A quick story about my "Soda Fountain" post, in case you're interested: So, I just moved into my new house about a month ago. As is normal with moving, there are always a few kinks that must be worked out before one can feel completely settled and comfortable in a new home. Assimilation into this new abode has been fairly painless: the electricity was on the first day I slept here (a rare occurrence in my rental history), the oven worked (an even rarer occurrence), and the pain of unpacking was softened by the blow of intense stomach and rib pain, coupled with an intense 104 degree fever, which kept me bed-ridden and doped up on any number of pain pills for a few days. So that was good. The one problem my roommates and I have had thusfar has been the goddamned internet. My roommate Aaron's computer, though a fine piece of machinery to be sure, has become inculcated with many viruses and spyware in its short five year lifespan. This, however, has not been the problem. Though it is horrendously annoying to have to close sixteen pop-up ads before being able to check my email, the real problem has been the DSL service provider in the neighborhood. While I want to blame the five year old Sony VAIO for its inconsistencies in remaining online to placate my every electronic whim, I know, after conferring with friends that know internet, like, personally, that it is not the aging machine's fault. It tries. It really does.
Nonetheless, the internet comes and goes as it pleases, much like the inspiration for writing on this dusty blog in the unseen corners of the web. However, a few days ago, I had time, I had an idea, and I had the will. I had been blessed with an extra hour and a half before having to be at work, so I sat in the cat hair covered desk chair, determined to get the thoughts out before my mind changed itself. But, no, the internet was out. I could not be deterred. I could, however, beat a turd, angry as I was that the internet was out yet again. 'No matter,' I thought. 'I'll just type it out, save it, and publish it to Blogger later.' No problem. Except one. My roommate Aaron's computer does not have Microsoft Word installed on it, at least not that I could find. He does have Notepad, however, so, even while feeling archaic writing in a program that does not have options for bold, italics, or even auto-return (even most fucking typewriters have this feature), I set about writing my post. Fair enough.
I got pretty close to finishing a rough draft of the entry, and then I went to work. When I returned home, the internet was still down. Determined to somehow publish this post that night, I set about surmising ways to get my schlock onto the internet, where literally ones of people were waiting, in between twisted shit fetish videos (thanks, Immortal Technique), to view and ridicule my writing. First, I considered just printing out the piece, taking it up to the Metrognome, where there is a superior piece of computing technology and a completely trustworthy internet connection (in fact, were this internet connection a boat, I'd sail tomorrow..) , and just re-typing the thing. After re-sizing the Notebook file, which incidentally is formatted in one of the strangest and quite possibly, most unused, formats in Computer Printing history, in the Page Setup option of the Print Menu, I pressed Print only to realize minutes later that the printer next to the computer is deceitfully not connected to the computer at all. It's just on. It hopes you will make the same mistake that I did. Failure in others is the only thing that keeps it going at this point, I assume. After frantically and futilely searching for the correct cables to connect the bastard printer to the computer, I gave up.
Soon, my wonderful girlfriend came to the rescue with a small, keychain sized USB drive. Victory! I plugged the drive into the port on the back of the computer, effortlessly downloaded the file onto it, borrowed her wonderfully newer and more accessible Sony VAIO laptop, and headed up to Metrognome to utilize the wonderful WiFi connection and type to my heart's content.
Upon arrival, I downloaded the file onto the laptop, copied and pasted it into my freshly opened Blogger web browser, and, in a flash of brilliance, deleted the file from the USB drive. 'I won't be needing this anymore,' I thought. Why would I? The necessary information is but one click away from being either saved as a draft or published. Makes sense, right? Thank you- I agree with your approval of my choice.
I hate you, Sony. You designed a laptop with a highly sensitive touch mousepad, that, while looking and feeling quite aesthetically pleasing, is a demon two square inches of cheaply produced plastic. Fuck you. Nearly completely done with editing and re-writing my first draft, I magically waved, not actually touched, but waved, mind you, my hand over your ridiculously sensitive mousepad. A moment.. an hourglass icon by the arrow, and voila- my Blogger window closed, unsaved and unwarranted. Nary even a warning. Just gone.
So, that happened. I frantically searched the Recycle bin of the computer. Funny how it produces delete results for over 1,500 things it has just recently deleted from having the internet open, but you couldn't save one little text file, could you? No, apparently, when you delete something from a USB drive, it's gone forfuckingever. Thanks. And yes, I'm sure there is a way to retrieve information such as this, but don't bother telling me now. You're days late, and clearly you're not psychic or clairvoyant, so you're no good to me anyhow. Don't bother telling me. I don't care.
