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My fourth blog. Amazing yet disconcerting. Don't worry; this'll go away in a year or so. |
First there was "I'm Studying You" ![]() ![]() ![]() Until now. Welcome to the Buffalo in your soul... ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() |
'Sup y'all? Happy Friday, if it's still Friday where you're at! Today's prompt responses, while not exactly dovetailing nicely into one another, actually manage to cover a trifecta (some gambling lingo, used in this case because I know you're not betting illegally on anything I might have to say ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Fist off, for the "30 Day Image Prompt Contest - CLOSED" ![]() Do we know what it's like to touch the hand of God? None of us in this lifetime will know it, because if you're a believer you're preparing to meet your deity in what's known as "the afterlife". We may say we have experienced this in a metaphorical sense, like through the eyes of a child or having just enough money at the end of the month for Taco Tuesday, but physically? It's an impossibility. I don't care what your Sunday School class taught you (full disclosure: mine taught me Jesus doesn't come down and smite you for lying to a priest...so there's my frame of reference in regards to Catholicism). You may try to get through your days on this planet by being a good person and helping others in need, thinking that'll get you out of heaven's lawn seats and into the VIP section, if that's your thing. Cool, whatever. I don't need a book to tell me I should always do unto others yadda yadda yadda, but that's just me. I'm not judging anyone's beliefs. But you have to be careful, no matter what your religion. Sometimes the person you want to help up is trying to pull you down. And maybe the person giving you a hand isn't doing it for your benefit. That motherfucker telling you six days a week that he goes to church on Sunday and you're terrible if you don't could very well in fact be the devil himself...maybe he cheats on his wife or his taxes, or kicks puppies, or takes a few extra gulps from the holy chalice in the house of his own dear lord. You don't know. I've had enough experiences with different religions to know that at best I'm skeptical of many of them. I'm almost 40; most of my opinions on many topics have already been solidified...it's not that I'm not open-minded, because I am. Religion is just one of those things that I have a no-compromise clause with in my belief system. What's really important though is seeing the whole picture, and not just what others want you to see. If we zoom this image back out to its original form, this is what we're looking at: ![]() ![]() No thanks, higher power. I think life is something I'm better suited to be handling on my own, because I'm pretty sure if I were to start walking with a homogenized icon of this nature, what you see directly above is very likely to be the result of me passing through the pearly gates (even if my ticket has already been punched for the festival in the opposite direction). ![]() Y'all know I'm from the northeast, right? Great Lakes, Buffalo NY, City Of Good Neighbors? And what do you know about that (don't say New York City, tryna act like you know when in reality they're at opposite ends of the state)? It snows. A lot. We don't get very many natural disasters. We get blizzards. Best know that once you're in the 716 between October and April you run the risk of Lake Erie blowin' shit-tons of snow on you at any given time. When you pulled up stakes lookin' for that sweet, sweet Buffalove, you did so with the understanding that you might need all six layers or more of clothing and a shovel. And maybe a damn good and reliable plowing service. And that's what makes us the tough, resilient people that we are. It's why athletes from around the country move their families here after they've retired from playing for the Bills or the Sabres. When you tell people you're from Buffalo, their expectations of you change...they've heard what our winters have conditioned us for. If there's one thing anyone growing up in WNY has learned from their grandmothers, it's that the minute the weather forecast calls for more than six inches of snow you immediately run to the store and buy up all the milk, bread, and toilet paper you can. You think I'm jokin'? Nope. It happens at least once or twice a season, and if you're that guy who waited until after the plows have made the streets passable, you'll likely be shit outta luck. Most importantly however, in times of severe weather crises, we live by the words of a long-time mayor, the late Jimmy Griffin ![]() ![]() If you're asking me if I would have thrown a tomato at a bad performance...the short-form answer is "No, I'm too respectful for that." Stop laughing; it's true! I've seen some shitty bands, watched stupid tv shows and movies, and sat through open mic nights consisting of mechanics and doctors who thought they were amateur comedians...not once have I had the urge to hurl rotten vegetables at them. I don't even like booing people. They put their pride aside in an effort to provide entertainment. That's a huge deal for some people; who am I to discourage them from something they may have a passion, but not necessarily the talent, for? But what I do do is vote with my wallet. If I don't like a band, I don't go to their next show...but if I have a good time and I'm into the music, I'll buy a cd or a t-shirt (especially if they're a local band), and I'll probably be inclined to stay longer at the venue, which means I'm buying more drinks. If a comic or a group of comics isn't funny, I won't go back; if they are, I'll invite more people to check them out the next time they're on stage. It's all about word of mouth. It doesn't take much to be like "I'm not interested" or "I can't make it", but it says a lot if you're always showing up for gigs and bringing friends along. Basically, I wouldn't like it if some dude who could barely put two sentences together got all up on me on Facebook or Twitter with the whole "Your blog sucks, ya pansy...go write a poem about it!" routine, so I have no business telling a musician he should stick to bartending. The world's full enough of message board heroes who think that because they have internet access and an opinion everyone should care what they think (I know that's essentially what I'm doing with a blog, but you know what I'm tryna say). ![]() ![]() You hear it often when a famous entertainer dies an undignified death, and unfortunately it seems to be the only time really, but the funniest people tend to be the ones with the most sadness inside. They're often the most inspiring and creative types, and that energy gets channeled into brilliant careers...but just like you can't really know what drives a person to wanting to leave the world so soon, you also aren't privy to the destruction inside or around them that can sometimes serve as the genesis of their work. All we see is the output, often without stopping to comprehend their madness, demons, or personal tragedies. As much as we tend to think of celebrities as selfish and fame whores, maybe it's us who expect too much from them in relation to our own well-being. Everyone's human. "It's too close to home, and it's too near the bone... more than you'll ever know." Lyrics and interpretations. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Well, that's another Friday in the books for me. I'll be spending the rest of the night reading "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" ![]() |
