People never cease to piss me off amaze me.
I was over at Jeff Goldstein's place today just cruising around, and this nutjob starts going on about how the war on Terrorism is 'your' (the right's) war; and how the right and Republican's should put their money (or body, as it were) where their mouth is and volunteer for service. Basically arguing that you shouldn't say we should go to war if you're not involved in the war yourself.
As I was reading this mindless drivel, it occured to me (firstly that it was in fact, mindless drivel) but that the principle it was based on was fucking retarded. No. It was re fucking tarded. By this logic, you wouldn't be able to vote on property rights unless you owned property. You wouldn't be able to make gun control decisions unless you owned guns, and so on. Whether or not you choose to go to war, it is your duty as an American to make your opinion heard. Fucking guy gave me a headache.
And people go on about we should just leave. Fucking QUIT. Well, I dunno about you, but quitting is not part of the American ethos to me. Yeah, maybe we fucked up, we really stepped in it big time. Fine. People make mistakes. But part of recovering from that mistake is paying the consequences, sticking it out, and learning. You don't just make a fucking mess and walk away. That's short-sighted and self-centered. If America made a habit of quitting all the goddamn time, we'd be just like the fucking French or someone. Except we'd smell better. And have beer. Fucking quit. Who's idea was that?
And lastly, I got my water bill this month and they charged me for 23 HCF (hundred cubic feet). We usually use about 5 HCF. So I was like, hm. Weird. And the bill only totalled about $45 bucks, so the increase wasn't exactly going to break me. Then I got all numbers-oriented (because that's what I do). One cubic foot of water is about 7.48 gallons of water; meaning I usually use about 3,740 gallons of water per month (500x7.48). So for the past two billing cycles, the meter's been saying I'm using about 17,200 gallons. Of water. Okay, so I started listening for leaks. I mean, if I'm using seventeen thousand fucking gallons of water, I should be able to hear a leak, or at least find that firehose I left on. Didn't hear any leaks. Called the water company, they said they already did a re-read. Called the management, and of course, they'll get someone out to check for leaks.
"Really, I listened for leaks, and I'm no plumber but I'm thinking any idiot can hear the difference between no leaks and 17 thousand fucking gallons of water." I'm thinking it sounds something like waves breaking on the Great Barrier Reef, but what do I know. 2300 cubic feet of water is enough water to fill a room larger than 13x13x13. With the average swimming pool holding between 15 and 20 thousand gallons; that puts me right up there with the goddamn Jonses. Hey! C'mon over! We're having a fucking pool party ya'll! Yep, just filled up the fuckin' family room from the tap, and let 'er rip!
WHAT THE FUCK?
So, I was driving home Friday night and I stopped at the gorcery store to pick up some beers. I came out of the grocery store parking lot and hopped onto the main road. Maybe a second later I see those old familiar blue lights flashing in my rearview. Fuck
Fuck 1) because I hate getting pulled over. I have a great driving record and it seems like cops know that and they try to fuck it up all the time. Fuck 2) because I had four drinks in the past 80 minutes or so.
I pull over immediately, flick on the dome light, and start fishing for my registration. Cop walks up and syas something obligatory. I ask what's up, I know I wasn't speeding. "Well, you blew the stop sign pulling out of the Food Lion back there," he says it like I did it to tease him.
"Oh damn. Honestly, I didn't even know there was one there."
"Have you had anything to drink tonight?"
Shit. I sigh. "Yeah, had four drinks."
"When was the last one?"
"Ah, 'bout fifteen minutes or so ago."
"Mind if I ask you to take a breathalyzer test?"
Shit. I sigh. "I guess not, no." I breathe into the tube, he says, "Well, looks like you blew a .09; right above the legal limit."
I die inside.
"But since you just had your last drink, I'm going back to the car and I'll be back in a few minutes." He returns to the cruiser.
So I'm sitting in my car, reviewing the scenarios sprinting through my mind; wondering why the hell he didn't show me the breathalyzer. I scrape my tongue, swear under my breath, check the rearview. Shit.
Cop comes back, I breathe. "Still showing a .09 pal." Fails again to show me the breathalyzer. "But by the time I get you downtown, you'll be below the legal limit, and you're less than a mile from home. I'll cut you a deal here sir. You get out of the car, walk home, and I'll just give you the ticket for running the stop sign. I've got to run, but I don't want to see you driving this car."
"Thank you officer." I'm releived, confused, but glad that my life hasn't been screwed up. I grab the beers, a few items from the car, lock it up and begin the short walk home.
Now, after getting home and reviewing the events and checking my ticket out; I come to some weird conclusions:
1. The back of the ticket is not filled out. It doesn't say if I have to appear in court, fines, court costs; nothing. I remember him saying I had to go to court, but the entire back side of the ticket was left blank.
2. I never saw the breathalyser results. I've never had to take one without the cop showing me my results.
3. There's no stop sign pulling out of the grocery store and onto the main avenue. I went back the next day just out of curiosity and there's nothing.
I talked to a few lawyer friends and they think I should take a few pics and fight the ticket. I wonder if I could just mail the ticket in with a picture in the envelope. Case closed right?
Glen Reynolds gets his first Shankalanche. He'll thank me later I'm sure.
-------------------
One difference is that Bowers was consistent with the law going all the
way back, while the 20th Century takings doctrines were not. As Joseph Story wrote in 1833:
It seems to be the general opinion, fortified by a strong current of judicial opinion, that since the American revolution no state government can be presumed to possess the transcendental sovereignty to take away vested rights of property; to take the property of A. and transfer it to B. by a mere legislative act. A government can scarcely be deemed to be free, where the rights of property are left solely dependent upon a legislative body, without any restraint.
And yet that's the law now: The rights of property are left solely
dependent upon a legislative body, without any restraint. Small wonder that
it's inspiring a lot of unhappiness.
-----------
This whole thing is nuts. It's starting to make me wonder if people should be considering taking action. A daunting task considering that the airwaves are chocked with Tom Cruise's Scientology Lectures and Missing Vacationers. It's a little painful and embarassing to see so many Americans fixated on such trivial bullshit while their Constitution gets a nip and tuck. The politicians are just as bad to, arguing over who's insults are the worst instead of attacking the judicial slouch towards the Orwellian. Hello! Is this thing on?
I went to WalMart today. Nothing froths the milk on the aromatic, subtly flavorful cup of fine cappucino that is real misanthropy like a trip to Wally World.
It's like an obstacle course: get in, get what you need, and get out before your anger meter reaches the red zone and you flip out in the Health and Beauty aisle, pummeling some idiotass redneck with a box of Q-Tips.
