled by her church), reveal that for the last nearly half-century of her life she felt no presence of God whatsoever — or, as the book's compiler and editor, the Rev. Brian Kolodiejchuk, writes, "neither in her heart or in the eucharist."
That absence seems to have started at almost precisely the time she began tending the poor and dying in Calcutta, and — except for a five-week break in 1959 — never abated. Although perpetually cheery in public, the Teresa of the letters lived in a state of deep and abiding spiritual pain. In more than 40 communications, many of which have never before been published, she bemoans the "dryness," "darkness," "loneliness" and "torture" she is undergoing. She compares the experience to hell and at one point says it has driven her to doubt the existence of heaven and even of God. She is acutely aware of the discrepancy between her inner state and her public demeanor. "The smile," she writes, is "a mask" or "a cloak that covers everything." Similarly, she wonders whether she is engaged in verbal deception. "I spoke as if my very heart was in love with God — tender, personal love," she remarks to an adviser. "If you were [there], you would have said, 'What hypocrisy.'" Says the Rev. James Martin, an editor at the Jesuit magazine America and the author of My Life with the Saints, a book that dealt with far briefer reports in 2003 of Teresa's doubts: "I've never read a saint's life where the saint has such an intense spiritual darkness. No one knew she was that tormented." Recalls Kolodiejchuk, Come Be My Light's editor: "I read one letter to the Sisters [of Teresa's Missionaries of Charity], and their mouths just dropped open. It will give a whole new dimension to the way people understand her."
The book is hardly the work of some antireligious investigative reporter who Dumpster-dived for Teresa's correspondence. Kolodiejchuk, a senior Missionaries of Charity member, is her postulator, responsible for petitioning for her sainthood and collecting the supporting materials. (Thus far she has been beatified; the next step is canonization.) The letters in the book were gathered as part of that process.
The church anticipates spiritually fallow periods. Indeed, the Spanish mystic St. John of the Cross in the 16th century coined the term the "dark night" of the soul to describe a characteristic stage in the growth of some spiritual masters. Teresa's may be the most extensive such case on record. (The "dark night" of the 18th century mystic St. Paul of the Cross lasted 45 years; he ultimately recovered.) Yet Kolodiejchuk sees it in St. John's context, as darkness within faith. Teresa found ways, starting in the early 1960s, to live with it and abandoned neither her belief nor her work. Kolodiejchuk produced the book as proof of the faith-filled perseverance that he sees as her most spiritually heroic act.
Two very different Catholics predict that the book will be a landmark. The Rev. Matthew Lamb, chairman of the theology department at the conservative Ave Maria University in Florida, thinks Come Be My Light will eventually rank with St. Augustine's Confessions and Thomas Merton's The Seven Storey Mountain as an autobiography of spiritual ascent. Martin of America, a much more liberal institution, calls the book "a new ministry for Mother Teresa, a written ministry of her interior life," and says, "It may be remembered as just as important as her ministry to the poor. It would be a ministry to people who had experienced some doubt, some absence of God in their lives. And you know who that is? Everybody. Atheists, doubters, seekers, believers, everyone."
Not all atheists and doubters will agree. Both Kolodiejchuk and Martin assume that Teresa's inability to perceive Christ in her life did not mean he wasn't there. In fact, they see his absence as part of the divine gift that enabled her to do great work. But to the U.S.'s increasingly assertive cadre of atheists, that argument will seem absurd. They will see the book's Teresa more like the woman in the archetypal country-and-western song who holds a torch for her husband 30 years after he left to buy a pack of cigarettes and never returned. Says Christopher Hitchens, author of The Missionary Position, a scathing polemic on Teresa, and more recently of the atheist manifesto God Is Not Great: "She was no more exempt from the realization that religion is a human fabrication than any other person, and that her attempted cure was more and more professions of faith could only have deepened the pit that she had dug for herself." Meanwhile, some familiar with the smiling mother's extraordinary drive may diagnose her condition less as a gift of God than as a subconscious attempt at the most radical kind of humility: she punished herself with a crippling failure to counterbalance her great successes.
Come Be My Light is that rare thing, a posthumous autobiography that could cause a wholesale reconsideration of a major public figure — one way or another. It raises questions about God and faith, the engine behind great achievement, and the persistence of love, divine and human. That it does so not in any organized, intentional form but as a hodgepodge of desperate notes not intended for daylight should leave readers only more convinced that it is authentic — and that they are, somewhat shockingly, touching the true inner life of a modern saint.

