I checked something on YouTube a few minutes ago and on the recommended videos was a music video for what I consider to be a pretty badass song. It inspired me to publish here a list of what I consider to be the five most badass songs of all time before going to sleep. Enjoy.
5. "Analog Kid" by Rush
4. "The Falls" by Avail
3. "Rain on the Scarecrow" by John Mellencamp
2. "What It Is" by Mark Knopfler
1. "Gypsy Biker" by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
Sidenote: YouTube also keeps giving my advertisements for Muslim dating sites.
I like meat. My favorite color is green. I wish tobacco was still currency in Virginia like in the early 17th century.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Today sucked.
I had an awful day today. I had to work excessively hard on a task that didn't need to be done, but I was not made aware of it until after I had finished. Then, I had to run around from building to building with nobody explaining to me what exactly I was supposed to be doing, and ended up getting shots that I didn't need. Then I had to work outside in the cold for several more hours. The day just wouldn't end.
The day started off great, but quickly went downhill. This morning I was doing heel-hooks on the pull-up bars and kicked a guy in the face. It was awesome, but after that, pure aggrivation.
During a forty minute period when I could relax, I thought about how I got to be here and how I wouldn't change a thing. I could have finished grad school. I could have been in my second year of teaching (Where I would have been miserable, but I'll save that for a later entry because I have some long rants about the failures of the education system and why I don't want any part of it). Nope, instead I'm here. Aggrivated by stupid people.
January 2010, I returned to my house in Norfolk after a trip to visit my grandfather in South Carolina. I didn't pick up my cat, Dicken, from the kennell like usual because I wanted to get back to Norfolk to hang out with some people before school started. My mother called me that evening to tell me the vet noticed some disturbing behavior from my cat during his stay there. He didn't eat much and he vomitted several times. Dicken had already become pretty skinny in his old age, and now the vet suspected he might have some sort of cancer. I of course was saddened by this news and actually got a little choked up after the phone call. Very few things ever elicit an emotional response from me, but that was one of them.
I prayed that, whenever it was Dicken's time to go, I would be there with him.
A few months later, I quit grad school. I wasn't happy and wanted to pursue something I wanted to do, not something I was doing because I felt I had to do something. I moved back home to my famiy and my kitty. Being back home clearly made Dicken happy. From March until August, he started eating more, put on weight, and was more active.
In August, he started to decline. We didnt' notice at first, but he stopped eating dry food. Eventually he stopped eating canned food. At some point, I noticed that it had been forever since I heard him purr. He had an overactive salivary gland that caused him to drool whenever he was really happy. He hadn't drooled in a long time either. Something was wrong, and eventually we took him to the vet on September 11, 2010. Dicken didn't come back from the vet.
Like I said, I don't get emotional over anything. I hadn't cried since one of the younger elementary school years (I just realized that coincidentally, we adopted Dicken early in my second grade year). I cried that day though. I cried a lot. There was a good hour in that room at the vet's where I had difficulty formulating words, much less a coherent sentence. The next two days, I'd just lose it out of nowhere too.
But I remembered praying that God would let me be there with Dicken at the end. If I had been teaching, I would have been somewhere else in the country. The school year would have just started, and it would have been uncertain that I could make it home. God answered me in a wierd way, but it was worth it.
Whenever I have bad days out here, and I think of all the stupid shit I have to put up with sometimes, and I think of easier things I could be doing, I remember being there for a friend. Totally worth it.
The day started off great, but quickly went downhill. This morning I was doing heel-hooks on the pull-up bars and kicked a guy in the face. It was awesome, but after that, pure aggrivation.
During a forty minute period when I could relax, I thought about how I got to be here and how I wouldn't change a thing. I could have finished grad school. I could have been in my second year of teaching (Where I would have been miserable, but I'll save that for a later entry because I have some long rants about the failures of the education system and why I don't want any part of it). Nope, instead I'm here. Aggrivated by stupid people.
January 2010, I returned to my house in Norfolk after a trip to visit my grandfather in South Carolina. I didn't pick up my cat, Dicken, from the kennell like usual because I wanted to get back to Norfolk to hang out with some people before school started. My mother called me that evening to tell me the vet noticed some disturbing behavior from my cat during his stay there. He didn't eat much and he vomitted several times. Dicken had already become pretty skinny in his old age, and now the vet suspected he might have some sort of cancer. I of course was saddened by this news and actually got a little choked up after the phone call. Very few things ever elicit an emotional response from me, but that was one of them.
I prayed that, whenever it was Dicken's time to go, I would be there with him.
A few months later, I quit grad school. I wasn't happy and wanted to pursue something I wanted to do, not something I was doing because I felt I had to do something. I moved back home to my famiy and my kitty. Being back home clearly made Dicken happy. From March until August, he started eating more, put on weight, and was more active.
In August, he started to decline. We didnt' notice at first, but he stopped eating dry food. Eventually he stopped eating canned food. At some point, I noticed that it had been forever since I heard him purr. He had an overactive salivary gland that caused him to drool whenever he was really happy. He hadn't drooled in a long time either. Something was wrong, and eventually we took him to the vet on September 11, 2010. Dicken didn't come back from the vet.
Like I said, I don't get emotional over anything. I hadn't cried since one of the younger elementary school years (I just realized that coincidentally, we adopted Dicken early in my second grade year). I cried that day though. I cried a lot. There was a good hour in that room at the vet's where I had difficulty formulating words, much less a coherent sentence. The next two days, I'd just lose it out of nowhere too.
But I remembered praying that God would let me be there with Dicken at the end. If I had been teaching, I would have been somewhere else in the country. The school year would have just started, and it would have been uncertain that I could make it home. God answered me in a wierd way, but it was worth it.
Whenever I have bad days out here, and I think of all the stupid shit I have to put up with sometimes, and I think of easier things I could be doing, I remember being there for a friend. Totally worth it.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
An old house
I was bored earlier and looking on facebook to kill time until the season finale of South Park came on. "Mansion on the Hill" by Bruce Springsteen, off Nebraska started playing on my iTunes. The first verse goes:
There's a place out on the edge of town sir
Risin' above the factories and the fields
Now ever since I was a child I can remember that mansion on the hill
That line conjured memories from my childhood of a house I used to pass all the time on Route 10. It wasn't a mansion on a hill, but like so many words that bring back old memories, it didn't have to make sense. I remembered a hosue from my childhood.