Honest to God, we get to the cash register, and some old bag just gets in line right in front of us. Even the woman behind the register thought it was weird. What a rude bitch! But the thing that really got me was that the cashier noticed. I wasn't aware that Wal Mart hired non-catatonic people to work the register. I'm wondering if she knows she's over qualified; but maybe she was the manager filling in for somone who couldn't make it to work today.
Oddly enough, I saw a guy I recognized. It took me a few seconds to place him, but then it hit me. I knew him from a blog! Unfortunately he's not really up to blogging much lately; I thought about leaving a comment at his site, but his latest entry was sometime in April. Oh well, he must've gotten a job or something. Fuckin quitter.
All the talk about this boy who got lost in Utah had me thinking the other day. Mostly about what kind of idiot child gets lost on a gravel road; but also about the time I got lost in the woods.
I guess it was early to mid fall; and my buddy and I, who incidentally share the same name; had headed out to Linville Gorge for a day hike. Linville, located in a stretch of empty temperate rainforest called the Pisgah National Forest, is a pretty exciting place. Take the photo tour here. Lots of climbing and whitewater, without the milling masses of the x-games crew. We left early in the afternoon and drove out to the Pisgah. The park service layed a gravel road along the topmost ridgeline, and the trailheads all start there. You pick a parking area, pull off, and follow the trail to the bottom. Along the basin there's a few camping spots, and a trail that runs the length of the gorge. We chose a 'primitive' trail to the bottom of the gorge.
What the map means by primitive, we found out, was that it's a trail hardly used at all, so it can be easy to lose. The direction was blazed by a peice of that orange plastic tape knotted around a tree trunk every fifty or so feet. I guess a ranger or frequent visitor had come through at some point.
It's a pretty steep drop into our section of the gorge, the trail threads it's way down a mile long section of cliffs along the ridgeline. We half scrambled, half slid down this section through various crevices and fingers in the cliff face, then the trail calmed down quite a bit.
Below the cliff face, you could hear the river roaring in the gorge. It was a favorite recreation spot given the waterfalls and rapids, so we weren't surprised to hear it from so far away. We meandered through the forest, across a pretty impressive landslide as I recall, and finally reached the bottom. We spent most of the time free-climbing a few spots along the river, scrambling on the rocks in the water, taking photos, etc.
It got to be around three thirty or so before we started thinking maybe we should be heading back up the ridge where the car was parked. We gathered what little gear we had with us and started following the trail back up the ridge. The first leg was easy going, the markers were easy to see and the hiking wasn't strenuous. About the time we got to the steeper sections though, light was fading. I guess it was only about 4:30pm or so, but in a gorge, the sun sets behind the ridgeline early. It was this shadowless dusk that began to give us trouble. We started losing markers, sometime forging on and hoping to see one; only to stand there scanning the forest for another with absolutley no luck. We each had small daypacks on, so we pulled out a flashlight - this sad little MiniMag. We kept on pushing ahead, trying to follow landmarks and the increasingly rare orange blaze. We figured all we had to do was make it to the ridgeline where the gravel road was, and find our way home from there. So we just kept aiming at the hillside.
Darkfell somewhere after five. I knew we were lost then, because we should've been out of there by then. The flashlight was too dim to see anything by now, a condition worsened by the thick brush we were moving through. We kept on plodding though, knowing all we had to do was make the ridgeline. That was when it started drizzling. So there we are, lost without any warm dry clothes about to face a wet autumn night in the mountains. When we arrived at the base of the cliff faces we both looked at eachother and knew we were screwed. There was no way we were going to be able to pick our way through this mess in the slippery darkness. We poked around for an overhang in the rock to make our home for the night, but found nothing. My friend insisted we push forward, I thought we might as well just stick it out at one of the campsites on the valley floor. We would easily be able to find the blazes in the
morning, and the more time we spent up here, the wetter we got. He reluctantly sided with me, and we began to skid our way off the base of the
cliff. I slid down a short embankment and lost my favorite hat in the trees. My buddy dropped down behind me and slammed his knee on a rotting tree trunk. We clambered out of the dense forest and onto the valley trail hobbling, knotty haired, covered in mud and stinking like sweat.
We had a lighter, but there was no way we'd be able to get any fire started in this steady drizzle. Our focus was basically on trying to find a semi-dry spot to sleep under some pine branches. We wandered along the trail parallelling the river for a few minutes, when we heard a dog bark. I guess the thing could probably smell us or something, so we made our way towards the sound assuming it was accompanied by campers. That was how we met Blade and Steve. I think Steve was the other guy's name, but I know Blade for sure. You don't forget a name like Blade. As it turns out, these two guys were coworkers; architects from Greenville out on a weekend trip. The had a tarp and two tents set up, the stove was warming up some camp slop or another, and a pot of coffee was brewing. We sheepishly admitted to being lost (not that we could have hid the fact given our physical appearance) and the men offered us one of
their tents and a sleeping bag.
Now, I don't know if I've ever told anyone this; but my buddy and I
ended up sharing a sleeping bag that night. Not only that, but we had to share it in minimal clothing, given the fact that everything we had was
soaked pretty well. We were so cold from the wetness and the fall air that we had no choice. There was weak protest from both sides, but sleeping without the bag was not an option. So there I was, stinking like 80 different kinds of ass, cold, wet, and sharing a sleeping bag with an equally unappealing man. We fell asleep pretty damn quick though.
The next morning we got up, helped the guys from Greenville pull up stakes, and hiked back up the ridge. We had a few laughs about yesterday's events, said our thankyou's, jumped in the truck and headed back home. At this time, I was still living in the dorms; so we got a pretty good razzing from our other friends. One thing I distinctly remember is how horribly we smelled. I mean, we were only out there for maybe 18 or 20 hours, and we stunk. The worst part was I didn't even know I stunk until I got out of the shower and walked into my room. My clothes from the day before made the entire place reek.
I'd do it again, minus the sleeping situation. These days, if i got lost in the woods, I'd probably see it as an opportunity for a little severly needed peace and quiet.
"You were out of the office Monday without asking for vacation time."
"Yeah, I went camping and got lost in the woods, had to spend the night in the dirt. How come you people weren't worried?"