What's up you guys? Before I get started, I gotta say thanks to everyone for the love yesterday (my 14th WDC anniversary)...it was so cool getting the messages and emails and MB's and all that. Everybody should have an anniversary! Oh wait... ![]() Now...what kind of mayhem will today bring us? ![]() ![]() Isn't this wild? It's a pitcher...that pours itself! I just said that last sentence to myself in Homer Simpson's voice, just for the sake of hilarity, and it works surprisingly well. But sadly, as a functional means of serving beverages, this item does not. Follow me for a few minutes... See, I don't doubt that eventually a self-pouring pitcher will be in our future. What'll probably end up happening though is some lazy jackass business executive type will green-light this after seeing a prototype, and before we've even figured out that something like this is basically a plastic piece of crap it'll wind up in the As-Seen-On-TV section in millions of stores for the low, low price of $19.99, not to mention the plethora of infomercials plugging this at 3am (right around the time you've snapped to and realized you fell asleep five minutes into that umpteenth Frasier rerun). But wait, there's more! See, as humans we envision things and we want them now, first, and quality often comes second. And that equals cheap. And then what sounds like a really fantastic idea just becomes more trouble than it's worth, collecting dust in your cupboards after little Billy tries to make it pour him some fruit punch and winds up ruining your fancy tablecloth because the batteries ran low or the stupid thing just decided to go kitchen-haywire. And since parents are often too preoccupied with the technology in their pockets to consider how batshit crazy a self-pouring pitcher could go wrong is, little Billy gets the belt for being clumsy. That's us, society...always deflecting the blame for our own shortcomings and laziness. What we're really afraid to admit though is that the robots are taking over, and they're so advanced we don't even know it. What if that's not a pitcher pouring itself, but the hand of an invisible robot working its voodoo magic? I mean, you can't see it, so it's gotta be something mysterious, right? And you know the first people to invest in such wonders of mechanical science will be the same a-holes who never learned how to get their VCR's to stop flashing 12:00. This is another reason why the aliens keep bypassing the planet Earth. We have no clue how anything works or what its purpose is, so long as it's cheap and we think we need it. We're so dumb. ![]() This is actually really hard, because I don't know if I've gotten anything colossally memorable throughout the course of my life in the mail...something I'll look back fondly on and say "Awww, I remember plucking that out of my mailbox!" And I consider myself to be a sentimental guy, but maybe I'm just not that sentimental. Or I really am a heartless person who doesn't care about anything at all. Quite an interesting paradox, I guess I can be. I don't really get a lot of mail anymore, to be honest. I get excited when I receive Save $2.50 off one pack! coupons from Newport, but that's about it besides random letters from Social Services and my monthly bank statement reminding me how broke I am...that's about it. I joined Elle - on hiatus ![]() ![]() Like seriously...the best mail I've received in the last month or two has been about applying for SSI at the end of the month. And my last copy of Wired magazine, that I subscribed to because my best friend from high school's wife's kid (guess that makes the kid his too, duh ![]() I should be lucky I suppose, because I don't get bills or a shit-ton of junk mail, nor do I have very many enemies that care hate me enough to send me glitter bombs or horse manure cupcakes ![]() ![]() I have a terrible memory. It's not a bad memory, because I can remember things from thirty years ago, but I can't remember the last time I ate. And as cool as it would be to be an actor, and I think I'd be pretty decent at it, I could never memorize my lines. I tried, in 7th grade, for the school play. I was an understudy for some role in Cinderella. It was mostly a lot of dancing, ballroom-like. I was terrible, and I quit. I'm not a great dancer either, unless we're doing The Running Man. I'm a mean-ass Running Man-er. Or was, considering I can barely walk now as it is. So no, I don't have any really good memorization tips, unfortunately. Association seems to help me, like if I can associate words or sentences to objects or life events, but that doesn't always work on tests. I can tell you what has sucked for me...and that's being able to somehow pick things up quickly and manage to retain certain bits of info. Why does that suck? In high school I never had to study...I just paid attention in class, took notes and did homework occasionally, and did well come test time. Well enough to pass, I guess. Now? Fuck man, I studied my balls off both times I tried going to college, and outside of a writing-intense English course I did...not do so well. Being smart doesn't help, and neither does being interested and motivated. I'm convinced there's a whole lotta luck involved...there has to be. Any idiot can memorize anything through repetition; that's why so many kids pass kindergarten. We know our ABC's, but how many people do you know that can't write a text message or a simple Facebook status without subbing "u" for "you" and don't know the difference between to, too, and two? I can't be the only one who gets infuriated by the lack of fundamental spelling and grammar on display sometimes. But that's not the point. You want my advice on memorizing? Buy a pair of Chuck Taylors, and get all punk rock on 'em. Draw anarchy symbols on them, doodle some shit, and cheat. Write all the pertinent info on the white part of the sole. Take it from me, the guy who can recite all of "Straight Outta Compton" ![]() ![]() ![]() I'm not crazy about this term in reference to myself, as I prefer to think I'm on top of things all the time...but the older I get (and prepare yourself to hear me start referencing age a lot in the coming weeks) the more I see things slipping away from me mentally. Not much stings more than realizing you forgot something- anything- when you've always kept things in order...especially when you set things up routinely for the expressed purpose of not forgetting particular things. When you're like "Why the fuck did I do that??" and you know there's a specific reason why, and alcohol, bad decisions, or rushed timing isn't involved, then you know you've got problems. "Yesterday’s people end up scatterbrain. Then any fool can easily pick a hole (I only wish I could fall in)." Lyrics. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() And with that I have no choice but to put an end to this entry. I'd like to thank my guests, my inspirations, the powers that be, and you (provided you made it this far). Tip your bartenders, check out "The Blog Board" ![]() |
How's it goin' everyone? It's July 1st...an important day in the storied history of a little website called Writing.com, colloquially and lovingly referred to as "WDC". And why is that, might you ask? Well, it's the first day of two beloved contests, the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Now, on with the rest of today's entry, for real... ![]() ![]() Well, look at that...it's two people jumping enjoying a perfect sunset on the beach. Somehow, between the time I first saw this image and now, it morphed in my head into two girls jumping with their silhouettes captured, but I'm clearly mistaken, and that ruined pretty much the direction I was gonna take. Damn. You might look at this and think that these lucky individuals are showing praise to an undisclosed religion...one that bestows exuberance upon the end of daylight in a 24-hour cycle. They want their specific deity to know that they, in fact, are in so much awe of the oncoming moon that all they can do is raise their arms as a gesture of salutation for all the warmth and light the sun has provided them on this glorious vacationy day. And normally, you wouldn't be wrong...but since I'm ignorantly unaware of any religion that openly does this, and this being my blog, well, yeah, you're wrong. What this is is a shot of the YMCA traveling team tryouts, Southern California division. These events are held in different regions throughout the US, looking to find that perfect quartet that goes from stadium to arena around the country...and these are the people you'll see at sporting events that come out and dance when the PA system busts out the "YMCA" ![]() These dance-letes train long and hard, hoping for a shot on the national stage. Their goal? To be shown in bumper clips on SportsCenter as they go to commercial. Only the best and the brightest make it...the losers just go home and are relegated to hoping they'll get their chance at a Double-A baseball game or a pee-wee hockey tournament. But the winners? Well, I think we can all agree...there really are no winners here. ![]() True dat...my man Charlie Chaplin knows what's up! Look, I know it's hard sometimes...if anyone knows that, it's me. But sometimes ya just gotta look at shit and laugh. If you don't, you'll drive yourself crazy letting every little thing bug the everlovin' outta ya. Laughter's all around...ya just gotta know where to look for it and how to appreciate it (and nobody say nothin' about "Maybe you should follow your own advice, huh?"). Even in the darkest or sorriest of places, there's humor. It's healthy. It's cathartic. It shows you're a living, breathing human being with a soul...you're not a robot! Nobody actively wants to spend their days being miserable (again, bite your tongues). Take a load off, even for fifteen minutes. Put everything else in your mind aside. If you're reading this, I know you have access to the internet then, and that means there