That house is no longer there, but I remember it vividly. There was a small wall around the front yard. At the entrance to the driveway, the wall broke into a door-less gate. At the edge of each wall there were statues of eagles perched on orbs. The house was either a short two-story house or a one-story house with a tall attic. The walls were stone. Behind the house was the thick forest that most of Chester used to be. You can tell the area was heavily wooded because of the forested subdivision nearby. The tall trees surrounding the house used hide envelope it with their limbs.
When I was a kid, I was riding in the car with my mother. I pointed out the house and how I thought it was cool and wanted to live in a house like that. She told me that when my uncle was a kid, he would say the same thing about it.
Today the house is gone. Much of the forest has been cut down. There is now a large neighborhood for retirees in its place. Driving around my hometown, I often long for how small Chester used to be. Unfortunately, unlike Bruce, I can no longer park on a back road and look up at my mansion on a hill.
There's a place out on the edge of town sir
Risin' above the factories and the fields
Now ever since I was a child I can remember that mansion on the hill
That line conjured memories from my childhood of a house I used to pass all the time on Route 10. It wasn't a mansion on a hill, but like so many words that bring back old memories, it didn't have to make sense. I remembered a hosue from my childhood.
That house is no longer there, but I remember it vividly. There was a small wall around the front yard. At the entrance to the driveway, the wall broke into a door-less gate. At the edge of each wall there were statues of eagles perched on orbs. The house was either a short two-story house or a one-story house with a tall attic. The walls were stone. Behind the house was the thick forest that most of Chester used to be. You can tell the area was heavily wooded because of the forested subdivision nearby. The tall trees surrounding the house used hide envelope it with their limbs.
When I was a kid, I was riding in the car with my mother. I pointed out the house and how I thought it was cool and wanted to live in a house like that. She told me that when my uncle was a kid, he would say the same thing about it.
Today the house is gone. Much of the forest has been cut down. There is now a large neighborhood for retirees in its place. Driving around my hometown, I often long for how small Chester used to be. Unfortunately, unlike Bruce, I can no longer park on a back road and look up at my mansion on a hill.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
The Terrible Tues
My Tuesday night was unusually busy. I often try to go out on Tuesdays because television on those nights are atrociously boring. I use the word "atrociously," not because of the American obsession with adverbs, but because it really is an atrocity. There is nothing that I can think of off the top of my head worth watching that night.
Monday has Chuck, The Cape, Pawn Stars, and How I Met Your Mother. Wednesday has The Middle. Thursday has The Big Bang Theory, Community, and Jersey Shore (Don't judge me.) Friday has Ghost Adventures for the nights when I am too exhausted to go out. Saturday is beer night. Sunday has The Simpsons. My schedule is further complicated by other shows that have already ended their seasons Human Target, Burn Notice, that USA Network show about the CIA with the hot blonde and title I can't remember.
This past Tuesday, however, I went to Richmond, accompanied by the veritable brain trust of Craig, Brandon, Bobby, and Patrick. Our original intent was to meet at the Village Grill before the VCU basketball game, but it was too crowded, as is often the case before a game. Instead, we opted for Strange Matter, but neglected to tell Craig until shortly before his arrival.
Strange Matter is a good, video game-themed bar. I had a solid burger for dinner. It was not an amazing burger, but I enjoyed it. The reason to go is for the beer. Dollar PBR during happy hour (I think that was what happened). Another reason to go is the atmosphere. The walls are covered in murals of classic video game characters. Donkey Kong, the princess, Mario, Luigi, a goomba, and one of the carnivorous plants are drinking on one wall with Ryu and Chun-Li. Another wall has a variant of Da Vinci's The Last Supper. The far end of the bar has a television with a Sega Genesis hooked up to it. The back of the bar has at least ten arcade games, including Paperboy, Ultimate Mortal Kombat 3 (Which I should have played), and the classically titled Bad Dudes vs. Dragon Ninja.
One of the items on the menu is called Bobby's Dream Burger. Being present with a Bobby, this caused much laughter. You could add some extra toppings for "the full Bobby experience." We found out later that it was named for the owner of the bar, another man named Bobby. Another man named Bobby who just happened to be sitting on the stool next to our Bobby. That was weird.
The game was fun. Bobby and I were for George Mason because I once attended Old Dominion University and could never root for VCU and Bobby bet on the game. Brandon and Patrick were for VCU because they were/are VCU students. Craig was for VCU because he has bad taste. He likes black and yellow teams. Gross.
One of the highlights of the game was Patrick's amusing taunts of GMU fans. Whenever a female GMU fan would stand up, Patrick would start yelling "Sit down, hag!" He would throw in a good "Shut up, slut" every once and a while. Another highlight was how awful VCU played. GMU won by about 20 points. The only reason to stick around was to see whether VCU could break 50, which they finally did with about ten seconds left in the game. I took a picture of the scoreboard at one point to show how bad the score was. A trick of the light made it look like there was no score on the board for VCU. GMU 61 to VCU nothing, as in, "not good enough for 0," was about how the game went. ODU beat VCU a few days earlier, too, so it was wonderful.
After the game, we finally made it to Village Grill. Patrick was not able to drink immediately because he forgot his ID. Fifteen minutes later, his roommate came by and handed Patrick his passport. The waiter made fun of him for using his passport instead of his license, as did I. I can't make fun of Patrick too much, though. I often forget he's an adult. An adult that could kick my ass. When he finished his high school wrestling career, he was ranked number 2 in the state. When he finished his high school wrestling career, I was celebrating an intramural softball loss by getting hammered.
We had a good waiter. He eventually earned the nickname Captain Magician because of his efficiency. He was also pretty funny, making fun of my choice to drink PBR with a slice of chocolate cake and a bowl of broccoli.
It was a fun Tuesday because I didn't have to watch awful television.
Monday has Chuck, The Cape, Pawn Stars, and How I Met Your Mother. Wednesday has The Middle. Thursday has The Big Bang Theory, Community, and Jersey Shore (Don't judge me.) Friday has Ghost Adventures for the nights when I am too exhausted to go out. Saturday is beer night. Sunday has The Simpsons. My schedule is further complicated by other shows that have already ended their seasons Human Target, Burn Notice, that USA Network show about the CIA with the hot blonde and title I can't remember.