But really, what's the difference between believeing in Scientology and believeing in any number of the equally preposterous religions in this world? Granted, Scientology may be a more obvious scam for your money, but there are any number of less obvious scams that don't makes targets of your personal wealth so much as your intellectual and spiritual possessions. I guess that's a bit of a cynical thought, but really, that's how humans socialize eachother, we form orders and organization structure. Granted, we like to differentiate ourselves from pack animals with alpha males; but really, what's the difference between choosing a leader based on strength and dominance; and choosing a leader based on who wears the pointiest goddamn hat? REally, if you're going to take a focused lens at dismantling any religion, we shouldn't just pick the easy targets. We should also take those critical lenses and turn them inward, and question things about ourselves that we never thought about before. Are my beliefs just as equally outlandish as those people who belive in all that weird Scientology/Mormonism/Buddhism/Islam/Christianity shit? How are mine more grounded in reality? It's then that we discover one of two things: One - being that ours are just as flawed, we are but another human on this planet doing the best we can to make sense of all the things we don't understand and maybe we'd just do better to accept than busy ourselves trying to prove everyone a fool; and/or Two - that ours can't be wrong because they're ours, because we believe in them. The second logical process only helping to prove the basis of the first.
This meme is too damn good. Thanks to Jim at Snoozebutton for bringing it to my attnetion.
1) Has your father the cheerfulness which is known you?
I was born a poor black child...
3) It is many the dog and the cat it spreads out how, it has?
I'm pretty sure that's illegal though.
4) How many licks it adopts obtains to the tootsie popular music center?
Actually, I prefer a slurpee when someone's going downtown.
5)If I enter mine pinky finger you in the mother, hoped I arrive exhaust together with the thunderclap sound?
My mechanic friend actually thinks it's the cylinder walls, but I gotta say you need to get the plugs checked friend.
How it works:
1) When you post this on your blog get rid of the first question, bump up all the numbers and make a new question for #5. In other words, you are going to be answering your own question #5 and not answering my question #1.
2) You make a new question by writing it in English, translating it to a foreign tongue, and then translating it back to English. Don't tell anybody what the actual original question was.
3) Trackback to this post or return here to make a comment and let me know where you are because I'm keen on seeing what y'all come up with.
4) Make sure to trackback/comment to the person you snagged this from too because they're going to want to see how you answer their question #5. Responses to the Engrish questions are hillarious when you know what the original English was.
When your neighbor has so many sexual encounters that he keeps them catalouged in the thousands by sexual encounter, personality type, and hair color; you know he's gotta be a pimp. Or a felony child abuser.
What I though was interesting was the way the article described repeat child abusers. People who use their power and position to lure needy or easily corruptable children into easily controllable situations. And this guy's been doing it for like 30 years or something without every registering as a sex offender. I mean, what's it going to take to put a child molester away? Do we have to wait until my kid comes back from the playground walking crooked or what?
In an effort to clean our country of all this unsightly native culture, why don't we burn it to the ground and leave the rubble as a reminder to all indigenous peoples to assimilate or else? I mean, who wants to come to a country to see the culture that's been present there for thousands of years, when they can come gaze upon the newly razed homes and social flotsam created by the ignorance of a few leaders? Hey, you know what they say; nothing draws tourists like homeless beggars and smoldering foundations. Before you know it, we'll be on the cover of Conde-fucking-Nast.
As much as I'd prefer to pay hard earned money to wade through throngs of miscreants, be robbed blind for soda and popcorn (quite possibly the two cheapest food items to produce), only to sit in a chair fit for a pygmy, trying my best to pay attention to the flick while seven people use the theater as their own private phone booth and the Bloods settle gangland disputes in the center aisle; I think I'll just wait til it comes out in the rental store. I mean, I dislike the middle third of the population as it is, no point in trying to test my limits.
Talk about you're pooping on high. Damn. Those people must've really wanted som solitude.
I can't drop a deuce in any of the bathrooms at work except the one on the topmost floor.
The other bathrooms see lots of traffic; I can't concentrate or relax enough in that kind of environment to get comfortable enough to drop trow. I don't know if anyone of you out there has ever had to take a hurried shit, but they suck. There's nothing worse than being in a pressurized situation, having to coax a stubborn log out of your bum. It's the worst ever. So I can't use these bathrooms that have constant people going in and out.
The other bathrooms are much dirtier than the top floor units too. I think that's probably mostly due to the traffic thing; but they're also a little newer. And the ones on the top floor are the most spacious; with these big windows that look down over the city. A man can really relax and get some shitting done in there. It's peaceful. And that's what I need out of a good bathroom. Tranquility.
I told you , you fuckers. She was brain dead. Couldn't see shit, didn't know shit, didn't care. And you wanted to keep her alive, against her wishes. You bleeding heart pussies.
So last night there was this thing on TV called "48 Hours: Mysteries'. The episdoe they did was on a guy named Michael Blagg who was convicted of murdering his wife and daughter. Without any hard evidence or even eyewitness testimony.
Apparently, he wife was shot in their home, taken to a dump, and left there wrapped in a tent. his daughter was never found. Blagg's alibi is that he was at work that day; he even left voicemail messages for his wife and child on their home answering machine.
They never matched the bullet in the wife to a gun owned by Blagg. They never said his alibi wasn't true. I mean, if he was at work, people would remember it, the timeclocks and surveillance video would prove it. The neighbors don't remember hearing a gunshot in the iddle of the night, or seeing the family van leave at odd hours. There is nothing connecting this man to his wife's murder except circumstantial bullshit.
The best part is, a witness for the prosecution (the wife's mother no less); admits to making shit up on the stand. She got up there and made up her testimony as it popped into her head, saying that Blagg choked his wife once. She continues to go on saying she never reported the incident, and has never spoken about it until that very moment in the courtroom. She got up on the stand and was allowed to make an unbased, unverifiable testimmony of something that may or may not have happened years ago. Shitty.
The media made him out to be a cheating (a claim later revealed to be completely unfounded and untrue) porn addict. The media reported all this shit for a year or something until the trial date, inundating this small community with all sorts of fucked up opinions. Needless to say, by the time jury selection came around everyone had already made up their minds. The public defender didn't stand a chance against such fools, and he went to jail.
I can't imagine coming home from work to find your wife and child dead. I can't imagine not being able to join the searches for them because the media made people think it would be a conflict of interest. I can't imagine being sentanced to life in prison with no hope of parole, when the two people you love most in the world aren't even alive to come visit you. It's like a fucking horror story.
Honestly, I'd kill myself before I'd ever go to jail for some shit I didn't do.
I'm only linking you to this top secret site because we should all know the truth. Link
So, tonight I need to make an appointment for us to meet with a DJ and a baker. The DJ thing I think I can handle. Stereo shit, a masculine feild if there ever was one. Even though picking one out should be pretty straight forward, once the woman throws her monkey wrench of femalogic into the cogs, who knows what'll happen right?
As for the cake thing, I don't even wnat to know. I'm not a big cake person, but apparently that's something that gets you drawn and quartered in the nuptial world; so the fiance has layed down a gag order. I totally want to needle these bakers, but I'm not sure if it will be worth suffering the consequences. I mean, what the hell do I need edible flowers on a cake for? Why can't we just have a regular old cake? Why the hell do you need cake at a wedding? Since we're spending all this dough on food, why spend a lot on cake, when we can spend an equal amount on something like sorbet that's awesomer? Or cheesecake?