Everything I had worked on for the past hour was gone. I returned home, defeated, yet angry enough to spite the electronic world by starting completely over, which is what I did, even though it was nearly 4 a.m. A mitzvah! The internet was up when I arrived. I started over. I re-edited, re-wrote, re-thought, wrote more, and came very near to the end of the doomed blog. In fact, I was merely one sentence away from being completely finished when- that hourglass icon. A frozen screen. I turned slowly to the EWire box on top of my roommate Aaron's computer. The internet was out again. Just in time for me to not be able to write my last six word sentence and press Publish. And that was that.
I went on a short, murderous rampage and retired to my bed, utterly defeated. The next morning, I approached the computer with caution, careful to step lightly lest I knock out the internet connection with too heavy a footfall. Luckily, I had saved my work quite frequently the night before, and so all that needed to be done was to type that last sentence, which I miraculously remembered.
And that's it. The story of an obviously ill-fated blog and its even worse off author.
Then the world exploded and everyone died. Except the makers of Sony VAIO, who went on to create a new world with computers and madness for all, the fuckers. You too, internet. You suck, too.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
The History of Comedy.
In 1983, a young Bill Cosby, discouraged with his work as a metallurgist, walked home late one evening down La Brea Blvd. in Los Angeles, California, after a long and lonely day's work. Ever the optimist, Bill whistled a happy, yet wistful tune as his sprightly steps echoed through the lonely, broken avenue that once held, besides a trail to the ever famous tar pits, golden opportunities for silver-haired memories of days long since past.
Just ahead of him, about half a block, Bill noticed a tired man- tired of life, tired of living- in a broken heap, nestled against the wall of a storefront. As he approached this man, Bill discerned what appeared to be the soft sobs of a once happy man. Never one to enjoy the suffering of his fellow man, Bill fished in his greasy pockets to see if he could provide some financial relief for this man, which at the time was the only means of consolation for humans. Realizing he was completely broke, Bill began to panic- he had never before been unable to provide relief for his fellow man! Beads of sweat popped like corn onto his forehead as he approached the poor unfortunate- he had nothing to offer!
As he came nearer and nearer to the man, he grew quite nervous, and just as he passed in front of the man, intent on ignoring his very existence, Bill stepped directly onto the peel of a banana that the broken man had eaten earlier and tossed carelessly onto the sidewalk, as men who have lost their way often do. Bill's balance was completely lost, and his legs flew out from under him, and directly he found himself awash in pain on his backside directly in front of the man. The sobbing fellow, surprised and frightened by this surprising occurence, frightfully looked up from his lap, soaked from sobbing, and gazed at Bill in wonderment. Bill, at a complete loss, save immense embarassment, said, "HeyHeyHey!," in a voice quite uncharacteristic of the type of man Bill was physically. In point of fact, his voice made him sound as if he were an overweight teenager, possibly named Albert, when in reality he was a slim and slender twentysomething, and his name was Bill!
And then, something quite strange happened. The fellow, quite confused by this freak accident, stared at Bill, and, rather than crying harder or becoming enraged at this occurrence, which was, at the time, the typical reaction to any situation whatsoever, grew mysteriously quiet. Miraculously, his tears dried instantly, and his face, rather than mutating into one of rage and anger, drew upwards, ever so slowly, into what we now know as a smile! Moments later, sounds emanated from the deepest parts of his belly- sounds the world had never before heard! This infectious sound, this spasmodic shaking of the diaphragm, found its way into Bill himself, and before you knew it, the two rolled on the ground in tandem, right in the middle of the city!
A few doors down, a local club owner, Hambone Laffin, fumed outside his nightclub, furiously smoking cigarette after cigarette, at a loss. His club, a local haven for music lovers, was in dire straits that evening. It seems as though the band booked to play there that night, The Dire Straits, had called to cancel their gig, as they were stuck in Colorado Springs, angrily finishing their much anticipated debut album, "Sadness is the best medicine," which, after this fateful evening, would go on to be an utter failure in the charts. Laffin, known as an extremely ribald risktaker amongst his fellow club owners, heard the commotion down the street, and furiously thought, "What the FUCK is that?" Storming down the street, he noticed Bill Cosby and the unfortunate man rolling like loons on the ground and instantly became quite intrigued, and, hard a man as he was, felt a jostling inside that he never felt before. A few yards away, he stopped and watched the two men for upwards of a minute, while Bill, catching on, sent the poor man into utter hysterics by repeatedly saying "HeyHeyHey!"