This past Tuesday, however, I went to Richmond, accompanied by the veritable brain trust of Craig, Brandon, Bobby, and Patrick. Our original intent was to meet at the Village Grill before the VCU basketball game, but it was too crowded, as is often the case before a game. Instead, we opted for Strange Matter, but neglected to tell Craig until shortly before his arrival.
Strange Matter is a good, video game-themed bar. I had a solid burger for dinner. It was not an amazing burger, but I enjoyed it. The reason to go is for the beer. Dollar PBR during happy hour (I think that was what happened). Another reason to go is the atmosphere. The walls are covered in murals of classic video game characters. Donkey Kong, the princess, Mario, Luigi, a goomba, and one of the carnivorous plants are drinking on one wall with Ryu and Chun-Li. Another wall has a variant of Da Vinci's The Last Supper. The far end of the bar has a television with a Sega Genesis hooked up to it. The back of the bar has at least ten arcade games, including Paperboy, Ultimate Mortal Kombat 3 (Which I should have played), and the classically titled Bad Dudes vs. Dragon Ninja.
One of the items on the menu is called Bobby's Dream Burger. Being present with a Bobby, this caused much laughter. You could add some extra toppings for "the full Bobby experience." We found out later that it was named for the owner of the bar, another man named Bobby. Another man named Bobby who just happened to be sitting on the stool next to our Bobby. That was weird.
The game was fun. Bobby and I were for George Mason because I once attended Old Dominion University and could never root for VCU and Bobby bet on the game. Brandon and Patrick were for VCU because they were/are VCU students. Craig was for VCU because he has bad taste. He likes black and yellow teams. Gross.
One of the highlights of the game was Patrick's amusing taunts of GMU fans. Whenever a female GMU fan would stand up, Patrick would start yelling "Sit down, hag!" He would throw in a good "Shut up, slut" every once and a while. Another highlight was how awful VCU played. GMU won by about 20 points. The only reason to stick around was to see whether VCU could break 50, which they finally did with about ten seconds left in the game. I took a picture of the scoreboard at one point to show how bad the score was. A trick of the light made it look like there was no score on the board for VCU. GMU 61 to VCU nothing, as in, "not good enough for 0," was about how the game went. ODU beat VCU a few days earlier, too, so it was wonderful.
After the game, we finally made it to Village Grill. Patrick was not able to drink immediately because he forgot his ID. Fifteen minutes later, his roommate came by and handed Patrick his passport. The waiter made fun of him for using his passport instead of his license, as did I. I can't make fun of Patrick too much, though. I often forget he's an adult. An adult that could kick my ass. When he finished his high school wrestling career, he was ranked number 2 in the state. When he finished his high school wrestling career, I was celebrating an intramural softball loss by getting hammered.
We had a good waiter. He eventually earned the nickname Captain Magician because of his efficiency. He was also pretty funny, making fun of my choice to drink PBR with a slice of chocolate cake and a bowl of broccoli.
It was a fun Tuesday because I didn't have to watch awful television.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Don't catch the Hebrew flu.
In anticipation of my impending nomadic existence, I have been trying to downsize my belongings. I cleaned the closet out the other day because half of the stuff in there I would never wear ago. I became aware of the clothes I needed to get rid of when I removed the suit bag for the first time in months and noticed them. I really do not need the Gumby button-down shirt since I have not worn it since high school and have not been aware of its existence since, well, high school. The Stanford jacket I wore through most of my high school years was also back there. It will stay in the closet in case I want to wear it one day, though I probably won't. It's NorCal, and it clashes with my SoCal Angels caps.
The Gumby shirt will be donated to Craig, but for whatever reason he declined the cape. What the hell is that? I mean, it's Craig. Who would have guessed that Craig would turn down a free cape? It's Craig and a free cape! Maybe if the cape was attached to Mardi Gras beads. If only. Now it's being donated to Goodwill.
Another discovery was that in the drawer I keep my financial records were, well, my financial records. These financial records were interesting because I had not realized I had seven years of records in there. Bank statements, pay stubs, bills. I shredded all but those relevant for the current tax season, but not before looking through them.
It was quite the trip down memory lane. I got to look back and see every place I had spent money in the last seven years. Some of it was kind of sweet. I got to see how much money I spent on different dates I had been on. "Let's see, I spent forty bucks on her, but I spent seventy on her, and maybe I would have spent more on this other one if she would have shown that the investment would have been worthwhile."
Some of it was not very sweet at all. Some of it is actually kind of awful. Like around my 21st birthday when my statements were drowned in bar tabs. Then there was the unproductive week of nothing just before graduation when I blew through a few hundred dollars drinking because there was nothing else to do. And that other charge, where the date lined up with my friend's bachelor party, but it listed only "ATM Withdrawal" and no location. Oh, and worst of all, Mikey's birthday trip to Atlantic City, or as I like to call it, the night somebody stole the birthday present for Mikey, and then had the present punch me in the face several times.
Man, Memory Lane is a fun street, isn't it? The weirdest thing I found, though, was a folded scrap of paper. I opened it, curious as to what it could be. It wasn't related to finances at all. I have no idea why it was even in the finance drawer, but there it was. I opened it, and this is what it said:
"I can't go a day in this place without getting sick. Just look around the room: coughing, sneezing, Jewish. This place is a germ bomb." - Barringer
My favorite high school teacher said something funny in class. I wrote it down so I would remember it for later. Didn't expect to save it until 2011, though.
The Gumby shirt will be donated to Craig, but for whatever reason he declined the cape. What the hell is that? I mean, it's Craig. Who would have guessed that Craig would turn down a free cape? It's Craig and a free cape! Maybe if the cape was attached to Mardi Gras beads. If only. Now it's being donated to Goodwill.
Another discovery was that in the drawer I keep my financial records were, well, my financial records. These financial records were interesting because I had not realized I had seven years of records in there. Bank statements, pay stubs, bills. I shredded all but those relevant for the current tax season, but not before looking through them.
It was quite the trip down memory lane. I got to look back and see every place I had spent money in the last seven years. Some of it was kind of sweet. I got to see how much money I spent on different dates I had been on. "Let's see, I spent forty bucks on her, but I spent seventy on her, and maybe I would have spent more on this other one if she would have shown that the investment would have been worthwhile."