are approximately 3.085 billion worlds of laughter available to you. But the key thing to remember isn't that laughter is external...it comes from inside. That's why it's said that when someone does something funny, they make you laugh. Nobody's laughing for you (unless you're just that idiot that doesn't laugh when someone says they're laughing with you, not at you, which could be the falsest statement this side of "I am not a crook." ![]() Choose laughter. I think that's the kind of years of your life that's being added when President Lincoln alluded to something about that. And if Lincoln said it, it's gotta be true...I saw it on the interwebs. ![]() Whoooo boy, have I done some foolish things while under the auspices of an employer before. Cinn ![]() My first real, living-on-your-own, bona fide "adult job" was at a regional sporting goods chain in our local malls, Koenig Sporting Goods. I was promoted to Assistant Manager and was sent to a different location...with a bunch of good people, who shared my penchant for prankery. One of the guys had an older brother that used to work for the company, and he introduced us to the slippery. It was basically a move where you were doing something normal and turned it into an accident. Physical acting at a comedic level. His demonstration of it consisted of grabbing a sale ad from the rack of the Rite-Aid across from us, and reading it while he walked directly into the three-sided mall directory sign and falling over. And people would stop and ask him if he was ok or if he needed help, and we were just doubling over because we knew it was on purpose! And knowing this guy, he probably said some really crazy shit on top of it. So one day, we were setting up displays of Columbia ski jackets...the really nice ones that all the chicks were into before North Face fleece jackets were stylish. We had racks full of them, but we also had to display some up high. "Up high" meant standing on a ladder and using a pole with a hook at the end to hang them on the wall, probably ten feet high if the ladder was 6'. And with that, being a daredevilish 23-year-old, I abandoned all good sense and performed my signature slippery. I "misjudged" my step on the ladder, while balancing a weighty ski jacket on a lengthy pole, and "fell" into a four-sided rack of Columbia jackets. With customers in the store, and in front of two other employees assisting me. It was hilarious...see, the other point of a slippery was to also see how much damage you could do in such a way that it wasn't entirely your fault for whatever happened. I might've wiped out three racks, but I busted a lot of hangers and bent a couple of rack extensions. A high-quality slippery. Could I have been seriously hurt? Maybe. Was it dumb? Only if it got me in trouble. Foolish? Hells yeah!! It was way better than my first night there as the guy in charge, when I grabbed a $125 golf club driver and swung it like a pro...and my backswing caught a rack, putting a giant nick in the club face (and earning a modicum of respect from my associates). Damaged it out, the store got credit, no harm no foul ![]() ![]() ![]() You can say I've taken mad breaks in the last year or so (gotta preserve my sanity a li'l) from actively contributing anything to WDC, but I'm back for at least the next thirty days...mainly because Charlie ~ ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() So alright...I've done cleared out this one-of-thirty thing (my mental note, not yours). Mega huge thanks so far for all the love pointed at me for today...time for me to catch up and give some thanks, because writing this stuff kinda wears me out. Y'all the best a li'l blog guy with stupid silly poems in his pocket could ever, forever ever, could ask for. Peace, don't let it touch the ground, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |
![]() Hey folks! It's Friday, and there's a lot to talk about, so let's celebrate! ![]() ![]() Before I get started though, I'mma lead off with a confession and a half-hearted apology. I had a few weeks to prepare for this particular week of prompts in the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" ![]() I, like probably a lot of you, have many songs that trigger different memories. Some good, some bad...but that's what music does to us. It doesn't cherrypick the moods it wishes to soundtrack for us. For me, the song that first popped into my head was "Tarantulove" ![]() ![]() Every single time I hear this I'm taken back to the scene where I first experienced Hawksley...downtown Buffalo, before the waterfront opened up (finally) and became the go-to party spot, the "Thursday At The Square" free concert series was the place to be. Sometimes they'd pull in some solid national acts, and sometimes the lineup would lean more toward regional favorites...in my opinion, the crowds paralleled this trend in that some people showed up because it was free live music in Niagara Square, while others just came for the atmosphere of drinking socially outdoors and I wish that stupid band would keep it down 'cuz I can barely hear you, ugh! ![]() So I headed down to The Square with my sister...Gord Downie from The Tragically Hip was headlining, and I'm a Hip fan so of course I wanted to go, and my sis was all "Whoo-hoo! Goin' to The Square! I don't even know who that guy is!" or somethin' like that. We were walkin' around, people watching and checkin' out the merch as the opener started his set. Whatever; neither of us had heard of him and we had plenty of distractions. But the music was interesting...it was like a mash-up of Broadway show tunes and bubblegum pop with guitar noises that would've been out of place in almost any other song, and when I looked up to take notice the singer was doing this long-striding, almost lurching, sneak-up-on-you walk while his guitar gurgled and where he'd sorta end each forward step on his tippy-toe before taking another. It was like five thousand people suddenly had access to a penny peep show, and every time you turned the crank to advance the film the six-string would just sound naughtier and you'd be even more seduced by his charms, until it was over and your ears wanted a celebratory cigarette to commemorate the best sex they'd ever heard. That's how I want to feel when I hear a new band or artist. I don't want to just be pleasantly surprised; I want to feel gratified like the night the geek like me lost his virginity to the Catholic school cheerleader he had no business being with. I don't want "Cool, I'll have to check more of this out later". I don't ever want it to end, and I want to learn more and hear more and let the entire experience interact with all my senses. There aren't a lot of singers who do that anymore...Hawksley Workman connects with the romantic in me, and the intellect, and the hipster, and all the other little pieces of me I don't often recognize. And it all started with one song. ![]() Normally I'm not one to disagree when someone who is much more accomplished than me has something to say about how the art of writing should be gone about...and even though I've not heard of Steve Cox, I'm assuming he's credible because someone thought enough of him to consider that his words could be quotable (and no, I'm not gonna Google him...I trust you, Lyn's a Witchy Woman ![]() See, for me it's pretty simple. I'm not a professional, and I don't get paid a lump sum every time I get the Your blog has exceeded the maximum storage limit error message telling me I've filled up another digital reservoir with kilobytes and megabytes of randomness and babbling. That means, for all intents and purposes, I'm just an amateur...a hobbyist. I'm doing this (as I've probably said a hundred times before- no exaggeration) for my own enjoyment first, and then maybe, hopefully, yours. It's not a team sport or anything like that, so I don't look for outside help...even if I were aiming for something higher or better or whatever. I could get down with what he's saying if this were bowling, and there was some kind of technical flaw in my approach that you noticed in warm-ups, where you could suggest an improvement before a big-money tournament. But no...I'm a novice, and maybe this entry will get 20 or 25 views, 30 if I'm really lucky, and I don't think anyone's gonna show up in front of my building with a contract hoping to publish my stupid blog with the conditions that I don't call it stupid and I don't swear and I'd maybe stop substituting the letter "g" for an apostrophe every so often with words ending in "-ing". I'm not holding on to any delusions about what I do when I'm here, and I'm not ceding creative control over my work anytime soon. So there you go, Mr. Cox, if that's even your real name. I'm guessing it's not though, and that