"No, those are all options for the grooms cake."
"The groomscake? What the hell is that?"
"It's a smaller cake that's usually chocolate if the wedding cake is vanilla, you know, so there is a choice of flavor."
"Well, it doesn't make sense to have two cakes. Why don't we just get something cool for the same amount we'd spend on this hyped up wedding cake?"
"Because wedding cake is what you're supposed to get, it's what we're getting, no more strange ideas from you okay?"
"Doesn'tmakeanysense."
"Are you done?"
Michael Jackson. What can I say - luckiest child molester I know.
1. Has America made such idols of it's celebrities that we cannot convict them of any misdeeds? See also, O.J., Robert Blake.
2. There is a difference between doubt and reasonable doubt. I guess defense attorneys have done such a great job blurring the line between the two, that they are now interchangeable terms. If a man allows young boys to drink alcohol in his presence, shows this his porno stash, and then asks them to join him in bed; how can you possibly reasonably doubt what his intentions are? If I did the same to a woman my age my intentions would be pretty damn clear, and I would assume if I did the same to a child my inetions would get my happy ass sent to jail.
3. Even if Michael is suffering from some sort of advanced Peter Pan Syndrome, why would he be interested in sex, porn, and alcohol? These are all things that adults become interested in. If his aim was purely to find a playmate, why would he sleep with them? How many of the fellas out there had sleepovers where you got into daddy's liquor cabinet, looked through his porno, and then all climbed in bed together?
He's a sick fucker, and he should have at least gone down for attempt to molest and the alcohol charges. It's a complete boondoggle; and I hope we see him in court again.
And did anyone get a load of those damn jurors? What a bunch of fucktards
I split town today. I was fucking sick and fucking tired of it. The job, the wife, the bills, the nagging bullshit. I woke up thismorning and I was like...Who's life is this goddamnit? I got a car that's paid for, a couple grand in the bank, and a credit limit of five g's. Fuck this shit.
I jumped int he car and fought my way through traffic to the only highway that takes a man out of this dirty burg. West. And I put the hammer down to. I was doing 120 between here and Raleigh, hit I-85 and just kept on steamin'. The Appalachians wooshed by in a flurry of banked s-curves and before I knew it. I headed south down the highway and ran into 59, where the sign said 'New Orleans'. Sounded as good as any other, so I dropped into first and left a small pile of smoldering rubber in Tennessee. It was the only thing I had left on me.
I guess we hit Nawlins toward seven am. WE meaning me and the hitchiker I picked up in Mississippi. I mean really, I couldn't have left her there right? It was fucking Mississippi. Plus she was hot. And by hot I mean young, eager, stupid, rich , and impressionable. We checked into this downtown place right up the block form the Best Western on Bourbon. It was this old french house or something. Soon as I saw it I knew I'd get laid for sure.
We hit town adn filled ourselves with Hurricanes, Hand Grenades, and Zydeco. I don't think I've ever been so hammered and disoriented in my entire life. Swear to god I got a ride back to my hotel from some dude on a Harley. Showed up at the hotel room and the bitch had split. Mostly she'd split my money between me and her, as well as grabbed a favorite t-shirt of mine. Fine, whatever girl. I'd gotten her credit card number earlier that day when she had left the car to use the bathroom. Figured I might aas well stay the night, so I called roomservice and packed up the leftovers in my bag.
Being through with women and all, on account of their mostly lecherous behavior, I made tracks for Vegas. I figured if there was any place a man could make it, it would have to be there. I spent an ungodly eternity driving across cornfeilds, plains, open mesa, mountain passes and desert before I finally entered the city. It was bittersweet because I was glad to be somewhere, but sad to be so happy to see a place like Las Vegas Nevada.
I went to the bank and acquired a small business loan. I told them I wanted to start a bar and entertainment complex. They thought sports bar, I was planning something else. I now run the only live sex show in the United States. I knew Nevada'd be the only state that would allow it, and after greasing the right wheels with that small business loan and investing a small amount of my own capital; I was on my way. We sell t-shirts, high priced drinks, exorbitant tickets; hell we got private skyboxes for the real freaks (but those come at a good price too). I guess I've made it pretty good for myself, what with all the money and sex that surrounds me. But I find myself looking for something simpler. Looking for something that I had a while back, but got sick of.
That's when I begin to wonder if humans torture themselves their whole lives with the grass on the other side of the fence. Maybe we just want what we can't have - even though we know it's what we can't have and we know we just want it because we can't have it. Then I think, we are some fucked up monkeys.
Many thanks to Dave (Oorgo.mu.nu) for cleaning up this goddamn dustbin. I'll keep you on as an author Oorg, so just come and go as you please.
Spent the weekend trying to surf the six foot swells rolling in. There's nothing like getting up early to go to the beach and getting slammed for a few hours. It was quite possibly the hardest paddle I've had to do in a while. I mean, the current around here gets bad in late summer, but the breakers were nuts this weekend. It was more of a workout than anything else. It's one of those lessons that we all need to be reminded of though. Sometimes, no matter how strong you think you are or how great your experience base may be; ther'es nothing you can do but just go with the flow. I ended up paddling out in the rip current and then across to find my place in the lineup.
Father's Day is coming up. My immediate family is a big deal to me. I don't say it to them that often because we're not that kind of family, but they're awesome. Some of my extended relatives are more of a standing joke to us, but my parents and brothers and sisters are awesome. If you fuck with them bitch, you're gonna get it; and I'mma be the one givin' it to ya.
Came home from work. Drank beers. Fucked with website. G/f came home. Drove to beach. Water, surfing, beer, came home. Shower, beer, grilling steaks and twice baked potatoes.
Life is good.
and now when you click on the permalink it gives a 404 not found message. I fucking hate computers.
You know, I do have some redeemable qualities though, I swear. Just ask Paul. I'm good with anything that runs on gasoline and has four wheels. I've helped him out on some car-related issues. I like doing that kind of shit. There's something about a machine so precise that makes it easy to understand and manipulate. There are a series of inputs, some physical and environmental constriants, and these produce a series of outputs. You can change the inputs and constraites to produce all kinds of outputs from one engine platform. It's fugging awesome right?
I'm also a great outside the box thinker. And by great I mean, if someone at work presents a problem to me, I can come up with at least two viable solutions within the first minute or so. Give me a day to think about it, and I'll have some more, give me a week, and I'll have a flow chart for a completely integratable process that will not only solve the problem at hand, but grow and expand as needed. It's just the way I am. My old man says I should've been an engineer; somedays I think he's right (uh-gan); and sometimes I notice there's a lot of engineering that goes on in business that people ignore.