Some of it was not very sweet at all. Some of it is actually kind of awful. Like around my 21st birthday when my statements were drowned in bar tabs. Then there was the unproductive week of nothing just before graduation when I blew through a few hundred dollars drinking because there was nothing else to do. And that other charge, where the date lined up with my friend's bachelor party, but it listed only "ATM Withdrawal" and no location. Oh, and worst of all, Mikey's birthday trip to Atlantic City, or as I like to call it, the night somebody stole the birthday present for Mikey, and then had the present punch me in the face several times.
Man, Memory Lane is a fun street, isn't it? The weirdest thing I found, though, was a folded scrap of paper. I opened it, curious as to what it could be. It wasn't related to finances at all. I have no idea why it was even in the finance drawer, but there it was. I opened it, and this is what it said:
"I can't go a day in this place without getting sick. Just look around the room: coughing, sneezing, Jewish. This place is a germ bomb." - Barringer
My favorite high school teacher said something funny in class. I wrote it down so I would remember it for later. Didn't expect to save it until 2011, though.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Best Albums from 2000 to 2009
As I've mentioned on here before, I will often write something down with the intention of posting it on here or somewhere else, but then I forget to. The item will then sit somewhere for long periods of time before anything happens to it. One of these things was when I put together a list of what I considered the top 20 albums of the first decade of this century. I meant to post it shortly after New Years Day 2010, but forgot and now it's February 2011. It is good that I waited because I replaced two albums with ones I did not hear all of until after 2010 began. So, because I have nowhere else to post it that makes sense (and it does not really make much sense ofr here either since I am no music blogger), I am going to list it here so the whole world can see what this amateur critic has to think.
20. Snakes & Arrows by Rush (2007)
19. Sam's Town by the Killers (2006)
18. Nowhere to Hide by the Virus (2002)
17. Raising Sand by Robert Plant & Alison Krauss (2007)
16. Life, Death, Love, and Freedom by John Mellencamp (2008)
15. American III: Solitary Man by Johnny Cash (2000)
14. Viva La Vida by Coldplay (2008)
13. Rosenrot by Rammstein (2005)
12. Hau Ruck by KMFDM (2005)
11. Get Lucky by Mark Knopfler (2009)
10. Sigh No More by Mumford & Sons (2009)
9. Crossing the Rubicon by the Sounds (2009)
8. Divided We Stand by TSOL (2003)
7. The Rising by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band (2002)
6. Working on a Dream by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band (2009)
5. Front Porch Stories by Avail (2002)
4. Lonely Runs Both Ways by Alison Krauss & Union Station (2004)
3. Rebel, Sweetheart by the Wallflowers (2005)
2. Breach by the Wallflowers (2000)
1. Magic by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band (2007)
Alright, world, bring on the Coldplay jokes.
20. Snakes & Arrows by Rush (2007)
19. Sam's Town by the Killers (2006)
18. Nowhere to Hide by the Virus (2002)
17. Raising Sand by Robert Plant & Alison Krauss (2007)
16. Life, Death, Love, and Freedom by John Mellencamp (2008)
15. American III: Solitary Man by Johnny Cash (2000)
14. Viva La Vida by Coldplay (2008)
13. Rosenrot by Rammstein (2005)
12. Hau Ruck by KMFDM (2005)
11. Get Lucky by Mark Knopfler (2009)
10. Sigh No More by Mumford & Sons (2009)
9. Crossing the Rubicon by the Sounds (2009)
8. Divided We Stand by TSOL (2003)
7. The Rising by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band (2002)
6. Working on a Dream by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band (2009)
5. Front Porch Stories by Avail (2002)
4. Lonely Runs Both Ways by Alison Krauss & Union Station (2004)
3. Rebel, Sweetheart by the Wallflowers (2005)
2. Breach by the Wallflowers (2000)
1. Magic by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band (2007)
Alright, world, bring on the Coldplay jokes.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Some random thoughts
Here are some random thoughts I've had recently, but none of them are really worthy of me writing alot about them on their own.
1. As a rule, women are not funny. There are exceptions to this rule, but none of them are in the comedy business. They're normal people and there aren't that many. I once dated a girl that I thought was legitimately funny. She had brown hair, similar tastes in music, played guitar, and had a nice ass. It obviously didn't work out, though, which is a shame because I like funny, musical brunettes with nice asses.
2. Grown men should never go by nicknames that end in y, with certain exceptions. The exceptions are Larry, the nicknames of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Tony (But only if the man is Italian). Nobody named Martin should go by Marty after the seventh grade. Mikey, however, is fine.
3. I had a dream the other day that was weird because it clearly had music in it and I never remember music in my dreams. I was driving in my car down a rural road. Could've been Route 5 or 460. I was irritated because I was running late for something, and I hate being late more than just about anything else. So I was really irritated. The passenger seat had a brown cat in it and I also did not want the cat in my car, which is weird, because I love cats. Throughout the irritating, rural drive, "God Says Nothing Back" by The Wallflowers was playing. I wonder what dream-reading hippies might say about that.
Speaking of The Wallflowers, I finally bought Seeing Things by Jakob Dylan. I remember when it came out I kept saying, "I need to buy that," but then I never did. But now I have it, and I'm listening to it now and I enjoy it.
1. As a rule, women are not funny. There are exceptions to this rule, but none of them are in the comedy business. They're normal people and there aren't that many. I once dated a girl that I thought was legitimately funny. She had brown hair, similar tastes in music, played guitar, and had a nice ass. It obviously didn't work out, though, which is a shame because I like funny, musical brunettes with nice asses.
2. Grown men should never go by nicknames that end in y, with certain exceptions. The exceptions are Larry, the nicknames of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Tony (But only if the man is Italian). Nobody named Martin should go by Marty after the seventh grade. Mikey, however, is fine.
3. I had a dream the other day that was weird because it clearly had music in it and I never remember music in my dreams. I was driving in my car down a rural road. Could've been Route 5 or 460. I was irritated because I was running late for something, and I hate being late more than just about anything else. So I was really irritated. The passenger seat had a brown cat in it and I also did not want the cat in my car, which is weird, because I love cats. Throughout the irritating, rural drive, "God Says Nothing Back" by The Wallflowers was playing. I wonder what dream-reading hippies might say about that.