makes me not like you just a little more, were I to have an actual opinion about you, my man. Plus, folding a fitted bedsheet sucks absolute balls whether you're doing it by yourself, or with a helper buddy, or with four other people. As an old WDC friend who is no longer active here once said, and I paraphrase, "That [folding a fitted sheet] makes you like some kind of unicorn, doesn't it?" ![]() I'm gonna say a lot of things in the next couple paragraphs that maybe for someone who writes often enough like me might sound pretty bad in this particular context. I'll start with Ted Kooser himself...another writer I'm not really familiar with and don't quite feel like looking up, although his name at least kinda rings a bell. I feel like I should know who a lot of these authors are, especially since I spent a couple years working in a freakin' bookstore of all places. And on top of that, I probably couldn't name a contemporary poet or three if you paid me. And I like poetry. I like it more than mystery or sci-fi or chick lit. But my frame of reference ends right around the time of the Beat Generation. So I'm a bad person to ask about this, but because I'm also an American, I'm not afraid to open my mouth and tell you just how much I really don't know. Here's my opinion on contemporary poetry versus, say, I don't know what else to call it, and "non-contemporary" just sounds too obvious, so let's go with "boring-ass traditional poetry force-fed to us and hailed as literary gospel in high school, when we really mostly didn't give a shit": if we're going by Kooser's metrics here regarding the usage of the pronoun "I" as an "appeal factor" to current generations, he's a bloomin' idiot. Dude, lots of poems throughout history contain "I" and are of a confessional approach. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...". Yo homes...that's about as "I" and straight-up fessin' as it gets. And furthermore, going back into the annals of history, instead of using "I" our forefathers tried to be slick and start off all biblical with shit like "Thou". "Thou shall not kill". "Thine heart is barren in your absentia." "Thy shan't front on thouest of thats." Tryin' to come off proper, like we didn't defeat the British in the Revolutionary War or whatever. #Murica Now, like I said before, I'm not very familiar with contemporary poems or poets...or at least as much as I should be. I mentioned Hawksley Workman in an earlier segment of this entry, and I think everyone should own a copy of Hawksley Burns For Isadora ![]() ![]() But I'm not altogether sure of what even my own frame of reference might be on this subject. I've probably written over a thousand poems easily over the last twenty-some years, and they can't all be confessional, right? So let's assume that I'm "contemporary" (with or without quotation marks; reader's choice) in that I don't adhere to traditional forms or methods or templates or what have you, and I've created works within the last few decades. In my head I don't think an item like "20 Minutes From Nowhere" ![]() Now, what was the point of all this? Uhhh, naw Kooser...sometimes you need to hush up when us younger folks are talkin'. Just because you've got a different level of fame than us doesn't mean you're the omnipotent truth-sayer of the written word in this day and age. Grab a seat on the bench next to ol' Stevie Cox ![]() ![]() ![]() Musical Poetry break! My first experience with Saul Williams came as a part-time bookseller at a then-Waldenbooks...I wasn't a heavy reader but as I made my way throughout the store, , Said The Shotgun To The Head ![]() The greatest Americans Have not been born yet They are waiting quietly For their past to die please give blood The inside, upon just a flippant flipping through, looked more like a graphic novel or a Manga read minus the intricate illustrations. It wasn't published so much as it was designed; it was intentionally meant to be distributed as something that would grab you, pull you in with the urgency of a timebomb ticking, and when it reached its explosion point it stung immediately like the rush of a first kiss...but you knew just by the amount of pages left there was plenty more to come. You enter a very personal, very unique relationship when you start reading this book. It is intense; it's a journey...into love, into self. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Back in the day, when my blood ran cold and my memory had just been sold. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Ok, well, it appears my work here is done. Thanks, if you participated at all in any of our 30DBC mini-challenge roundtable discussions, and thanks especially to Brother Nature ![]() ![]() ![]() |
![]() ![]() ![]() What's up you guys? Might as well start this now and get this out of the way, because history has proven that if I don't by a convenient hour I'll get lazy and lose the will to actually write a halfway decent blog entry. So here we are...welcome to the final week of the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" ![]() ![]() ![]() He knows all of your first grade sentences, and some of your second grade ones too. Does music influence or affect my blogging? Yes and no. I'll start with the "no" part because that's the easy one to explain. When it comes time to actually sit down and begin typing, I prefer nae, need silence. The thoughts and noises in my head can't compete with people talking or a tv blaring or a device pumpin' beats, because I'm not very organized and they interrupt my stream of consciousness. ![]() ![]() But about the "yes"...see, here's part of my writing process. While I'm laying in bed at night before I go to sleep, I usually catch the next day's prompts. I arrange tabs in the order I want to use them, including any pertinent links I might want to make part of my entry. I try to find an appropriate song, the lyrics, and cue that up...that way I'm ready for whenever I want to start this whole thing. The trouble is, ![]() On top of that, if there's a day like today where I've had to go anywhere that has necessitated me breaking out the iPod, there's a chance that I'll hear a song that better suits a prompt or my mood...which leads me scrambling to reorganize from the previous skeletal sketch I laid out, or basically starting over from scratch. But who cares...I generally need something to do between the time I take my sleeping pills and when I actually fall asleep, so this chaos sorta works for me. And some days, the head start I give myself is perfect. My thoughts align, my mood fits the prompts, and everything's great. But the last few times I thought I might crank out an entry, I've really wound up completely unmotivated. I've had a lot on my mind, I had the slight touch of a stomach bug (which could be related to weaning myself off of medication, or my body rejecting vegetables in an attempt to eat better), and my state of mind has been generally a shit mix of anger, frustration, and...I don't even know what else. So naturally, when I've played music, it's been in that vein. And now that I've actually gotten up the wherewithal to write, because of where my head's at, this entry will take on some of those characteristics. Moody, depressive, etc. Conversely, if I were in some mythical happy place, I'd probably be more interested in the peppy, poppy music in my collection, and that would radiate here as a byproduct of whatever that feels like. And I think I just took a very long, convoluted way around of saying "Yes, music does in fact influence my blog entries, even though you may not see it...it's there, and I know it, so bugger off and leave me the frig alone." ![]() I'll tell you what...if you believe this and you live by it and it works for you, I won't argue with you about it. The concept sounds legit; newspapers, magazines, and the internet are routinely filled weekly with human-interest stories of people who overcome seemingly insurmountable things, and most of them are believable I guess. Meanwhile, on a more personal level, I have problems of a different magnitude. Lateral issues? Maybe, or maybe it's not for me to decide...but if I don't start figuring some shit out soon, I might never achieve the seemingly impossible things in life. ![]() ![]() The gravity of the situations we're faced with that we categorize as "possible" or "impossible" may vary, but the pain behind the thought process is similar. We have to decide, and then act on that decision, and adjust so we can live with the results. Oh, and a lot of us can do that in a fairly reasonable period of time. I wouldn't dare say this is a strength of mine; far from it actually but sure, some have it worse. The real truth is that everything's quantifiable in some way, and everyones' systems of measurement