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Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Last Round of Summer Pix

Yeah, a busy summer here. I have been snapping the odd pic, and I am bringing them to you with the little statements. Slacker photojournalism. Here goes...

This piece of birthday cake looked like a photo waiting to happen with the three upturned strawberries. Notice the Scarface sticker on the laptop. All of the PS2 skins are on blowout because the XBOX 360 and the PS3 have everyone's attention. I am pretty much in a PS2 por vida space. I have no idea what is going to pull 500 bones out of my pocket to get on with next gen. It sure isn't the games library currently offered though.

This is the top of the hill that I have been mountain biking just about every day with at least one of my brood. The Moss Landing smokestacks were visible this day, and that is why I took the pic. A wonderful view. The cellphone doesn't capture the true beauty or it, nor does it record my incessant panting from the blitz up the hill.

I poured a scotch with strawberries in it. Then I topped the drink off with water. Yes, it sounds weak and frou-frou, but it was BOMB. Then I proceeded to fall asleep watching CITY OF LOST CHILDREN with L-Dogg. He fell asleep too. I don't know how Casson at one time said that this was his favorite movie. That was the third time I have blacked out watching that trash. Three strikes and the film is OUT.

Oak worm moths/caterpillars have taken over. This is a poor tree in the Toys R Us parking lot. You can see some of the webbing on it. This town is beginning to look like KINGDOM OF THE SPIDERS. Those little caterpillars are really pushing it. When you catch one and squeeze him by the head, he doesn't even give you a satisfying death spasm. He just goes limp, because he knows that there will be about three or four million to take his place. There are so many in the trees that you can hear their dung dropping. Millions of the little things defecating at all times of the day. I was outside under a tree on a conference call and heard all of this tinkling. Then I realized I was in a true shitstorm.

I forced the babies to ride across the Boardwalk on the lift last Saturday. What intrigues me the most is the fact that the merry-go-round rings are on the tops of all of these buildings. What also intrigues me is that no one looks up at you. Yet you are watching them.

More rings.

I cut my finger on what I think was part of a wine glass. Here are two shots. Now there is no sign that I even hurt myself at all.

Lift shot of the ocean. The Pacific was beautiful, and cooling with its natural air conditioning. No avection cloud, just the nice breeze of the ocean. Moss Landing is in the distance, but once again, the cameraphone ain't really cutting it.

More overhead shots of the people below. I absolutely love the Boardwalk. I own their souls.

Here is L-Dogg, after a ride to the top of the hill and then down to the park for some shade and some water.

Yzzy makes the best smoothies. Fok Jamba Juice. Yzzy has it all on lock. Sure it looks like brains, but it is a "nice refreshing drink."

We went to breakfast at Chamanade last Sunday morning. That is my bike to the left. If you squint, you can see the Scarface sticker on it too.

Me and the Eyeball on the Giant Dipper last Saturday. Yzzy and Luther are in the car in front.

Shot of the outside of the Boardwalk, taken from the Doubleshot line. 125 feet to the top at a ridiculous speed. It always owns me.

This is Yzzy, working her way to the top of the hill.

A different day, Luther is working his way up, and Yz is behind him. It is just a matter of time before they start beating me to the top.

Another shot from the top. Another attempt at Moss Landing, which was visible.
The other direction from the top of the hill. Trees everywhere. Santa Cruz is the spot.

Yzzy after the hill run, at the park.

Blown radiator hose. Ivan and Luther helped me push it for about 3 blocks. Then I got the towjob. Hector is working hard. I caught a ticket tonight for 72 in a 55. That officer was low-balling it.
The beach in Monterey, before I went to one of my many jacked up meetings at the courthouse. I don't know who that is out on the sand there, but I obviously stole their soul.

At work, there is this sign telling me to recycle. It says underneath the part that says "no trash," "Yo dude, paper towels are trash." Totally patronizing me. So I recycled the sign.

Ivan while he was "it" in a game of tag at the park. He was holing up in this tube, baiting us all to get closer.

He would bait us to get closer and out would come the hand.

A round of scooter tag. That bush between Ivan and Yzzy is prickly as hell. Luther just takes the prickles to get away.

Ivan working his way up the hill.

Ivan at the park.