Speaking of The Wallflowers, I finally bought Seeing Things by Jakob Dylan. I remember when it came out I kept saying, "I need to buy that," but then I never did. But now I have it, and I'm listening to it now and I enjoy it.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
U.S. Energy Policy and Exercise Habits
At work today, I overheard someone ask what I considered a dumb question. I only consider it a dumb question because her question described my own lifestyle. "How do some people drink constantly and eat like shit, but still stay in shape?" She asked.
"Well, I get off my ass between shitty meals and all night benders," I thought to myself.
This is a reason America is faced with an obesity epidemic. It's not because we eat the aforementioned shitty foods. It is because we are lazy and stupid. Let us contemplate this for a moment. If I eat a whole pizza, I am adding its weight and non-nutrients to my body. I become what I eat. No, I will not have tomato sauce replace my blood, though that would be awesome. Instead, I will start to resemble dough covered in cheese and, due to my own pizza preference, ham. Should I remain on my ass for an extended period time, my transformation into a ham pizza will continue.
Rather than transform the pizza into fat and myself into a pizza, I choose to perform a magic trick after eating pizza. With my magical powers, I choose to transform the pizza into nothingness. How do I accomplish this? I get off my ass. I run. I lift weights. I burn the pizza and, POOF, nothing. It no longer exists. (Okay, we all know how the body works. It was not really transformed into nothing, but do I really need to use the word "piss" in two consecutive entries?)
All the pizza and beer does have a negative effect on me despite working out regularly. If I did not eat all that pizza and drink all that beer, I would be pretty damn sexy. Or at least as sexy as a dude with red hair can be. Unfortunately, though, I have become such a big fan of the cap and trade energy policy that I decided to live my life by it. In exchange for running a couple miles, I can drink twelve beers. It works for me.
"Well, I get off my ass between shitty meals and all night benders," I thought to myself.
This is a reason America is faced with an obesity epidemic. It's not because we eat the aforementioned shitty foods. It is because we are lazy and stupid. Let us contemplate this for a moment. If I eat a whole pizza, I am adding its weight and non-nutrients to my body. I become what I eat. No, I will not have tomato sauce replace my blood, though that would be awesome. Instead, I will start to resemble dough covered in cheese and, due to my own pizza preference, ham. Should I remain on my ass for an extended period time, my transformation into a ham pizza will continue.
Rather than transform the pizza into fat and myself into a pizza, I choose to perform a magic trick after eating pizza. With my magical powers, I choose to transform the pizza into nothingness. How do I accomplish this? I get off my ass. I run. I lift weights. I burn the pizza and, POOF, nothing. It no longer exists. (Okay, we all know how the body works. It was not really transformed into nothing, but do I really need to use the word "piss" in two consecutive entries?)
All the pizza and beer does have a negative effect on me despite working out regularly. If I did not eat all that pizza and drink all that beer, I would be pretty damn sexy. Or at least as sexy as a dude with red hair can be. Unfortunately, though, I have become such a big fan of the cap and trade energy policy that I decided to live my life by it. In exchange for running a couple miles, I can drink twelve beers. It works for me.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Frivolous Calculations
I am not a big fan of hand sanitizer. I will use it when it is available at work because I am around two thousand teenagers who are all germ-infested ne'er-do-wells and I do not want a new cold every four days. Outside of that one situation, I tend to ignore hand sanitizer. It has its uses, but for the most part, it just strengthens germs to create super-unkillable diseases for the dirty teenagers to throw at me.
I thought of all this when I saw a hand sanitizer dispenser in a restroom. I always wash my hands after I do my business. To not do so would be uncivilized and disgusting, and I am no barbarian, wandering around with piss on my hands. This hand sanitizer, though, really caught my attention. The label said that it killed 99.99 percent of common germs. It made me wonder about the percentages of other brands of hand sanitizers.
I have seen on every bottle of every brand that they all claim to kill 99.9 percent of germs, but never 99.99 percent. Is this Purell bathroom hand sanitizer superior because it kills that extra 0.09 percent of germs? Are the other brands just has effective, but they save money on that extra decimal point because they do not feel like informing the consumer that the exact effectiveness is 99.9 repeating?
While this is a really stupid thing to wonder about, I will be paying attention from now on to see the percentages of germs each brand claims to kill. Will I ever see one that says "Kills 99.993 percent of all common germs?" I hope so. I want to know about meaningless decimal points.
I thought of all this when I saw a hand sanitizer dispenser in a restroom. I always wash my hands after I do my business. To not do so would be uncivilized and disgusting, and I am no barbarian, wandering around with piss on my hands. This hand sanitizer, though, really caught my attention. The label said that it killed 99.99 percent of common germs. It made me wonder about the percentages of other brands of hand sanitizers.
I have seen on every bottle of every brand that they all claim to kill 99.9 percent of germs, but never 99.99 percent. Is this Purell bathroom hand sanitizer superior because it kills that extra 0.09 percent of germs? Are the other brands just has effective, but they save money on that extra decimal point because they do not feel like informing the consumer that the exact effectiveness is 99.9 repeating?
While this is a really stupid thing to wonder about, I will be paying attention from now on to see the percentages of germs each brand claims to kill. Will I ever see one that says "Kills 99.993 percent of all common germs?" I hope so. I want to know about meaningless decimal points.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Some observations
I'll eventually write the sequel to the New Year's Eve entry to explain how New Year's Eve ended for me and how I hurt all over. It's kinda funny and makes a good follow-up to some of the stuff I am going to ramble about here.
First of all, Dashboard Confessional has ruined the word "dashboard" for me. Every time I log in to write for this, I see the Blogger Dashboard. I then get angry and start looking around the room I'm sitting in because I think some girl's hair is everywhere screaming infidelities at me. Do you know how hard it is to concentrate when you think some woman is shedding in your room as a sign of unfaithfulness? It is extremely difficult.
Last night I went to Cafe Diem in Richmond. I like to visit that establishment from time to time. It is either completely empty, save for a few middle-aged people, or it's completely full and a band is playing. The bands are often ridiculous, which I like. Last night was unusual because it was an amateur comedy night. These events are always hit and miss.
Sometimes on an amateur night, you'll be treated to a free show by a small-time, local, professional comic testing new material and it'll be entertaining. Sometimes you'll get that douche bag that thinks he's hillarious because his stoned yesmen laugh at his jokes. Last night was mostly the latter. There were two good acts. One was a guy that I have seen at Cozzy's in Newport News alot named James Polk (Though his last name is not Polk, I just do not know how to spell it) and he was awesome, as he always is. The second a guy that looks like Sasquatch walks onto the stage, you know good things will happen. The other good act was what appeared to be a cracked-out vagrant. I do not know if he was telling jokes or just saying the first words that came to his mind, but whatever he was saying, it was awesome and I nearly fell out of my chair at one point.