Another thing I'm good at is making people laugh. Seriously, it goes over much better in person, I promise. If I didn't know how to make people laugh, I probably never would have gotten laid or gotten a real job. So yeah, thank god for that.
But web editing? Nope. Definitely suck there.
Okay whew, blogging sucks man. If you people knew the trouble I went to just to please you. I talked to Oorgo about getting this place all situated and pretty looking. he was great help, so I just tried cutting and pasting some templates right? I forgot the key fundamental - I shouldn't be allowed anywhere near a web editor because I'm a complete FUCKTARD.
So after like an hour of displaying gabrled
Still haven't figured out how to get a blogroll going. This is really labor intesive dammit. I already have a million other things to do. I wish I could just blog away without having to worry about all this crap.
Update, how do I catgeorize shit on the sidebar? I've already set up a few categories, and clicked it to archive by category, but they won't show up. Moveable type? More like Doodooable HYPE. Well, that and I'm a retard.
If the formatting around here is going nuts for the next few days, it's not that I'm still moving in, it's just that you've finally lost your mind.
So the runaway bride was on the Today show this morning. My girlfriend puts it on while we get ready for work in the morning. Anyways, the runaway girl is talking about why she made up all this stuff about being kidnapped by Mexicans. Her pathetic, ill thought out, sham of an excuse was something about how she only had Friday off, and that wasn't nearly enough time to get a manicure, a pedicure, pack for her honeymoon and be one time to her perfect wedding. I swear to you, that was the literal translation.
What the fuck is with that? If I have problems like that one day, I'll be glad. But seeing how that'll probably never happen, I'll just cut to the chase and go fuck myself.
Went and opened a joint account at the bank today. The finacee and I are going to start saving for the wedding expenses, so we figured this would be the best way to do it. Plus, after we get married we can use this account as our shared account to pay bills and all that shit.
Anyways, we've been saving since march, and finally scrapped together enough dough to open a decent account. I went over to the bank with more money in my hands than I think I've ever held, this side of a really big drug deal that is.
What just blows my mind is that we're saving our asses off, funding this wedding to throw for our friends. Really, that's what it is. We want to throw a great party celebrating us. So I said bye bye to a big pile of cash on Friday, but I guess we're assuming it's all worth it in the end. But part of me watched it depart and thought it would easily suffice for a downpayment and/or closing costs on a new home.
You think about weddings and look at the cash you saved and it seems like a small amount. Then you think about homes, cars, investments, and all of a sudden it throws you into a panic. Because here you are sitting on the seed of a nice financial investment that could be easily cultivated, and you're blowing it all on one day of...flowers and shit.
Logic tells me that it really must be a woman's world; or this shit wouldn't be going down. I don't ever want to hear one more word about women's rights. Speak up on the subject and I'll choke you to death with the reciepts.
You know, I've been watching blogs for a shit ton longer than I've been writing them. They've changed, and not in a good way, from my perspective. Blogs a few years ago, would kick the shit out of today's blogs.
Back then, there was no such term as a blogosphere. Ask the IT guys where you work, ten years ago the Web was a joke, no one wanted to admit they were working on web-based marketing or inventory sytems. Fuck, these days the web is the shit. Anyone can have a website, Arianna proved that shit WORD.
Before there was a blogoshpere, there were just people. People putting shit out there for whoever was there. Before there was a blogosphere blogs were like space probes sending out radio waves into a chasm of unknown depth. Then one day tink a comment was born. A few (days) later we discovered, holy shit, there are other people talking out there. Plink a blogroll was born, a series of links to other people in the great beyond. Then before you know it, clang comments were born, and of course ping trackbacks evolved.
The blogs stood up on their hindlegs, understood their surroundings, and before you know it, they had turned into a bunch of self-righteous, soapboxing, sonsofwhores. It's shitty. I go from one site to another, and see the same issue turned inside out in two different directions. It's creeping into newsmedia too. I was at CBSmarketwatch a few days ago, and there was an article about how college grads are facing the best job market since 2000, the next day new hire stats come in at half the expected value.
Hi everyone, we live in an age where information has become immediate. You don't have to wait for postal mail, telegrams, couriers, telephones, faxes, delayed quotes or Matt Fucking Drudge. The information is out there, waiting for you. Matt Drudge just goes and gets it for you becuase he knows your dumb enough to think what he offers is some kind of service.
Before the word blog, we were just people fishing for contact in a supposedly barren ocean. Lo and behold, the barren ocean bears fruit, and years later we've got a waterway choked with unimaginable detritus.
Go home tourists. Go Home Blogspot, Blogger, 20six, and Huffington. Take us back to the days when the only people out here were the people who actually wanted to be here. Before blog was a tagline, before ad placement became a source of extra household income, before political machines enrolled blog sites to run their interference. Go the fuck home, nothing to see here.
If there is one person whose memory dominates the summer and fall of '02, it's Jim Bob. I don't really know where to start, so excuse me if I ramble or begin to take rabbit trails, but there's just so much to tell.
Jim Bob was born and raised up in the mountains, went to college nearby, and ran his own small business. He's part dirty old man, part southern belle. His tantilizing cooking is almost as amazing as his ability to paint a graphic verbal picture that can make the pottiest of potty mouths gawk. He is definitely a talented individual and a jack of all trades. Jim Bob stands about 6'3, and his frame is equally ample, but he's one of those people that you don't need to see to know that they are present. His laugh is loud, unbridled and unashamed; he tells stories with more vigor than a pianist plays Rachmaninoff.
Most of the boys and myself all worked for his business that summer, working in just about every aspect of it. If there was no 'work' work to be done, there was always home improvements and errands for us to run for him. Jim Bob had his shit together too, and he loved having us work for him. Mostly because (as gay as he was) having a bunch of young guys running around his house sweating was all it took to set him free. That's another thing about Jim Bob, he wasn't one of these wimpy, caricatures of homosexuality. He was a full-blooded gay man. He drove a bigass truck, but also had a closet of stylish evening gowns. He was just a real person. Aside from the periodic ass-slap or X-rated verbal advance, he wasn't too disimilar from us. He enjoyed a lot of the same stuff we did; partying, traveling, doing wild shit just to see if you could get a rise out of people. Jim Bob successfully slalomed two miles of construction barrels at highway speed one night...well, almost. He knocked a few of 'em, but he was pretty drunk by that point, so we'll consider those dead soldiers as his handicap.