Ivan and Yzzy at the park. when they would stay with me on days that I was working, i would take them here at lunchtime. Then we would play a violent, sweaty game of tag in the heat of the day. Some days my legs would be so sore from the serious sprinting and slipping that I would do that I would limp around at night. That, coupled with my cardio set at Gold's has really been part of my summer workout. Both of them complained of being sore too. But it has been a lot of fun. On slower days, we would throw the frisbee. Yzzy is a pro. Ivan? Well, I would rather he threw to Yzzy than me at this point.

A different shot of the park. I must add that NO ONE is ever there. This makes it our own space.

This is a hill that we tend to run down at the park. Luther was chasing me full tilt and my leg slipped and I took a serious tumble. He was tumbling after me. He tagged me at the bottom of the hill. I tagged him back and limped outta there.

Another shot of the beautiful Santa Cruz beach. I have no idea who that guy is looking at me. He now knows that I stole his soul though.

An example of Boardwalk traffic. Global warming put this day well into the 80s. My entourage of souls.
Ivan at the park.

The water fountain. If we were a little more primitive, we would probably worship the thing.

Beautiful shots from the courthouse. I had to find some beauty in this hellish situation

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Even More Summer Pix

I have a blog about pissing all over a message board coming up. Those bitches asked for it, and I feel my catharsis...but for now, you need an update on this magnificent summer.

Luther, fiercely anonymous, yesterday afternoon on the Giant Dipper. They were running two cars at once. That line didn't mean jack. The girl behind us screamed obnoxiously so. I didn't have the guts or heart to tell her to shut up.

The Beach outside of the Boardwalk. it was hopping, and I took this shot from our place in the Doubleshot lineup. Some day I will have the balls to take the camera and film the whole episode. But I really don't want to lose my cameraphone at this point.

All of the people on the beach yesterday. It was beautiful. Some afternoon, I am gonna take my shirt off and do the volleyball thing in the sun all day. Buncha fucking poseurs.

An idea of the crowds we were dealing with yesterday. It was packed. It was the busiest that I have ever seen the Boardwalk.

I took IJ to a junkyard that I have seen in Watsonville for years. I drove up and asked for the special tour. They initially said no, but upon looking at who I was escorting, they took us for a tour.

The car graveyard. Fucking beautiful.

The Moss Landing Power Stax bled into the real clouds last week.

Eggs, pasta and sausage. A superior lunch for Luther. Back off.

A burrito with some pork chop that I BBQ'd a bit ago. Mushrooms, onions, potato, tomato and queso also. Back off.

Yzzy know what it is all about. I can make some mean pasghetti these days.
Back off.

Mid-scooter tag. In front of the neighbors. The neighbor has an old-school Mustang, but it ain't as cool as mine.

IJ getting some speed on the Razor. I own that kid with the Fusion scooter though. We have been playing a lot of tag of late.

My burrito, carrots, salsa and vino.
Back off.

Cars piled at the lot previously mentioned. I am reminded of the day that I was in a junkyard with Jake (looking for Mini partz). He found a book/journal written by some guy entering sobriety. Jake said that the information was valuable on the creative writing tip. I know he never followed through on it, but he is a perpetual am I.

That is a Cadillac Eldorado at the bottom of this pile.

Stacked, smashed cars lie this will always amaze me.

Yzzy, trapped before the Fireball. Not so much as trapped, but there she is nonetheless.

The park that I drag them to at lunchtime when they are with me during the workweek. There is a house at the top of that hill...but you can't see it here really. Click on the picture, and it will zoom for you a bit.

I forgot my cameraphone the day we found a snake down there. I made that snake suffer just a bit. What snake shouldn't? He was snapping at the stick that I was holding to move him with. Every time he snapped, I gave him a rap on his forehead with that very stick. he eventually got the message. What garter snake is out there snapping at sticks? My father theorized that this thing may have been a escaped exotic pet. Dammit camera. Oh well, your loss.

Ivan plays this game called "camera tag." Two people with cameras, shooting each other. Something that was impossibly expensive when I was a kid.
Corn and pasta. The pasta is mid-douse in the sauce. The meal was bomb BTW.

Ivan. Proof that the previous meal was bomb. Look at those eyes. Homeboy is content.

IJ on the Fireball. The ride lost electricity at one point. Fortunately we were at the end of it all. Imagine if it had lost power when we were at the top at mid-swing? Our power outage happened in the last few swings, and it was for about 10 minutes. We were the second to last ride of the night.
I will put out something of substance later.