Sadly, there were alot of guys that could use some practice. There were even more guys that probably should have their vocal chords removed so they will not be able to speak into a microphone again. The best example of this was the moustachioed fellow that was obviously infatuated with Zack Galifianakas. He stood on a chair and taped his notes to the microphone stand. Eventually he started talking about how Tron: Legacy was awesome and Kanye West was in it. I turned my head to see where I had placed my Pabst Blue Ribbon, and when I looked back on the stage, he was not wearing a shirt. Everybody sitting around me was unable to explain where his shirt went because he was so awful they were not paying attention, but everyone saw his lack of shirt.
Cafe Diem was full of hipsters, too. I am not complaining about hipsters here, I just do not understand their existence sometimes. What do they do during the day? Seriously, I do not get it. I understand that they spend a lot of time trying to decide which flannel shirt goes best with the knit cap they purchased from a high-end store and then tossed in a garbage can (So it would look dirty), but what do they actually do? Do they have jobs? Can they find jobs outside of the restaurant industry?
I do not ask these questions about hipster women. While they can often be pretentious, I have come to find that hipster chicks are often just into art or music or something. That's fine. I am cool with hipster chicks. They can be artistic, they have ovaries. But hipster men? What is their deal? They just look homeless.
Maybe I just like taking a shower too much to ever understand.
First of all, Dashboard Confessional has ruined the word "dashboard" for me. Every time I log in to write for this, I see the Blogger Dashboard. I then get angry and start looking around the room I'm sitting in because I think some girl's hair is everywhere screaming infidelities at me. Do you know how hard it is to concentrate when you think some woman is shedding in your room as a sign of unfaithfulness? It is extremely difficult.
Last night I went to Cafe Diem in Richmond. I like to visit that establishment from time to time. It is either completely empty, save for a few middle-aged people, or it's completely full and a band is playing. The bands are often ridiculous, which I like. Last night was unusual because it was an amateur comedy night. These events are always hit and miss.
Sometimes on an amateur night, you'll be treated to a free show by a small-time, local, professional comic testing new material and it'll be entertaining. Sometimes you'll get that douche bag that thinks he's hillarious because his stoned yesmen laugh at his jokes. Last night was mostly the latter. There were two good acts. One was a guy that I have seen at Cozzy's in Newport News alot named James Polk (Though his last name is not Polk, I just do not know how to spell it) and he was awesome, as he always is. The second a guy that looks like Sasquatch walks onto the stage, you know good things will happen. The other good act was what appeared to be a cracked-out vagrant. I do not know if he was telling jokes or just saying the first words that came to his mind, but whatever he was saying, it was awesome and I nearly fell out of my chair at one point.
Sadly, there were alot of guys that could use some practice. There were even more guys that probably should have their vocal chords removed so they will not be able to speak into a microphone again. The best example of this was the moustachioed fellow that was obviously infatuated with Zack Galifianakas. He stood on a chair and taped his notes to the microphone stand. Eventually he started talking about how Tron: Legacy was awesome and Kanye West was in it. I turned my head to see where I had placed my Pabst Blue Ribbon, and when I looked back on the stage, he was not wearing a shirt. Everybody sitting around me was unable to explain where his shirt went because he was so awful they were not paying attention, but everyone saw his lack of shirt.
Cafe Diem was full of hipsters, too. I am not complaining about hipsters here, I just do not understand their existence sometimes. What do they do during the day? Seriously, I do not get it. I understand that they spend a lot of time trying to decide which flannel shirt goes best with the knit cap they purchased from a high-end store and then tossed in a garbage can (So it would look dirty), but what do they actually do? Do they have jobs? Can they find jobs outside of the restaurant industry?
I do not ask these questions about hipster women. While they can often be pretentious, I have come to find that hipster chicks are often just into art or music or something. That's fine. I am cool with hipster chicks. They can be artistic, they have ovaries. But hipster men? What is their deal? They just look homeless.
Maybe I just like taking a shower too much to ever understand.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
How I made a New Year's Eve party epic; or a day in my life.
This is the story of how I made my friend Katharine's New Year's Eve party epic. It was going to be fun, but I like to think I made it even better. Well, I didn't make it but so much better. In fact, it was my grandfather that made it better. Here is how it happened.
It all started with the first New Year's invite. I was invited to join a group at Richmond's Tobacco Company. I hate Tobacco Company, but it was all I had so far. So I considered it. I was also offered an opportunity to meet an attractive Arabic girl. So there was option one.
Option two was the default option. Go to Richmond with Craig and Elliott and see what happens. This option is always a safe bet to see something ridiculously awesome. If there is not anything ridiculously awesome, Craig will probably be wasted and something good has to come from that. So there was option two.
Option three was Katharine's party in Norfolk. This is also a pretty safe bet for fun. Usually it will not result in something mindboggling like Craig and Elliott nights, but they will always be fun. Her house is also a couple blocks from the beach. I don't care if it's December/January. I love the beach at night in winter. It's so cold and empty, desolate if you will, yet I find it beautiful because despite the irony of the time period, the sounds and smell are the same. So there is option three.
The decision was made the moment my grandfather made an awesome proposition to me.
Two days after Christmas, I went with my family to my grandfather's house in South Carolina along the Georgia Border. His cleaning ladies knocked a wheel off one of his trains, so my parents spent a good thirty minutes looking for super glue. They opened one cabinet door and, while they found no glue, they found my grandfather's liquor cabinet. My grandfather has not partaken of his liquor cabinet in at least ten years. The liquor drinker in our family was my late grandmother, and she died in May 2001 (On the day I returned from a three day field trip to New York City; talk about a downer).
So my grandfather had liquor that had not been touched in nearly a decade. Most of the bottles did not appear to be less than 20 years old. The exception to this rule was the Canadian Crown whiskey, my grandmother's favorite, and the various bottles of Irish cream. After discussing it over lunch at the Aiken Brewing Company, my grandfather consented to letting the only living person in the family that drank liquor take it. Thankfully, that person was me.
That's right. He gave me a shit-ton of liquor that was older than I was.
When we returned to his house, my father and I emptied the cabinet and decided what to do with each bottle. Some of it was easy to make a decision. Two bottles of open creme de menthe? You are going down the drain because nobody likes you. Antique Bailey's Irish Cream? You are the most entertaining bottle of all, and for that same reason you are the easiest bottle to decide on. The first bottle was coagulated, but with a good rinsing, the poured out. The other bottle of it, not so much. My father took the cap off and asked me would Irish cream come with a cork AND a cap? I had no answer for him, but I handed him a corkscrew. The corkscrew slid right in. That was not a cork. That was what happened to Irish cream after it sits in a cupboard for a quarter of a century.
I promised all of the brandy to Elliott. I promised the Chivas Regal to me. I also the bottle of French wine from 1986 for myself. An unopened bottle of wine from the year I was born? That's one of the coolest things one can find. Imagine how much I'd have to pay for the same bottle at a store now? I don't even know if it's a wine that keeps 25 years, but I know I'll never see a bottle like that again.
The real prize, and what made New Year's Eve fantastic, was the ancient bottle of Ron Rico White Label rum. My grandparents lived in Rye, New York until 1971, when they moved to Ridgewood, New Jersey. The Ron Rico had a price tag on it from Port Chester, New York. My grandparents have never had a reason to buy rum from Port Chester since before they moved, making it at least 39 years old, and more likely over 40. My father was, at the latest, a junior in college. Richard Nixon was president. We had troops in Vietnam. That is an old bottle of rum for somebody to just give you.
Imagine how amazing that rum was going to taste New Year's Eve. I chose option three, Katharine's party, because of that rum. I could not take the liquor into the Tobacco Company, so option one was out. Elliott and Craig would not stay put, and I was not going to move that liquor all across Richmond (though if I did, that would be an awesome night too), so that was out. That left me with Katharine's party. So as soon as I returned from South Carolina, I made my way down to Norfolk.
Katharine took the first shot of the 4o-year-old rum. Her drinking it truly fascinated me. The bottle was open, but only a shot was taken. Then she tasted it. Over the course of forty years, only two people had partaken of that rum. One person, possibly now dead, took only about a shot of it forty years ago. On the last day of 2010, Katharine had a shot. Forty years. A dead person and Katharine. That's intense.
The last point I will make about the awesome liquor haul, because this entry is getting ridiculous, is that Nicole made Long Island iced teas using only my old liquor. All the liquor put into those drinks was over 25-years-old. Each bottle, had it been a car, would have been an antique car. Think about that. Nicole was making us Long Island antiques. And they were delicious.
My grandfather gave me liquor that, at this point, was worth well over a thousand dollars.
We had a thousand dollars of liquor. And we drank it
It all started with the first New Year's invite. I was invited to join a group at Richmond's Tobacco Company. I hate Tobacco Company, but it was all I had so far. So I considered it. I was also offered an opportunity to meet an attractive Arabic girl. So there was option one.
Option two was the default option. Go to Richmond with Craig and Elliott and see what happens. This option is always a safe bet to see something ridiculously awesome. If there is not anything ridiculously awesome, Craig will probably be wasted and something good has to come from that. So there was option two.
Option three was Katharine's party in Norfolk. This is also a pretty safe bet for fun. Usually it will not result in something mindboggling like Craig and Elliott nights, but they will always be fun. Her house is also a couple blocks from the beach. I don't care if it's December/January. I love the beach at night in winter. It's so cold and empty, desolate if you will, yet I find it beautiful because despite the irony of the time period, the sounds and smell are the same. So there is option three.
The decision was made the moment my grandfather made an awesome proposition to me.
Two days after Christmas, I went with my family to my grandfather's house in South Carolina along the Georgia Border. His cleaning ladies knocked a wheel off one of his trains, so my parents spent a good thirty minutes looking for super glue. They opened one cabinet door and, while they found no glue, they found my grandfather's liquor cabinet. My grandfather has not partaken of his liquor cabinet in at least ten years. The liquor drinker in our family was my late grandmother, and she died in May 2001 (On the day I returned from a three day field trip to New York City; talk about a downer).
So my grandfather had liquor that had not been touched in nearly a decade. Most of the bottles did not appear to be less than 20 years old. The exception to this rule was the Canadian Crown whiskey, my grandmother's favorite, and the various bottles of Irish cream. After discussing it over lunch at the Aiken Brewing Company, my grandfather consented to letting the only living person in the family that drank liquor take it. Thankfully, that person was me.
That's right. He gave me a shit-ton of liquor that was older than I was.
When we returned to his house, my father and I emptied the cabinet and decided what to do with each bottle. Some of it was easy to make a decision. Two bottles of open creme de menthe? You are going down the drain because nobody likes you. Antique Bailey's Irish Cream? You are the most entertaining bottle of all, and for that same reason you are the easiest bottle to decide on. The first bottle was coagulated, but with a good rinsing, the poured out. The other bottle of it, not so much. My father took the cap off and asked me would Irish cream come with a cork AND a cap? I had no answer for him, but I handed him a corkscrew. The corkscrew slid right in. That was not a cork. That was what happened to Irish cream after it sits in a cupboard for a quarter of a century.
I promised all of the brandy to Elliott. I promised the Chivas Regal to me. I also the bottle of French wine from 1986 for myself. An unopened bottle of wine from the year I was born? That's one of the coolest things one can find. Imagine how much I'd have to pay for the same bottle at a store now? I don't even know if it's a wine that keeps 25 years, but I know I'll never see a bottle like that again.
The real prize, and what made New Year's Eve fantastic, was the ancient bottle of Ron Rico White Label rum. My grandparents lived in Rye, New York until 1971, when they moved to Ridgewood, New Jersey. The Ron Rico had a price tag on it from Port Chester, New York. My grandparents have never had a reason to buy rum from Port Chester since before they moved, making it at least 39 years old, and more likely over 40. My father was, at the latest, a junior in college. Richard Nixon was president. We had troops in Vietnam. That is an old bottle of rum for somebody to just give you.
Imagine how amazing that rum was going to taste New Year's Eve. I chose option three, Katharine's party, because of that rum. I could not take the liquor into the Tobacco Company, so option one was out. Elliott and Craig would not stay put, and I was not going to move that liquor all across Richmond (though if I did, that would be an awesome night too), so that was out. That left me with Katharine's party. So as soon as I returned from South Carolina, I made my way down to Norfolk.
Katharine took the first shot of the 4o-year-old rum. Her drinking it truly fascinated me. The bottle was open, but only a shot was taken. Then she tasted it. Over the course of forty years, only two people had partaken of that rum. One person, possibly now dead, took only about a shot of it forty years ago. On the last day of 2010, Katharine had a shot. Forty years. A dead person and Katharine. That's intense.
The last point I will make about the awesome liquor haul, because this entry is getting ridiculous, is that Nicole made Long Island iced teas using only my old liquor. All the liquor put into those drinks was over 25-years-old. Each bottle, had it been a car, would have been an antique car. Think about that. Nicole was making us Long Island antiques. And they were delicious.
My grandfather gave me liquor that, at this point, was worth well over a thousand dollars.
We had a thousand dollars of liquor. And we drank it
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Anarchy in the U.K. Imagine I said that going down an escalator, giving the finger.
I actually wrote this by hand while sitting in an English classroom at a central Virginia high school. I edited it a little since then, but only a couple words. It has been sitting in my notebook for about a month now and I figure it is about time to post this so I can put the notebook into the drawer in which it belongs. So, here we go:
I am sitting in a central Virginia high school classroom during the last period of the day. I noticed a punk kid sitting next to a preppy kid. In my pseudo-punker days of youth, I would have befriended the punk kid and mocked the preppy kid. Just in time for my senior year of high school, I had become kind of popular. As a high school comrade of mine once put it, I was not a cool kid, but I had achieved cult celebrity status. So I started becoming cool and less punkish (If I ever was to begin with) and finally my freshman year of college I joined a fraternity. Much like Stevo, the protagonist of my favorite movie, SLC Punk, the guy I was then would have kicked the ass of the guy I am now.
Maybe it was the mood of the scene, maybe it was the perfect use of "Dreaming" by Blondie in the background, maybe it was the dialogue, or maybe a psychologist would tell me that deep down in the emotionless husk that is my existence, I am terrified of being alone. Whichever "maybe" it is, the scene where Stevo meets Brandy is one of my favorite of the film. Something she said during her conversation on that couch during the party to Stevo has always stuck with me. Something like, "You're not rebelling, you look like you're wearing a uniform."
As I wrote that, I remembered a conversation I had in my 12th grade English class. The girl I sat next to was asking me why I was no longer involved in theater. My reason for being in theater had been an appreciation for the works of great playwrites from ancient Greece to today. I left theater because I did not like what it was becoming at my school. I thought Christopher Marlowe's Tamburlaine was the shit, but theater at my school had become a haven for angsty, ugly chicks and flamboyant gay men who wanted life to be the sequal to Avenue Q.
I could have told this girl that I left for artistic reasons. That would not have been a lie, because the following year my electives were creative writing and guitar, but no, I had to say something that, looking back on it, was ironic. I told her, "I don't like how all the people in it are so into conforming to non-conformity." I actually said that while wearing a Dead Kennedys shirt, leather jacket, spikes, and my beloved Sid Vicious-inspired padlock necklace. I showed her. I was rebelling there in my uniform.
When I started writing this, I had intended to write about how I never see such rebellious punk kids (or Avenue Q fans, now that I think about it) at the poorer schools in the county. Only wealthy students have the time to rebel. Only wealthy parents buy their kids a BMW, the keys to which I saw hanging on a carabiner attached to the belt loops of tight jeans (with a hole in them), obscured by a spiky leather jacket. I may have been wearing the same uniform when I was in high school, but at least I drove a 1989 Chevy Cavalier.
I am sitting in a central Virginia high school classroom during the last period of the day. I noticed a punk kid sitting next to a preppy kid. In my pseudo-punker days of youth, I would have befriended the punk kid and mocked the preppy kid. Just in time for my senior year of high school, I had become kind of popular. As a high school comrade of mine once put it, I was not a cool kid, but I had achieved cult celebrity status. So I started becoming cool and less punkish (If I ever was to begin with) and finally my freshman year of college I joined a fraternity. Much like Stevo, the protagonist of my favorite movie, SLC Punk, the guy I was then would have kicked the ass of the guy I am now.
Maybe it was the mood of the scene, maybe it was the perfect use of "Dreaming" by Blondie in the background, maybe it was the dialogue, or maybe a psychologist would tell me that deep down in the emotionless husk that is my existence, I am terrified of being alone. Whichever "maybe" it is, the scene where Stevo meets Brandy is one of my favorite of the film. Something she said during her conversation on that couch during the party to Stevo has always stuck with me. Something like, "You're not rebelling, you look like you're wearing a uniform."
As I wrote that, I remembered a conversation I had in my 12th grade English class. The girl I sat next to was asking me why I was no longer involved in theater. My reason for being in theater had been an appreciation for the works of great playwrites from ancient Greece to today. I left theater because I did not like what it was becoming at my school. I thought Christopher Marlowe's Tamburlaine was the shit, but theater at my school had become a haven for angsty, ugly chicks and flamboyant gay men who wanted life to be the sequal to Avenue Q.
I could have told this girl that I left for artistic reasons. That would not have been a lie, because the following year my electives were creative writing and guitar, but no, I had to say something that, looking back on it, was ironic. I told her, "I don't like how all the people in it are so into conforming to non-conformity." I actually said that while wearing a Dead Kennedys shirt, leather jacket, spikes, and my beloved Sid Vicious-inspired padlock necklace. I showed her. I was rebelling there in my uniform.
When I started writing this, I had intended to write about how I never see such rebellious punk kids (or Avenue Q fans, now that I think about it) at the poorer schools in the county. Only wealthy students have the time to rebel. Only wealthy parents buy their kids a BMW, the keys to which I saw hanging on a carabiner attached to the belt loops of tight jeans (with a hole in them), obscured by a spiky leather jacket. I may have been wearing the same uniform when I was in high school, but at least I drove a 1989 Chevy Cavalier.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Holidays are over.
Sorry for the recent absence. Holidays are busy, so I've been distracted from this. I was in South Carolina without internet access as well, so I'll be posting what I typed up in my boredom down there soon. I also got a new job that requires me to write, so I've also been busy writing for that. Rest assured, though, that I will be sharing everything I can't share in the other medium. For instance, I went to the DMV today and got hit by a car while walking out of a Taco Bell yesterday. Stay tuned.
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