A man quick on his feet and even quicker to action, Hambone stormed up to the men, and, fatefully casting a downward glance at Bill, said forcefully, "You! Can you do THAT," pointing to the rolling degenerate,"in THERE?", pointing now to his club down the street. "You want a job?," he said. Bill's eyes lit up, and instantly he said, "Yes, sir!" The two men stood up from the dirty pavement, and just to see what might happen, Bill relayed to the men an hilarious anecdote, now lost to the sands of time, about a fellow who apparently hailed from the mythical land of Nantucket, followed, of course, by his now trademarked catch phrase, "HeyHeyHey!". The three men practically fell down the street, arm in arm, tears streaking down their faces, only this time not in a sorrowful way.
And so it was, on August 13, 1983, at Hambone Laffin's now famous nightclub called The Laugh Inn, stand up comedy was born. Incidentally, the act we now know of as laughter, was named after Hambone Laffin, as he was the first person in history to pay money to produce such a reaction, which was, and coincidentally, still is, the only way to lay claim to things, be they physical or intellectual property.
Bill Cosby went on to perform in literally hundreds of clubs across the country, and later went on to act in thousands of movies. He also found the time to appear in literally millions of American's homes to promote the frozen taste sensation of Jello's Pudding Pops. When he had his first child, the young buck, at the tender age of three, could not pronounce the family name, and, instead of "Cosby," said, "Comdy." Bill soon began to be known amongst his peers, which included such comedic pioneers as Margaret Cho and Yahoo Serious, as Bill Comedy, giving us the name of what is now one of the most financially lucrative and simple jobs to do in America.
Just ahead of him, about half a block, Bill noticed a tired man- tired of life, tired of living- in a broken heap, nestled against the wall of a storefront. As he approached this man, Bill discerned what appeared to be the soft sobs of a once happy man. Never one to enjoy the suffering of his fellow man, Bill fished in his greasy pockets to see if he could provide some financial relief for this man, which at the time was the only means of consolation for humans. Realizing he was completely broke, Bill began to panic- he had never before been unable to provide relief for his fellow man! Beads of sweat popped like corn onto his forehead as he approached the poor unfortunate- he had nothing to offer!
As he came nearer and nearer to the man, he grew quite nervous, and just as he passed in front of the man, intent on ignoring his very existence, Bill stepped directly onto the peel of a banana that the broken man had eaten earlier and tossed carelessly onto the sidewalk, as men who have lost their way often do. Bill's balance was completely lost, and his legs flew out from under him, and directly he found himself awash in pain on his backside directly in front of the man. The sobbing fellow, surprised and frightened by this surprising occurence, frightfully looked up from his lap, soaked from sobbing, and gazed at Bill in wonderment. Bill, at a complete loss, save immense embarassment, said, "HeyHeyHey!," in a voice quite uncharacteristic of the type of man Bill was physically. In point of fact, his voice made him sound as if he were an overweight teenager, possibly named Albert, when in reality he was a slim and slender twentysomething, and his name was Bill!
And then, something quite strange happened. The fellow, quite confused by this freak accident, stared at Bill, and, rather than crying harder or becoming enraged at this occurrence, which was, at the time, the typical reaction to any situation whatsoever, grew mysteriously quiet. Miraculously, his tears dried instantly, and his face, rather than mutating into one of rage and anger, drew upwards, ever so slowly, into what we now know as a smile! Moments later, sounds emanated from the deepest parts of his belly- sounds the world had never before heard! This infectious sound, this spasmodic shaking of the diaphragm, found its way into Bill himself, and before you knew it, the two rolled on the ground in tandem, right in the middle of the city!
A few doors down, a local club owner, Hambone Laffin, fumed outside his nightclub, furiously smoking cigarette after cigarette, at a loss. His club, a local haven for music lovers, was in dire straits that evening. It seems as though the band booked to play there that night, The Dire Straits, had called to cancel their gig, as they were stuck in Colorado Springs, angrily finishing their much anticipated debut album, "Sadness is the best medicine," which, after this fateful evening, would go on to be an utter failure in the charts. Laffin, known as an extremely ribald risktaker amongst his fellow club owners, heard the commotion down the street, and furiously thought, "What the FUCK is that?" Storming down the street, he noticed Bill Cosby and the unfortunate man rolling like loons on the ground and instantly became quite intrigued, and, hard a man as he was, felt a jostling inside that he never felt before. A few yards away, he stopped and watched the two men for upwards of a minute, while Bill, catching on, sent the poor man into utter hysterics by repeatedly saying "HeyHeyHey!"
A man quick on his feet and even quicker to action, Hambone stormed up to the men, and, fatefully casting a downward glance at Bill, said forcefully, "You! Can you do THAT," pointing to the rolling degenerate,"in THERE?", pointing now to his club down the street. "You want a job?," he said. Bill's eyes lit up, and instantly he said, "Yes, sir!" The two men stood up from the dirty pavement, and just to see what might happen, Bill relayed to the men an hilarious anecdote, now lost to the sands of time, about a fellow who apparently hailed from the mythical land of Nantucket, followed, of course, by his now trademarked catch phrase, "HeyHeyHey!". The three men practically fell down the street, arm in arm, tears streaking down their faces, only this time not in a sorrowful way.
And so it was, on August 13, 1983, at Hambone Laffin's now famous nightclub called The Laugh Inn, stand up comedy was born. Incidentally, the act we now know of as laughter, was named after Hambone Laffin, as he was the first person in history to pay money to produce such a reaction, which was, and coincidentally, still is, the only way to lay claim to things, be they physical or intellectual property.
Bill Cosby went on to perform in literally hundreds of clubs across the country, and later went on to act in thousands of movies. He also found the time to appear in literally millions of American's homes to promote the frozen taste sensation of Jello's Pudding Pops. When he had his first child, the young buck, at the tender age of three, could not pronounce the family name, and, instead of "Cosby," said, "Comdy." Bill soon began to be known amongst his peers, which included such comedic pioneers as Margaret Cho and Yahoo Serious, as Bill Comedy, giving us the name of what is now one of the most financially lucrative and simple jobs to do in America.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Soda Fountain.
I pay for my food and approach quickly, yet tentatively. There is a woman there refilling a sweating, waxy cup with four extra pieces of ice and diet cola. The cup begins to fold in her hand, transforming the circular top of the cup into an aching grimace, a yearning from this single use utensil to be retired, tossed. The third refill is a chore, a tax on its very being. She turns and walks away just as I reach the station, glancing behind her momentarily with what must be a look of relief- she had kept no one waiting.
I have two cups to fill, and so I hurriedly begin filling one with ice, peering down into the cup, realizing that I have gotten too much ice, dumping the cup out partially, and acquiring a few more cubes from the ice dispenser, as I poured too much out on the first attempt. I repeat this process with the second cup as I simultaneously begin filling the first cup with the chosen beverage. As the cup fills with streams of carbonated water, sugary syrup and mountains of fizz, I pull the second cup from under the ice dispenser, dump some ice, and move the cup to its appropriate beverage dispenser and begin the eternal task of filling it. I sense movement behind me, and a cautionary glance yields the horrible truth- another customer is fast approaching. I turn my attention back to the cups in great haste to check their progress. The fizz appears to be increasing, actually, and I stick a finger into each cup in an effort to make it recede more quickly- an old wive's tale, an urban legend. This act produces no result, short of leaving both index fingers cold and sticky.
The millions of bubbles, indifferent to any sort of social couth, patiently wait and pop as they please, taking pleasure, perhaps, in the act of waiting their soon-to-be consumers must endure while they act out their tiny, insignificant lives in tandem with one another. If only to be in one of those tiny bubbles of air- vast civilizations clinging valiantly to the smooth, curved surface of the cup, then- up, up, pop.
There is now a woman with a small child directly behind me, waiting, talking to the impatient child- making the need for an expedited end to this carbonated tenure that much more pressing and desperate. I push the first cup back under the nozzle and attempt to finish filling it, but my impatience has cost me- the cup has overflowed, and soda and bubbles and shame streak down the side of the cup and gather for laughs and the process of becoming flat in the grey, plastic gulley beneath the wire grate that catches ice and holds cups. I shake my hand back and forth once, quickly, as a cat does when it steps in its water bowl, to rid myself of the errant liquid, and turn back to the second cup to repeat this process. The woman sidles in next to me, quite craftily, and had I not been acutely aware of her presence, I would have been wholly unaware of her altogether, until the sound of the ice machine cranks up in masses of churning and volume. Horror- my first cup is under the very nozzle that she is intent on using. She eyes me peripherally, noticeably, and I give the first cup one final push under the nozzle. I can only hope, at this point, that the cup is filled to my liking.
The steady sound of rushing water and carbon dioxide filling the woman's cup mere inches from me burns my ears and causes the rest of the blood in the nearby vicinity to flood my cheeks as I look at my own cup that is only three quarters full. I take a half-step back in her direction, determined, momentarily, to finish filling the cup to its potential, but I decide against it in mid-stride and turn around again. My second cup, now calm from the storm of repeated onslaughts of cold soda, sits sparkling and glowing on the grate, triumphantly full, though not without beadlets of brown liquid lining its outer surface- wounds from battle not soon forgotten.
I begin fumbling with plastic lids, attempting to affix them in their proper place- atop the teeming ocean of life, death and refreshment below. I hear the woman shuffling down the line, drinks full, sips taken sans lid, the brown tray her food rests on scraping along the metal rails glued to the formica countertop. The child reaches for a straw.
I have two cups to fill, and so I hurriedly begin filling one with ice, peering down into the cup, realizing that I have gotten too much ice, dumping the cup out partially, and acquiring a few more cubes from the ice dispenser, as I poured too much out on the first attempt. I repeat this process with the second cup as I simultaneously begin filling the first cup with the chosen beverage. As the cup fills with streams of carbonated water, sugary syrup and mountains of fizz, I pull the second cup from under the ice dispenser, dump some ice, and move the cup to its appropriate beverage dispenser and begin the eternal task of filling it. I sense movement behind me, and a cautionary glance yields the horrible truth- another customer is fast approaching. I turn my attention back to the cups in great haste to check their progress. The fizz appears to be increasing, actually, and I stick a finger into each cup in an effort to make it recede more quickly- an old wive's tale, an urban legend. This act produces no result, short of leaving both index fingers cold and sticky.
The millions of bubbles, indifferent to any sort of social couth, patiently wait and pop as they please, taking pleasure, perhaps, in the act of waiting their soon-to-be consumers must endure while they act out their tiny, insignificant lives in tandem with one another. If only to be in one of those tiny bubbles of air- vast civilizations clinging valiantly to the smooth, curved surface of the cup, then- up, up, pop.
There is now a woman with a small child directly behind me, waiting, talking to the impatient child- making the need for an expedited end to this carbonated tenure that much more pressing and desperate. I push the first cup back under the nozzle and attempt to finish filling it, but my impatience has cost me- the cup has overflowed, and soda and bubbles and shame streak down the side of the cup and gather for laughs and the process of becoming flat in the grey, plastic gulley beneath the wire grate that catches ice and holds cups. I shake my hand back and forth once, quickly, as a cat does when it steps in its water bowl, to rid myself of the errant liquid, and turn back to the second cup to repeat this process. The woman sidles in next to me, quite craftily, and had I not been acutely aware of her presence, I would have been wholly unaware of her altogether, until the sound of the ice machine cranks up in masses of churning and volume. Horror- my first cup is under the very nozzle that she is intent on using. She eyes me peripherally, noticeably, and I give the first cup one final push under the nozzle. I can only hope, at this point, that the cup is filled to my liking.
The steady sound of rushing water and carbon dioxide filling the woman's cup mere inches from me burns my ears and causes the rest of the blood in the nearby vicinity to flood my cheeks as I look at my own cup that is only three quarters full. I take a half-step back in her direction, determined, momentarily, to finish filling the cup to its potential, but I decide against it in mid-stride and turn around again. My second cup, now calm from the storm of repeated onslaughts of cold soda, sits sparkling and glowing on the grate, triumphantly full, though not without beadlets of brown liquid lining its outer surface- wounds from battle not soon forgotten.
I begin fumbling with plastic lids, attempting to affix them in their proper place- atop the teeming ocean of life, death and refreshment below. I hear the woman shuffling down the line, drinks full, sips taken sans lid, the brown tray her food rests on scraping along the metal rails glued to the formica countertop. The child reaches for a straw.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Glimpse.
She stared at the edge of the truck, the giant tread of the tires spinning so quickly that it sounded as if the truck was constantly running off the road onto the tiny, ingenious bumps that alerted swerving, drowsy drivers and annoyed the shit out of wayward tourists. Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues" blared out of tinny speakers through the small, sliding back window. The passing cement of highway movement melted into a grey and yellow winding river when viewed through her crying, robotic eyes. She hesitated- wait- no, not a moment, and... jump.
Her feet hit first but her face hit hardest. Surprise. Mainly intense, tearing pain, but a good deal of surprise, too. Surprisingly. Surprise because of the feeling. All this talk of adrenaline overriding pain in these types of scenarios- nonsense. Actually, it was total bullshit. She thought momentarily that she simply had a low pain tolerance, and at once felt weak and helpless. Momentarily. Momentarily because this all happened in less than a moment. Well, to be fair- a short moment. But, alas, that portion of the moment had passed, and directly she turned her attention to the fleshy bone quite literally exploding from her cheek as she skidded and bounced, at once forwards and backwards, down the interstate at 60 mph, 59, 58, 57. Had gravity, friction, and flailing limbs not impeded this gradual slowing of one mile per hour at a time, it would have taken just over 4 1/2 hours to travel sixty miles, under the pretense that she traveled the same speed as the number of miles left.
This thought, however, never crossed her mind, and it likely never would have either, as she was not much of one for such heady, mathematical issues, but even if it ever had the chance, that chance was dashed as quickly as her brains, when, on the third tumble towards the shoulder of the increasingly still highway, she, probably unwisely, decided, or perhaps not, to use the back portion of her head as a slowing device, likely not realizing that her skull, while being one of the hardest pieces of continuous bone in her body, was no match at all for the reinforced concrete that the state of Ohio spent $2 million on in the last few years, in a tax funded initiative entitled "Rejuvenation: Ohio," spurned into quick action after a series of scathing articles in the Cincinatti Sun-Times by leading satirist Billy Rest, cleverly titled "No More Ohi-holes!," referring, of course, to the admittedly poor upkeep of roads that, in their day, opened welcoming arms to the weary western fortune seekers- those young adventure capitalists that shook the bonds of their eastern seaboard shackles, and pressed outward towards new life.
Her feet hit first but her face hit hardest. Surprise. Mainly intense, tearing pain, but a good deal of surprise, too. Surprisingly. Surprise because of the feeling. All this talk of adrenaline overriding pain in these types of scenarios- nonsense. Actually, it was total bullshit. She thought momentarily that she simply had a low pain tolerance, and at once felt weak and helpless. Momentarily. Momentarily because this all happened in less than a moment. Well, to be fair- a short moment. But, alas, that portion of the moment had passed, and directly she turned her attention to the fleshy bone quite literally exploding from her cheek as she skidded and bounced, at once forwards and backwards, down the interstate at 60 mph, 59, 58, 57. Had gravity, friction, and flailing limbs not impeded this gradual slowing of one mile per hour at a time, it would have taken just over 4 1/2 hours to travel sixty miles, under the pretense that she traveled the same speed as the number of miles left.
This thought, however, never crossed her mind, and it likely never would have either, as she was not much of one for such heady, mathematical issues, but even if it ever had the chance, that chance was dashed as quickly as her brains, when, on the third tumble towards the shoulder of the increasingly still highway, she, probably unwisely, decided, or perhaps not, to use the back portion of her head as a slowing device, likely not realizing that her skull, while being one of the hardest pieces of continuous bone in her body, was no match at all for the reinforced concrete that the state of Ohio spent $2 million on in the last few years, in a tax funded initiative entitled "Rejuvenation: Ohio," spurned into quick action after a series of scathing articles in the Cincinatti Sun-Times by leading satirist Billy Rest, cleverly titled "No More Ohi-holes!," referring, of course, to the admittedly poor upkeep of roads that, in their day, opened welcoming arms to the weary western fortune seekers- those young adventure capitalists that shook the bonds of their eastern seaboard shackles, and pressed outward towards new life.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
...As I sickly cull the cyclical.
Not much has changed- everything has. Not much is different- everything is. Inspiration abounds- minds fester. New surroundings, well, surround- still four walls and a couple windows. Rebirth approaches- abortion be thy form. Wait for it.
Apologies for such schlock- my brain is still burning off the remnants of a few days of 104 degree fever. Many promises for a triumphant return.
Apologies for such schlock- my brain is still burning off the remnants of a few days of 104 degree fever. Many promises for a triumphant return.
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