Most times, the boys and I would show up for work in the morning and get any prep work done. Jim Bob would stumble in bleary-eyed and groggy, mumble something about how much cocaine and construction workers he'd done the night before, and we'd just kind of blink at eachother for a second, and return to whatever task was at hand. Usually we'd have a big project in the evening, and we’d work late into the night. We’d work our asses off all day long, and through the evening to the wee hours of the morning; all the while soaking up the free alcohol (Jim Bob was a great boss) like street drunks. When we'd finished, we just kept on drinking until it ran out or we were pooped.
One of the first nights I was over at Jim Bob's house Carl, Monkey Boy, Josh, and Joe were all in attendance. I believe we were drinking Grand Marnier, listening to Astrid, and sitting on the back deck enjoying the view. Well, I go upstairs to use the bathroom and as I pass Jim Bob's master suite, Monkey Boy pokes his head out the door with this 'Oh crap' look on his face and pulls me inside. 'Dude, I clogged up the toilet.'
I walk into the bathroom with him and sure enough, the bowl is filled almost to the lip. 'All I did was pee, dude, and it just clogged up. I didn't even put anything in there bro!' I give Monkey Boy a glance that expresses how retarded I think he is, and then turn back to the ornery commode. We were both pretty blizzled at this point, so the sheer panic that is about to transpire is elevated that much more. I poke the flush handle and let 'er rip. Like I said, your boy wasn't exactly thinking clearly at the time.
The toilet promptly began to overflow onto the black tile floor. Water, Monkey Boy's piss, and God knows what else begin to spread steadily across the grid. Monkey Boy and I spring into what can only be described as clumsy, disjointed action. As 'The Girl from Ipanema" began to waft through the upstairs windows from the porch below, Monkey Boy and I were stumbling about the bathroom ankle deep in filth grabbing towels, trying to stem the seemingly unending flow from the toilet. I think by now we were also swearing and giving each other directions in hushed whispers.
Then Monkey Boy stops and, holding out some plastic object says 'What'n the hells this thing bro?' I examine it and it looks like a clear applicator tip from the end of some kind of tube. We hear an odd tapping sound, and look to the toilet in time to hear another tap, and see two more of these applicator tips come skittering out of the toilet bowl. Well, at least now we know what was clogging up the toilet. Monkey Boy reexamines the object in his hand for a second, and promptly flips the fuck out. "Jesus man!" He throws the tip across the room like it had bitten him, I look up from my ineffective attempts at flood control and then he says "Those are KY applicators dude, they're fucking coming OUT of the TOILET, and were standing in a puddle of what I can only assume is MY urine and the horrible detritus that is associated with K-Y applicators used for buttsex!" The terror alert level in the bathroom is now a menacing red and the pace of our efforts has reached fever pitch. So there we are, Pandora's toilet is fucking spewing like Vesuvius, and instead of being blessed with a quick death by lava, we're bathing in gay.
We manage to pull it together and just do what we have to do. We sop up the...ughh....and throw the towels in a nearby hamper. Both of us slouch against the bathroom wall, heave two twin sighs of relief and swear each other to secrecy. Well, not iron-clad secrecy, because we acted the whole thing out for our friends later. It was one of those moments that's like something out of a sitcom. Only way too gross for network TV.
I don't recall whether or not we ever told Jim Bob what went down in his bathroom that night. I think Monkey Boy and I just walked back downstairs and put a few extra slugs of bourbon in our gullets to help soothe the trauma. One things for sure though, neither one of us ever used that damn toilet again.
If I have no reason to have faith in humanity, what with all the vile things we do to eachother (killing, lieing, scamming, raping, cheating, etc), and I have no reason to believe in the historical religious instutions (because they've been all eaten up with political aspirations), what faith do I have left? I can't trust my own species, and I can't trust religion because it's domintaed by the same vices of my own species, so what the fuck? What the fuck.
When that volcano in Yellowstone finally blows half the world to hell or whatever, I'm going to see it as a long awaited escape. I mean hell, I won't have to pay back any mortages, car loans, college debt, any of that shit. I could drive down to Key West in my newly owned car (because the bank has been blown to smithereens by nuclear aftershocks or whatever and infrastructure is crumbling like a milk-soaked graham crakcer) and live out the rest of my days a free man. Shit, the day the bomb explodes/disaster strikes/meteor hits I might just go out and buy a two story open-ocean yacht, put the entire mother on credit (knowing the bank won't exist in a few months) and sail off into oblivion.
That would be the shit.
With my wife.
And some beer.
And maybe a few friends.
Aw fuckall.
You might want to grab a chair for this one.
Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, the Papa Moose, the Whole Enchilada will go before a California jury and answer to charges of child molestation. Yes, you know that. But let's take a refreshing dip in a little pool I like to call Perspective. Walk with me, back to 1982.
Watch your step...whoops - last one's a doozy; okay. Here we are you and me; black Ray Bans, Member's Only jackets, and haircuts that defy gravity. We're walking out of the record store with our freshly pressed vinyls of 'Thriller' when some guy approaches us and says "Betcha million bucks before 25 years pass, that guy goes up for child molestation."
We look at eachother, then back at Captain Dumbass. "You're on big man!"
"Twice."
"Twice?"
"Yeah fellas why not...double or nothin'."
"You might be dumb but you must be rich; that's a bet we'll take whole heartedly," we shuffle past the guy.
See, that's the kind of bet that makes men fortunes. If only I'da known. I think that it is a conspiracy though. The Beatles are behind it, they're pissed that he bought the masters. Rightly so if you ask me.
I lost my wallet last week. Actually, I didn't lose it, it was found and never returned. I know exactly where it dropped. I went back looking for it shortly thereafter, and it was gone. I had fallen behind the row seats we were sitting at in a movie theater. I went back the next morning and the sucker was gone. So someone found the bitch, and took it home. I had to cancel my credit and check cards, the blockbuster card, had to apply online for a duplicate driver's license. I have been more than two weeks without a license. I have been effectively cut off from my lifeblood - alcohol. Right now, I'm supposed to be drinking beer and blogging. Not blogging and sucking air. Good the thing old lady got a job bartending. I wonder if I'll have to resort to asking friends to buy me some?
It really sucks, not having a wallet. You can't do anything. No money to buy/do stuff, no ID. People don't even take checks anymore, and the few places that do want your ID, social security number, and a thumbprint in blood. Remember when the point of a check was that it was asa good as cash? Fuck, somebody buy me a beer.
Here's a meme for that ass:
1. Total Number of Books I’ve Owned:
Hahaha, aside from text books, auto shop manuals, or other reference material? Hmmmm..Let's see, four...12...carry the 3...would bring us to a grand total of five:
The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, Adrift by Steven Callahan (great story written by the man who spent the most time alone at sea and survived. He designs life rafts now. How intuitive.), two Thoreau's and an Emerson. It's not that I don't own many books, it's just that most of them are rather utilitarian; that is to say - the only reason I ever read them is because it is neccesary.