are vastly different. There isn't a way to accurately calibrate them, or drain them down into common denominators...we're just too unalike for simplicity. And maybe that's a complicated way of saying we're complicated creatures with complicated habits and methods, but (and I'll use this line any chance I get and I love it) one man's ceiling is another man's floor...what's possible to many is fallacy to some, and your weaknesses could be my strengths and vice/versa. Maybe that's why the majority of the population can fit together so well...the ability to rely on others to fill in our cracks. ![]() Well, we (my therapist, doctor and I) established that I'm a represser, an avoider, and a conflict runner-away-frommer (I'm pretty sure those are all highly scientific terms, but I haven't cross-referenced them in the DSM-5 ![]() I guess I dream deeply, or somethin'. And mostly what I dream involves heavily the elements of my past, combining different eras of my life in one giant awkward nocturnal motion picture of sadness, bad decisions, and regret...all of which is not a fun way to start off the day, especially when you can't seem to shake the feelings or images for awhile. I could go into detail, but I can already tell this entry's gonna run a lot longer than I intended for it to in the first place (they always do, try as hard as I want to that they don't), and in order for them to sorta make sense they'd require more room and detail than I'd want to give them here. I know, that's no fun for all you armchair psychiatrists out there...but my insurance doesn't cover y'all'es co-pays. But yeah, my dreams pretty much tell me what I already know...that there have been a lot of times that I've been a complete shithead to certain people. It's almost not fair; my dreams never seem to remind me of the good things I've done for people, or take in to account that I mean well or have been at least likeable enough at times to lead to the bad decisions of others that I've had a hand in. I'm not asking for much; I just wanna wake up some mornings with more smiles than regrets. Is that so hard, oh great and powerful sleep thing that I can only control pharmaceutically? ![]() ![]() So I'm laying in bad last night, already medicated and breaking my personal rule of not having conversations with anyone while in that crossing-over state by having conversations with multiple people (see what I said in the first part of this entry about distractions), and at the same time I'm jammin' to "Impossible" by the Wu-Tang Clan ![]() "I kissed your lips and I tasted blood. I asked you what happened and you said there'd been a fight. You said 'I've been fighting for your honor but you wouldn't understand.'" Lyrics. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Ugh...didn't I say something about this being long? Someday I'll figure out why I do this to myself and subject your endurance to all of this. But today is not that day. I've got my own soul to deal with before I start considering yours or anyone else's. Peace, a pizzatarian, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |
![]() Good afternoon folks! It's Wednesday (I think), which means it's the third day of the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" ![]() When I read a poem, I prefer to read it silently in my head. As an added bonus, if I don't know what the author sounds like, I try to imagine it in his or her voice, to add to the authenticity factor of the words and meaning. Why? Because I know what my own voice sounds like, and I hate it. It's not appealing sonically. It sounds nasally, like your prototypical nerd. Don't believe me? Check out "This one's about the video." ![]() Unless we're listening to music, I prefer quiet and not disturbing others while bathing in my solitude. Check that...occasionally I do enjoy disturbing others, but not when I'm reading. I think that it's a personal exercise, meant to forage a bond between yourself and the writer. Get lost in the experience. Reading out loud just adds another level of distraction...especially when your mouth misforms the words you're seeing, and then you have to back up a line or two and redirect your concentration. I guess maybe there's an advantage then to being blind in that you can only read using braille, unless you also have dyslexia of the fingertips, which I'm pretty sure has to be a pain in the ass. Or the hand. And if it wasn't clear before, I'm pretty sure I'm going to Hell because of this entry. Proceeding... I've seen reviews where one of the pieces of advice mentioned is "Read this again, out loud to yourself". And I'd say a lot of people think that's a solid idea, and have done it, and maybe have seen the light that they suck at life and should not ever write poetry again could allow them to hear where they might've gone wrong structurally. But when I see that someone has suggested out loud, to yourself, my mind breaks...because I consider the two concepts separately to be exclusive. I take "to yourself" to mean "quietly", while "out loud" means "so others can hear"...it's like an intricate video game move that's both positive and negative that's also essential in a way, but instead of it being awesome the AI doesn't know how to react so the whole system freezes, causing you to restart the scene and making you lose your progress. Or sneezing with your eyes open...it's impossible, and if it were to actually happen you'd probably just shoot your eyeballs across the room. Sounds like a sweet party trick, but I'm guessing that's a shitty inconvenience down the road. But hey, do whatever makes you happy and works for your particular method of enjoying poetry. The world needs more people who can appreciate the written (and sometimes, spoken) word. If you write it, we're all in this together...just try not to disturb me when I'm trying to be left alone and the sound of your voice winds up hitting me like a spitball to the back of my neck. Y'all been warned. ![]() Yup, I'm definitely familiar with Helen Keller...but if you're not here's her Wikipedia bio ![]() But what troubles me now about her is that most of the opportunities afforded in this day and age to someone in her situation are a direct result of her advocacy. For example, some genius developed peanut butter. I love peanut butter. But if the inventor of such a treat hadn't discovered it, what would be the purpose of my affection for strawberry preserves? Sure, maybe someone else would've eventually come along and mashed up peanuts in a delectable fashion, but would it be the same? We're talkin' about several feet in your local grocery store! How different would the world be? And it's no different with Helen. She'd go to the same school as the rest of us, integrated with classmates who have functional eyes and ears. She'd get some accommodations, but she'd be groomed to fit in because someone else came up after her and developed techniques to cope with her specific disabilities. It might not be the same as what she pioneered, but humans can be pretty smart and resourceful at times, so I'm sure she'd be just fine. She'd get over the initial mind-blow of the internet that was fitted for her consumption, and eventually she'd learn that the comment boards on most websites are toxic wastelands for a-holes to dump their twisted, self-serving logic while she carved out her own place in the world and honed her sarcasm. Also, she was kinda a looker, if ya know what I'm sayin'...she'd be all up on Tinder, tryin' to catch a hookup, and instead of the tasteless "How do you confuse Helen Keller? Rearrange the furniture." jokes etc., she'd be all like "I swiped left, because I can't see myself going anywhere with you." Yup...definitely goin' to Hell. Or as my more Christian-rooted people have called it, H-E-double ![]() ![]() Swimming, huh. Is there any greater suburban status symbol than having your own pool? I hate swimming. It's a marriage of inconveniences. Humans hate being hot (temperature-wise) and uncomfortable. I'll go as far as saying that a lot of times, most of us hate being wet (beyond our expectations and control) as well. Yet a favorite pastime for the bulk of an otherwise docile society is jumping in a pool of water with the intention of cooling off. Why? I live in a room above a bar, and it gets super ridiculously hot in here...especially in the afternoons, when the sun crashes down on my window like "Fuck your happiness, human...I'mma make you feel my wrath so deep you have no choice but to marinate in your own sweat!" A total killjoy, especially for someone like me who loves a beautiful sunny day. I finally bought a fan the other day (thanks to the magic of CVS "Extra Rewards" coupons), and now life in the afternoon is more tolerable. I don't even have to worry about losing a finger in it if I wake up in the middle of the night and want to shut it off...yes, that's what my adulthood has been boiled down to. A safe air circulator. But swimming? Fuck that, man. I could come up with at least twenty ways I'd rather enjoy myself in situations that don't employ my OCD (I can't stand two things in everyday living...if I happen to get one hand wet, I need to get the other wet as well; if one shoe becomes untied in the rare circumstance that I'm wearing tieable shoes, I have to retie them both). Swimming, in a pool, or a lake, or in my own insanity, just isn't palatable. I'm not a germophobe, and I know most properly-upkept pools are decent places to hang out and enjoy life, but naw homes...I'll chill in the sun some other way. Maybe a sprinkler or a garden hose with a fancy nozzle, but wading and immersion are two things I can definitely say I'm not sinning for lacking. ![]() ![]() All I can say is this man deserves to be thought of as a giant in contemporary poetry. If you can get your hands on a copy of Coke Machine Glow ![]() "As long as the road lacks perspective... As long as we swim, swim, swim... As long as we hold hands in the swiftness..." Lyrics. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() And while we're on the topic of senior pranks, I think the high school for a community I lived in for a long time did a fantastic job... ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Meanwhile, I finished this entry and am now looking at escaping the internet in favor of a humble nap in the now-cooler environment blessed by a fan I won't unfinger myself with in a medicated sleep haze. Use this entry responsibly. Peace, cake-drunk in the middle, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |
![]() What's up you guys? It's week three of the mini-challenges in the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" ![]() ![]() When I joined WDC almost 14 years ago, blogging as we know it today wasn't even a twinkle in your keyboard's eyes. I was just looking for an online home to post some of my poetry and maybe get some feedback...today I can further accomplish that by combining the two genres and perhaps gain some cross-acceptance; if you like my blog, maybe you'll be interested in what else I write, and vice/versa. But I'll admit that I don't use one form within the other nearly as much as I should. Today's topic is prose poetry, which sounds easy but can be slightly more complicated if you're not careful. Personally, my favorite form of writing is more of a free-verse, which lacks a format and is something I used to often mistake as prose because I didn't know any better. I'm not married to meter and rhyme schemes, because I pretty much don't have the patience for counting when I write or revising afterwards. My brain often works too fast for my fingers, and I don't like interrupting the flow of my thoughts by having to substitute words of lesser meaning or value just to fit them in a particular pattern. Maybe that turns some purists off, but it suits me just fine...it's modern, a bit edgier, and if it attracts someone else who might not normally be into poetry because all they're familiar with are the stuffy 19th century works they studied in high school, we should all consider that a win for what we do. That being said, I'd love to someday be able to give myself the wherewithal to bang out a stellar prose poetry blog entry that doesn't seem contrived or sound hokey. On top of being impatient, I'm also self-conscious when I write most of the time...if it sounds too cheesy or loses focus from where I started, I'm more likely to scrap the whole thing rather than push through and see what happens. If I'm wasting too much time coming up with the perfect fit, I find I'm liable to lose the train of thought I had going forward...and therefore the whole piece suffers. I have tried to write a few prose poetry pieces, with minimal success. I think one of the few items worth considering in my port regarding this might be "It's Not It" ![]() ![]() ![]() If I had my way, I wouldn't talk about weather at all. It just happens, and gloating or bitching about it isn't gonna change it (although I do believe that a lot of the severe weather trends we're seeing more of in this day and age are partially a result of man-related negligence past and present, but save your political theory squawking for another time because none of us, I assume, are real scientists and that's not what this response is intended to promote). If you're at all familiar with my particular brand of interned-based complaining in journal form, however, you'll note from time to time I'll voice my absolute disdain for snow and cold weather in general. Everything that comes with the territory living on the east coast between the Great Lakes and the Atlantic Ocean, during the months of October through April. Wind, sleet, hail, snow, single-digit temperatures and way-below-zero wind chills. It's not just because I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (conveniently known as SAD), but because all of that mess in concert is plenty enough to wreck a man's entire constitution. Case in point: last November, my hometown got hit with a vicious storm that dropped 90" inches of snow in some parts over two days (the area was such a mess that Buzzfeed called it "terrifying" ![]() Otherwise, weather doesn't frighten me...but nothing does, if I'm being honest and vulnerable. Probably because I'm awkwardly emotionally dead, and/or too stupid to take the threat of extreme weather seriously. Like, twice in the past week Cortland County (where I live now) has had tornado warnings. I understand that weather services have certain guidelines that require them to issue these threats to be more on the safe side, and in the end all that happened was a lot of rain, but I'm not one to panic in these situations because if my number's up, my number's up and no amount of preparation or resilience is gonna counter that. I've made peace with that. And besides, I'm just as prone to heatstroke now after getting sun poisoning so severe once that my entire torso turned purple. No joke. It can be 30 degrees out in the middle of winter and if I'm standing in otherwise bright, sunny conditions for too long, it negatively affects me. You wanna know what I consider ideal conditions? For my money, it's a balmy, beautiful sunshower ![]() ![]() Good question...to know me and to know my blog is almost like knowing two separate people. Hear me through, don't interrupt, and let me do some 'splainin'. I like to write. It makes me happy, and I can portray that in various fashions...through joy, humor, sarcasm, etc. If you perceive me to be happy, well, that's just that: your perception, based on my words. I won't put up much of a fight with that. But personally? I'm a thinker; more specifically, a brooder. The devil's advocate. The three sides to every story. I'm a realist and a cynic. I've been seeing a therapist for over two years, and so far I've learned that I'm a represser, with an all-or-nothing mindset and determination. I have trust issues based on that, and I'm skeptical of damn near everything until I see valid, concrete proof. I can hold a decades-long grudge, especially if my convictions have deep-rooted meaning. To overturn that would require arduous mental labor on the part of someone who's on the wrong side of my internal belief system. Conversely, if you're someone or something I believe in, I'm 150% behind you and will defend you like a pit bull. When I've got your back, you don't have to question my support. It is for life, or until you cross me...and should you, good luck getting me to turn back to you on your terms. I believe firmly on being in control of myself in most situations, and when I'm not I'm likely to run, avoid, and/or act in ways to recoup anything I might have lost in myself along the journey. Simply put...you want to be on my side, because although I don't often do it nor like to, I can tear you apart. But please don't get that confused with the knowledge of who I am and want to be. While I can start off thinking the worst of people or situations, once I've cleaned out misconceptions I'm the easiest person to get along with. I hate confrontation (another therapy breakthrough...I'm also an avoider in many ways). I'll fight for myself for as long as I see fit that I can make a difference, but I won't waste breath or steps on trying to change the mind of someone who stubbornly refuses to see me for who I am and can be in a positive light. And I think I might've veered a little off topic (but you'll have that with me sometimes...it's part of my package). Happiness is often fleeting...resentment lingers. I laugh when people say "Search and you shall find..." because I've found that it just isn't that simple. I've seen enough to know that I've seen too much. Crushed down and faded. That could describe a multitude of my experiences in life. I've had the highest of highs, and I've been through the lowest of lows...all of the hyperbolic attributes your imagination can come up with, and then some. I don't want to be in a good or bad place; if you believe in anything you know neither lasts forever and maybe the safest place is somewhere in the big middle of nowhere. "If I get bored you'll see...me wearing out my face. You know it isn't easy filling up that space." Lyrics. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Double ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() I think that's all I have for you guys today...which is more than I can say for yesterday when I felt lightheaded and ambivalent and useless. Hope you feel better, or at least respondent. Peace, it makes me think it's dirty, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |
![]() Hey everyone...welcome back to the final day of the Comedy Roundtable adventure week, as conceived as part of June's mini-challenges in the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" ![]() ![]() Now, as I've mentioned a few times recently, I'm a fan of many types of comedy (and of laughter in general), but I gotta admit...I think Joel might've stumped me on this prompt. Even the example ![]() Sure, I've had lots of good times, and great times, and fun/funny times...but nothing sticks out. And I'm someone who likes to think he can find humor in practically anything. The things I can remember didn't happen on a Friday. At least I don't believe they did. But I have a theory as to why lots of cool things could potentially happen on the day before Saturday. There are two things about Friday that I think, for a majority of adults, point to it being the background cause of chicanery: 1) it's a payday; and 2) it's the start of the weekend, so there's no school or work (apologies to everyone that neither of these instances is true for). More money and the opportunity to sleep in, for some, is a recipe for allz teh good tymez. I can respect people that take their playtime seriously...but what I can't respect are the people that make a point every week of reminding you, because of the nature of their work, that they can't enjoy the weekend. And I can say that because I've worked my fair share of weekends, but that's what I signed up for. To bitch about it would make me sound like an a-hole, in my opinion (which, in turn, makes those people sound like a-holes). The only people who are worse? The ones that have, for example, every Tuesday and Wednesday off, and will go out of their way in conversation to work in whatever their plans are for those days, because "that's my weekend". No. No that's not "your weekend". Those are your days off. Your weekend is the same as mine, and it's the same as the person standing on the exact opposite side of the world as you: Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday. You're not Hallmark; you don't get to decide where certain days should fall on the calendar or make up holidays. And here's where I realize, a paragraph or two late, that I've fallen completely off topic. It was fun while it lasted. I know I've had a lot of fun Fridays. I had a lot of fun other days too, but Fridays, maybe more than any other day. It's when you first get to let loose after five straight days of the monotonies of life dragging you through the motions. By Saturday the only thing you should feel like doing is attempting to relive Friday, and on Sunday you should hurt so good that recovery mode consists of a 14-hour Netflix marathon and Chinese takeout (bonus points if it's delivered; triple bonus points if you answer the door in underwear or less). Your weekend should always be so awesome that by bedtime Sunday night you're craving some semblance of normalcy...even if that normalcy means putting up with your shithead boss while the guy in the cubicle next to you busts rancid hard-boiled egg farts every fifteen minutes. And since I've pretty much blown off the actual prompt, I'm gonna wrap this up with a little bit of life advice: Always try to incorporate a small part of the weekend into your everyday routine...you'll live longer, sleep better, and feel great. For 5-15 minutes a day (give or take), the benefits are worth it. Little things, like dancing in place to a song in your head, making time in the morning for some "personal pleasure", or just drinking on the job can give you seven full days of the satisfaction you normally get in two. Try it now; thank me later. ![]() ![]() I feel like the entries I've written so far this month have been as good as anything I've ever done since I began blogging. Until today. And it's not that I think these prompts suck (they don't), or that I'm unmotivated...I just don't have anything for 'em. That's why my response to this prompt is going to be simple and short. There are two basic powers in this world- the two most powerful powers of all. I feel like a friend and an outcast at times to both of them. I know their strengths and their weaknesses, much like my own. But above all, there can only be one thing to unite them, and I can summon it in 30 minutes or less. ![]() Huh...would you believe that I don't think I've ever read anything by Hemingway? Luckily, this prompt is long enough to ensure that I won't go 0-for-3 today, even if this last part isn't that interesting. Personally, I enjoy talking about writing...as long as it's not my own. Maybe it's because I'm the first one who sees it in front of me, and I know where it originates from, or I'd just rather the attention go somewhere else...I don't know. Unfortunately, I don't have any superstitions when it comes to writing. I have a few routines- some I've had for years, and some I've only recently been practicing- but I'm not a believer in "If x, then y = jinxed" or some shit. Either people read this and like it, or don't like it, or don't read it...the alignment of the stars isn't gonna matter one bit in terms of my successes or failures. Besides, Hemingway was a bit unhinged, wasn't he? I'd totally love what he said about not talking about writing if he substituted "caterpillars" for "butterflies" and if hawks didn't have feathers, and he spouted off about it while riding a unicorn topless over NYC with a cigar in one hand and an old Motorola brick cell phone in the other, talking gardening tips with Saddam Hussein. Paragraphs like that last one are why I need to be in the t-shirt designing business. I've pretty much trainwrecked this entry all the way around anyway, so why not just add in one of Canada's greatest contributions to the early 1980's as well? Not like I'm hurtin' anything... ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Well, now that I've successfully ruined all that you've come to know about me and writing prompt-based blog entries, you should probably go spend the rest of your weekend volunteering for a charity or feeding the homeless or camping out in front of a church altar until it's time for you to go back to work on Monday. Peace, get it right, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |
![]() Good afternoon y'all! It's Thursday...Day 4 of Comedy Roundtable Week in the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" ![]() I love satire...plain and simple. Sites like The Onion ![]() First though, I'll need some source material....Elon Musk's biggest challenge yet: Recharging Buffalo, NY ![]() Rich Man Wants To Turn Dead City Into Solar Gold BUFFALO, NY- Elon Musk, a wealthy inventor and slightly "touched" entrepreneur, has decided to hold off on building his space rocket...his sights are set on a more terrestrial vision: getting the United States to compete on a global level in the burgeoning solar panel market. And he's chosen the most curious of locales to attempt this feat: snowy and often sunless Buffalo, NY. Buffalo, once the nation's fourth-largest city because of its steel mills and proximity to snowier Canada, hasn't been visited by tourists since 1986...now the longest such streak in the US after President Obama mistakenly stopped in St. Louis for a hot dog and a smoke outside the famed Arch last summer. Residents are still digging out from a massive snowstorm that dropped 90" of snow in some areas over two days in November of 2014, and businesses have been slow to recover...the ones that have tried to reopen, that is. But Musk is undeterred. Like an artist staring at a blank canvas, he sees the closed and decaying steel mills that populate South Buffalo as the starting point for a race against China, to see who can churn out devices that will harness the sun's mythical power. One can only