2. Last Book I Bought:
Jesus, it was probably one of the myriad 'neccesity' reads; but I did register for an Hemingway anthology for my wedding. I've not read too many of his stories or novels, but I've read about his life. I can't wait to see what his books are like.
3. Last Book I Read:
I did read a shit ton of Dan Brown recently (Angels & Demons, DaVinci Code, Deception Point) because I find the plot lines and pseudo history very intriguing. But that was like last summer. I don't know if I've read any books since then. Mostly I read newsmedia, blogs, short fiction, and reference books.
4. Five Books That Mean a Lot to Me:
I grew up really enjoying The Outsiders. I must have thumbed through that little bastard ten times before I was 15. It's the first book I ever truly appreciated.
I've always enjoyed religious texts. I have a couple copies of the Bible, A Book of Mormon, and a few others. I love sitting there and reading them together. I think religious texts are some of the most misunderstood novels in the history of great writing.
And I love my Thoreau and Emerson. That's about it really. These handful are the only ones I've read more than once.
5. Tag five people and have them do this on their blog.
Sheeeeeiiit, I tag yo mama lasz ni-eet!
Throughout the summer of '02, I spent most of my days with a group of close friends that have become known as The Boys. I'm not sure if that's supposed to be capitalized or not, but that's what the girlfriend and I called them when we argued about how much of our time I spent hanging out with them.
The boys consisted of a motley gaggle of somewhat shaggy, gruff mountain types; but we were pretty good natured. There was Monkey Boy, who was the core of enthusiasm. If Monkey Boy got excited about it, it would happen. Monkey Boy lived at the Branch, along with Joe, Carl, Jeremy, and sometimes Tatum. Then there were the peripherals: Vern, myself, Gary, Jim Bob (sort of); hell, there were like fifty other people around. Joe, who took care of most of our collective shaggines; was very boyish, almost naive; willing to try anything and everything. Sometimes he said the stupidest things, probably because he smoked the most pot. Carl was (and still is) the Zen Master. We were the wildest people we knew; and yet Carl is one of the most cautious, serene individuals. Jeremy was a bearded, beer drinking paddler from bumfuck Tennessee. For a guy with an imposing and intimidating presence, he could really make you laugh. Tatum, the photographer, was the 2nd shaggiest of us, with this mop of dark brown hair that he was always trying to keep out of his face. Good kid though, a fugging riot to be exact. Vern was in ROTC, and it made him insane. Well, maybe he was insane to begin with, but I guess the whole lot of us had accumulated a preponderance of evidence that there was at least something very wrong with each of us. Not scary in a militant way, just scary enough to remind you that he knew how to kill you with a flick of the wrist. Last but certainly not least was Gary. This kid could tell some whoppers. Like the one he told about the fairies who controlled the tide, or that cows have shorter legs on one side of their body than they do on the other. I have a sinking suspicion that he smoked more than Joe.
The funniest times we ever had were when we got bored. We'd all be sitting under the chillport, drinking ice cold beers, trying to figure out whose turn it was to go get the second round out of the fridge. It was inevitable one of us would come up with a great idea. There was 'pockets camping'; which (as you can imagine) meant taking whatever you thought you might need to spend the night in the woods, stuffing it in your pockets, and hitting the road. The only rule was you had to be able to fit it in your pockets or carry it in your hands. Except for beer. If you needed a backpack to carry a case of beer, that was allowed. It sounds like a great idea until you wake up in the dirt at six in the morning, and it's beginning to drizzle.
Another time, we came into about three gallons of mildly used peanut oil. We had a slip 'n' slide at the Branch that used periodically to break the monotony. Well, on this particular evening, someone (I won't say who) decided it would be a great idea to combine the two into one of the most disgusting spectacles I have witnessed in my whole entire cursed existence. I was burning with a blue flame, so I don't remember exactly how it all got started, but there were naked people covered in peanut oil and stinking of friend chicken running around the yard. Did I mention that our neighbors really loved us?
However, the mother of all the great (and by great I mean utterly stupid) ideas we ever had, was running Monkey Boy over with a car. Joe's Kia to be exact. It really makes sense if you let me tell the story. We were hanging out at this lame party in downtown. It was such a lame party, as a matter of fact, that we figured we'd spice it up a little. Mind you, this was initally Monkey Boy's idea. 'Let's get this party goin guys. We need some kind of catalyst, something crazy.'
'Well, we could pull some kind of stunt.'
'Oh! I got it. Run me over, I won't get hurt. I know how to fall.'
And of course Joe volunteers "Let me drive! I'll only go 5mph, I swear dooood."
Then it was on. Joe jumped in the car and drove back up the street, while Monkey Boy milled around nonchalantly. A few minutes later Joe comes cruising down the main drag and Monkey Boy perfectly executes the Oblivious Jaywalker. It was beautiful. There was a dull thump as Monkey Boy bounced into the dent resistant (those Kia guys are sharp) hood, a rather real-sounding shatter as his shoulder hit the windshield, and a perfect roll off the side onto the wet pavement. This was about the time that all motion at the party ceased; except for the guy throwing up in the dumpster. All eyes on Joe, and he just drops it into first and flies around the block.
Of course Joe's exit created an uproar in the drunken mob. Girls we swooning over Monkey Boy, frat guys were making pacts with the gang-bangers to find the prick who did this and tear him limb from limb. Meanwhile, we're standing in the back stifling laughter because those two dumbasses just shattered the windshield. We grab some ketchup out of the kitchen and hobble Monkey Boy into the bathroom. We're taking it to the next level.
'Here, smear this on your arm, then wrap a t-shirt around it. You've been seriously injured.'
Monkey Boy's laughing now, this is classic. He walks back out into the party, and people mill around him, shooting questions, stirring the pot, turning the rumor mill. Then Mark comes over and acutely observes aloud, "It smells like hot dogs." Shit, busted by the only smart guy for five square miles.
We skip the party and meet Joe back at the house. The windshield is 86'ed, spider-webbed from seam to seam; there's even a dent where the brunt of Monkey Boy's weight hit the glass. Perfect. I think in the end they split the cost fifty-fifty, since neither wanted to take full responsibility but both could not deny their collective negligence.
It's all fun and games people, until the bills start stacking up.
Who the hell admits to the world that his name used to be 'Deep Throat'? I mean, that guy was so close to kicking the bucket without everyone knowing. And now, he's going to be the object of every dick joke this side of Butkus.
Alright, I'm still moving in; but I wanted to post up some old stories that not too many people got a look at. I really enjoyed writing them, for what they're worth. Here's the first one, more to come as things progress.
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Like many people, I’ve had some wild times. I’m not necessarily afraid of my past or ashamed of it, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m proud of it. It’s at least funny, and makes for a good story. And really, that’s worth it enough to me. It’s such a richly funny and entertaining story (mostly to me I’d assume) that if I were to publish the entire adventure, it would never be accepted as anything but fiction. It goes a little something like this:
It was May of 2002 and the weather was just warming up in the mountains. I had graduated a couple weeks ago and was looking forward to getting a real job, but not exactly looking hard for a real job. My best friend Carl had just returned from spending a year traveling 'round the globe, the last three of which was spent in Thailand or somewhere. We usually hung out at the house Carl shared with three other guys; Monkey Boy, Jeremy, and Joe.
The Poplar Branch, as we called it, was an old 1 story brick home on a cracked asphalt line of the same name that weaved its way down into a low gulley, and back up onto the state. The yard stayed unmowed and overgrown, mostly because we couldn't give half a shit between us, but also because it felt better on bare feet and made a nice comfy pad under the Slip-n-Slide. There was an open carport attached to one end of the house that we had converted to an aptly named chillport. We bought two second hand couches, a glass porch coffee table and a few tiki torches. This was the place where we grilled the chicken, iced the kegs, and spent countless days and nights discussing the most inconsequential but equally entertaining of topics. Around the corner from the carport, in the side yard, stood Carl's one frivolous purchase: a several hundred gallon hot tub. Directly behind the hot tub was the waist-deep above ground pool (Wal-Mart, $88.43), which made for excellent contrast when jumping straight from the steaming hot tub. The backyard was pretty nondescript. A couple square yards of shin deep grass, a handful of scraggly pines, and an old newspaper dispenser. The opposite sideyard was where Monkey Boy built the horseshoe ring; home to the Pabst Blue Ribbon Weekly Amateur Horseshoe Championships. I usually lost in the first round, but that was fine by me; I was more excited about curling beers than slinging pieces of metal all over the place.
The basement was the indoor arena in case of inclement weather. Scraps of carpet had been laid over the smooth cement floor, and a decent enough stereo was put in. There was a ping-pong table and an excellent drumset that all of us, at one point or another, attempted to play. With horrible results. However, the crowning glory of the basement was this hand made pool table that someone’s old man had managed to construct. As someone who has played lots of pool, I gotta say that was one of the nicest playing, flattest lying billiard tables I’ve ever had the priviledge to shoot on.
Down in the lowest part of our geographical nook, but still within sight of the chillport, was an old unused prison. It was roughly a potato-gun shot away from our front yard, on the opposite side of Poplar Branch, right where it made its sharp bend back towards the south end of the highway. It was wrapped in the requisite twelve foot fence, with a nice barbed wire garnish on the top edge. There was a high watchtower in the corner closest to our yard that looked out over the small compound. To the south of the tower, in the shade of some trees just beyond the perimeter fence, stood the eeriest of tiny chapels, bell tower and all. Laying out to the east and south of the tower was the prison yard, and the facility itself, which was comprised of three or four one-story stone buildings. Each of these was approximately 50 yards long and maybe 40-50 feet wide. On the north side of the prison between the buildings and the tower stood, of all things, a small playground. It was this that led us to believe that it must have been an old detention home or delinquent center.
I guess it wasn’t too long before someone said what we had all had been thinking. To tell the truth, I don’t remember whose idea it was, but we all agreed: It was time for a self-guided tour of the prison grounds. This discussion took place on the late end of an evening spent sitting in the chillport sipping drinks and discussing which animal characteristic we would prefer to have. I can’t remember exactly who went. I know Joe and myself joined the contingency, but there were at least two others. Maybe Sharp and ‘Sexy’ Ralph, but I can’t remember. At any rate, we go to the end of the prison where the tower is located, closest to the chapel, and begin to sniff about for a way past the fence. We eventually found a section of where the barbed wire rim was bent and twisted so that it was pulled down and out of the way. I don’t know how many men out there have straddled a twelve foot fence topped with razor sharp barbs, but I’ll admit I was wishing I had opted to don something more protective than an old pair of jeans.
Once over the fence, we walked into the chapel. It smelled musty and undisturbed. The stillness of the place was amazing. It had been all shut up for god knows how long and you could hear and feel the stillness of the place. Like an old person’s house where the air hangs for days and nothing ever moves fast enough to cause a draft. The one room chapel was completely void of anything . . . except an old piano and the altar. I’ll admit to being scared of the dark; couple that with an eerie old abandoned prison church and you get one nervous cracker. Then Baden decided to start plucking the damn piano. The wavering notes were deafening in all that silence and stillness, bitterly out of tune and yet so fitting for such a place. I’m not sure if I stood there and wet my pants, or if I wet them as I turned for the door and got the hell out of there.
From the chapel we walked into the main yard and over to the buildings. They were all parallel to each other, long rectangular solid looking barracks. We went into the only unlocked door and were greeted by one of the more ominous rooms I’d ever been in. The darkness here was almost impenetrable. The walls and floor echoed like concrete, and the floor looked like it had been painted green, or maybe red or black, but it looked green in the dimness. The floor was littered with what looked like surgical implements; scissors, razors, glinting in the beam of moonlight coming through the door. In the center of the room we had entered stood what looked like a dentist’s chair. I remember we all stood in the doorway, the lot of us not wanting to go inside, but maybe afraid to turn our backs on the scene, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the yawning blackness.
Joe shoved his way in and walked directly past the chair and over to the wall. He was like that sometimes. He bent down and picked up something that looked like a camera, black and square, and brought it back towards the door. I guess he had spotted it from the doorway. Outside in the moonlight he opened it up and we were surprised to find a pair of binoculars. Score, can we please get the fuck out of here? After a few more minutes of looking around, we discovered that the room we were in was actually the prison barbershop, there was even a sign hanging outside the door we entered. Since this was the only unlocked door on the premises, we decided we might as well head back home.
Once back under the soft yellow glow of the chillport candles, we pulled the binoculars back out of the case and were all floored to see that they were actually night vision goggles. We found the small switch on them that turned the set on, and were excited to see that they worked amazingly well. What a find! I bet NO ONE has a pair of these! We were big into the outdoors, which included going out to the state line and exploring the caves in the area, and these babies were going to prove invaluable.
That was really the only time anyone went over there. After we told our story to a few friends, they expressed interest in going to the prison, but it always seemed none of the original group really wanted to go. I don’t think we were scared or anything, I guess the place just lost its mystery. Maybe deep down we were all hoping that there were going to be bats in the belfry, and that the barbershop was actually a torture chamber.