hope that someday we'll be able to power cars, light up entire neighborhoods, and reverse the Earth's orbit with this fancy technology...all with the important "Made In The USA" sticker on the back. The plan is for production to start in 2017, which will employ the approximately 3,000 people left in the city who aren't professional athletes or strippers. Mayor Byron Brown is banking on Musk's dream to hopefully land himself another term in office, making the city's first African-American mayor the longest tenured African-American mayor in Buffalo's racist history. "We're on the precipice of something historic here," Brown said at his news conference, "and also, some guy with an electric car needs to borrow a garage with an outlet while he tries to redevelop our brownfields, which were named after me. Better cross that one off my bucket list." Brown also said the state's investment in the Western New York area, forgotten for years and dismissed as part of "Southern Canada" by former governors Eliot Spitzer and David Paterson ![]() Musk, at press time, was unavailable for comment...although he did let us listen to the motor humming in his battery-powered Tesla, and it sounds really killer. The Associated Press declined to contribute to this report, and has taken out a restraining order against myself and my staff...please, just look at my resumé! I've sent you an updated copy each month for the last three years, so I know you had to have seen it! ![]() Oui oui! ![]() ![]() I overheard her a bit during the tasting presentation...she does know a little of my language, and there's nothin' sexier than a beautiful foreign woman speaking broken English. I better make some eye contact and get her attention before one of these limp baguettes makes a play on her and ruins the best evening she doesn't know she's about to have. And that's about all I can say...if you can't figure out what's about to happen next, you'll probably never know ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() This is absolutely fascinating. I'm a free-thinker. I tend to not play along well with authority, and I'm, well, at times I can be pretty morally bankrupt. I'm not sure if what I'm about to get into here will satisfy the prompt, but whatever. My blog, your suggested topic, my rules...dig? I don't have a problem doing what I'm told as long as it's reasonable and within certain parameters of what's right and expected, but I also don't have a problem telling someone I won't do something if I feel it's wrong, pointless, or a waste of time. Maybe that's why in almost every job I've had I aspired to be the boss, and/or eventually took on a leadership position. Even though you're still putting up with someone else's bullshit, it's a different sort of bullshit...but at least you're paid a little more for it, and if you play your cards right the hours become a little more favorable. That part, I can confidently say, was one of my strong points with upper-management types...I did what I was supposed to do, occasionally went above and beyond, and was almost always compensated accordingly. But I've also had to do the dirty work. I've had to fire people I thought were good, competent employees (because the people above me hated firing people as much as I did). I've had to discipline staff members I really liked. I don't care for conflict and I don't like angering or disappointing people. I've taken the bullet for the sake of delivering it to someone else, which sucks. But ya know what? Better someone else's head on the chopping block than mine. Maybe I'm stubborn and selfish, but there's nothing wrong with being driven and getting after whatever it is you want...whether it's a material item, or motivating someone else for something, or just trying to find whatever you're looking for in life. Know your limits and convictions...what's acceptable and what's not. Saying no is definitely ok, but don't be afraid to say yes and take care of yourself as well whenever applicable. "Honesty or mystery? Tell me I'm not scared anymore. I got no secret purpose, I don't seem obvious do I?" Lyrics. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Well, I think you and I have both been through enough today, and I for one feel a little bit better than when I started this day out, as well as when I began fingerblasting my tablet. If you feel even a tenth of the therapeutic value from reading this as I think I've gained from exercising my right to freely speak, then I can say I did alright. Peace, the DJ never has it, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |
![]() 'Sup y'all? We're on Day 3 of our Comedy week in the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" ![]() It's hard to say who the funniest person in my family could be. There aren't a whole lot of people left on my mom's side, and I don't even remember who I know anymore on my dad's side...is this one of those instances where it's ok to vote for yourself? Because outside of a couple of cousins on stepmom's side, there's a legit possibility out of everyone I could name you would probably choose me. And I'm not just sayin' that 'cuz I know the guy who writes this nonsense. The trouble with picking someone is that "funny" is kind of a generic, catch-all statement that could mean different things to different people. My mom's got a pretty good sense of humor. My brother is always posting funny shit on Facebook. And I always had a good time with my half-brother, goofin' off and havin' a lot of fun (occasionally at the expense of others...shhhh). Me? I'm like the littlest best parts of all of that...no better and no worse (I don't want you guys thinkin' I'm sittin' over here all full of myself). I'm the one who is probably the least serious, to a fault. At times when everyone's quiet/sad/respectful, I'm plotting a way to run my underwear up a flagpole. When everyone's working hard and doing a good job, there's me, schemin' a silly prank. I break monotony. I've learned to accept this about myself. But that's not to say everyone I know has a giant stick up their asses; far from it. They're small sticks actually, made in such a way to minimize discomfort. I think we've acquired them at birth, right after we've been spanked hard enough by the doctor to get a response. See...that's another thing you didn't know about Obamacare. I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I've been fortunate most of my life to be around people who could laugh, joke around, know when they were in on the joke, and know when they were the butt of the joke. And as much as I might complain about life once in awhile, that's one thing I couldn't imagine having any other way. ![]() Hell yeah I agree! I do so on the basis of one simple idiom: The squeaky wheel always gets the grease. Sure, your history book is littered with all sorts of do-gooders who wore proper dresses and knotted their hair in buns so tight they could snare a hummingbird...but there are also lots of badass chicks we have plenty to be thankful for as well. (Here's where I turn to the internet to do the work for me, because I'm terrible at remembering this stuff.) I started Googling "badass", and the second autofilled selection was "women in history"...which is amazing because I don't believe I ever once Googled "badass" anything before. And the first site that came up was 55 Badass Women Who Changed History Forever ![]() But anyway, regarding the actual prompt, yeah, the "safe" choices- the ones who look good for the cameras- are often pegged as the face of whatever movement they're in front of...but real history is made by the women who speak up, take chances, and get demand results. Who would you rather see your little daughter eye as a role model, Betty Crocker or Rosa Parks? If you even have to think about it... ![]() ![]() My general disdain for society and my overall lack of trust in humanity pretty much means my lips are zipped for the most part...and when they're not, you can bet your last dollar they're not confessin' much, fo' sho'. I'll speak out against something if necessary. I'll make my opinion be known when asked. But I'm of the belief that a person is wiser when they listen...I think the old adage goes something like "Be quiet and let everyone think you're an asshole, or say something and prove them right." I may have taken a few liberties with that quote, but if I spend that much more time on Google tonight I'll never finish this entry. There's plenty to be said about a good amount of solid quiet. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Alright you people...I've had just about enough of you for one day. Try and keep the noise down, and last one out please kill the lights. Peace, we need a little hope, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |