ho, ho, hooooly shit

i hope when i'm sixty i don't resent 25-year-old me for spending a friday night at home, cooking spaghetti, and watching the polar express.

have a politically correct december 25th holiday

i recently read that department store santas in australia are being asked not to say "ho, ho, ho" anymore, because it could be found offensive by women. retarded.

today i read that the u.s. surgeon general is also picking a fight with santa. what's the issue now? santa is a fatty, and apparently that makes him a terrible role model for kids. i'm sad.

night driving

from an interview with cory murchy of minus the bear...

Akron/Family, "Meek Warrior"

CM: Ah, this is good. This is one of those great albums to listen to when you're driving around at night. I'm not totally familiar with it; I just put it on every once in a while in the background, but I'm always floored by it.

AVC: What are some other good night-driving albums?

CM: One of my favorites, period, is Perfect From Now On by Built To Spill. That's the perfect driving-at-night music, or make-out music, or go-to-sleep music. [Laughs.] It fills many vague, wonderful voids.

i really hate snoop dogg

but, holy fuckface, he might have redeemed himself...

career decisions

i should've been a hitman. i doubt hitmen ever have to put together powerpoint decks.

we're too young

i find people watching to be an interesting past time, as i stated in an earlier blog entry. in a matter of seconds, just from looking at a person's face, or clothing, or actions, my mind creates a whole lifeline for people i've never met before. where did they grow up? do they have any brothers or sisters? do they hate their job? what makes them happy? do they love the cubs? instantly i find something in common with these people, even if this common bond is completely fabricated.

sometimes i'm lucky enough to see people who i think look like much older versions of people i know. this morning, on the way to school, i passed by a woman in her 50's. her hair was wild. she had little black glasses, and a loud jacket. i smiled as i immediately thought of kasey foster - only 25 years older.

virginia is for lovers, south carolina is...

for badasses. peep this motherfucker:

CAMDEN, SC – A man whose hand got caught in a corn harvester cut off his own arm with a pocket knife after the machine started a brush fire.

"I just told myself, 'I'm not going to die here,'" Sampson Parker said Monday on NBC's "Today Show."

"I just kept fighting, kept praying. And then when I did get loose, I jumped up running, I had blood squirting from my arm," he said of the September incident. "It was pretty scary there for a while."

Parker, a construction supervisor in Kershaw County about 20 miles east of Columbia, farms as a hobby. When he tried to remove a cornstalk stuck in the rusty harvester, his hand became stuck.

"I went up with my hand, and the roller that takes the shucks off the corn had grabbed the glove and pulled my hand into the rollers," he told WIS-TV in Columbia.

Parker called for help, but no one was around.

After about 90 minutes, his hand went numb. He jammed a rod into the machine and started cutting away his fingers, but the rod and machine sparked a fire. He used his free hand to fight the fire but knew he was in even more trouble.

"My skin was melting," he said. "Like melting plastic."

It was then that he cut off his arm to free himself.

"I could feel the nerves as I was cutting my arm off," he recalled.

Parker ran to his truck and drove to the front of his home about the time firefighter Doug Spinks passed by. Spinks wrapped Parker's arm and called for help.

Parker said he is doing fine now and has tried to put the ordeal behind him.

"It really wasn't the corn picker's fault. It was my fault. It was just a mistake I made," he said.

Parker did not immediately return a telephone message Monday from The Associated Press.

"holy fucking shit," responded richmond student patrick lorentz.

night driving almost makes global warming worth it

i can't help it. i love jumping in the car late at night, and blasting down the highway. the windows down. the stereo up. everything in the world matters less when it's late and i'm on the road.

for my senior prom i borrowed a friend's convertible – partially to impress my date, partially because convertibles are one of god's greatest creations. we went to the dance with the top up, because my date had spent so much time on her hair (angry). afterwards we changed clothes, and with my date's permission, i cranked the top down (the top i'm referring to being the car's top, not my date's top... my date's top got cranked down later, but that's a story for 'round the campfire).

so we tore off down the road, heading towards the beach. the road connecting the highway to the beach is a long and narrow two-lane road, with towering trees lining either side which create a sort of tunnel over the roadway. a small strip of stars was visible where the two sides of trees parted. we didn't talk on that drive; i think we were both too busy enjoying the scenery.

7 years later i still consider that to be my favorite night drives.

triple toe loop

so what if i just got caught watching male figure skating? tell me that it's not the most ridiculous thing in the whole wide world. i found it to be on par with passing a bad car accident on the side of the highway – you really want to look away, but... IS THAT BLOOD? I THINK I JUST SAW BLOOD! WOW! THAT CAR GOT FUCKED UP DUDE DUDE DUDE LOOK AT THAT! HOLY SHIT!

o.j. simpson's got a girlfriend

let me repeat that. o.j. "i murdered my ex-wife, and her boyfriend, with a shovel" simpson has a girlfriend. o.j. "i won the heisman, starred in one of the best films of all time (the naked gun), then decided i was going to rob a hotel of some sports memorabilia" has found someone. i'm going to drink myself retarded tomorrow night.

review of the new film "hitman"

i think it was written and directed by a 16 year-old boy.

soundtrack:
butane variations – goldie hawn

25 going on 5

to my relatives, i am still that 5 year-old kid standing out on my grandmother's back porch, in his pajamas, singing "highway to the dangerzone".

today, i'm 20 years older than that version of me. i'm 4 feet taller. i have a lot more facial hair. i can drive. i've worked real jobs. i've kissed girls. i've had my heart broken. i've travelled through europe. i've been in fights. i've seen a person die right in front of me. i've graduated college. i've voted in 2 presidential elections. still, everytime i see my aunts and uncles, they remind me of a time that i don't remember, when i was much cuter, and dressed less shittily.

maybe they harken back to 5 year-old me because those memories remind them of a better time in their own lives. or maybe they don't think i've matured much in 20 years because i showed up to thanksgiving supper with a cap gun, and spoke to my cousin and roommate through walkie talkies all afternoon.

soundtrack:
the violent femmes – american music

growing up is the worst

last night, while i was at home, i got to hang out with my best friend from high school, will. i can always count on him for two things: 1) he keeps me grounded, regardless of where my ego starts to take me; and 2) he always reminds me of how fragile life is. you see, will's dad fought in the first gulf war with the u.s. army rangers, and now suffers from a debilitating case of gulf war syndrome. at just around 50 years old, will's dad can no longer hear, cannot walk on his own, and cannot perform basic human functions without great aid. when i first met him, will's dad was a solid ex-military specimen, with a vise-like grip. one month ago he was placed in an assisted living facility. his condition had taken its toll, not only his body, but also on the bodies and minds of his family.

we sat on will's couch, watching a television show packed full of the greatest home video follies, lazing away the night. the fragility of our lives never once crossed our minds. then came a montage of elderly people stumbling, tripping, slipping, and falling, all to the beat of some random song. the audience roared with laughter, while an overwhelming sense of guilt hit me. before i know it, i'll wake up at 50, and wonder where the fuck my life went. luckily i'll be able to look back at those hours spent in front of the tv, or spent behind a desk, or spent thinking about people who don't give a shit about me, or spent complaining. at least i'll have those memories.

soundtrack
snow patrol - somewhere a clock is ticking

i'm a classy fellow

according to my cousin's blog, on august 2, 2005 i said, "i'm thinking about getting a girl pregnant so i'll have someone to hang out with." god damn i am classy.

soundtrack
the frames - happy

it's a treacherous road with a desolated view

the weather's overcast. there's a chill in the air. fall is here; winter is right around the corner. you know what this means? it means you can officially listen to depressing music and not be ostracized by your friends, colleagues, fantasy football league, or alcoholics anonymous chapter. if you're not already a sad music connoisseur, might i suggest the following songs to get you in the mood...

golden age, beck


fade into you, mazzy star


come pick me up, ryan adams


place to be, nick drake


fuck family. fuck turkey and stuffing. fuck football, ice skating, changing leaves, holiday decorations, caroling, luminaries, santa and dreidels. fall and winter are about listening to depressing music, feeling mopey, and seeing your breath when you're walking outside. enjoy the tunes.

matt damon = sexiest man alive?

ah horseshit! that's what i say. everyone knows that [until he kicks the bucket] robert redford will be the sexiest man alive. i mean, fuckin' look at those baby blues. one more piece of libelous reporting from your friends at people magazine.

ohhhh donna

i submit that the greatest scene in the history of american cinema comes from the 1987 ritchie valens biopic, la bamba. the scene i'm referring to comes at the very end of the film, right after ritchie, buddy holly and the big bopper buy the farm in a plane crash. ritchie's half brother, bob, stands on a bridge mourning his loss; his slow-motion memories of racing up a hill with his brother flash across the screen. santo and johnny's sleepwalk plays in the background. just as they reach the crest of the hill, the camera cuts to bob, alone the bridge, letting out a heart-wrenching "rittttchhhhhhieeeeee!"

i dare you to watch that film and not tear up.

happy birthday, zoë bell

no, not that one. i think that zoë's birthday is in may. i'm talking about the zoë stuntwoman from quentin tarantino's movies. the big 2-9. i can't lie – i have a huge crush.

there goes the fear again

if i died today, i can't help but think that i'd look back with regret...

• i never learned to play the pedal steel guitar
• i never made, and kept, a new years resolution
• i have a stack of half-read books as tall as me
• i never made it to japan, new zealand, or russia
• i never even attempted to hike the entire appalachian trail
• i never mailed that letter i wrote to kurt vonnegut before he died

a heart just can't contain all of that empty space

guilty pleasures - i've got a couple. my favorite? people watching.

since high school i've loved heading out into public, finding a seat near a group of people, and observing (pronounced jud-ging) total strangers' interactions. early in my people watching career, i didn't head too far out of my comfort zone to find good people watching environments. i wish i had.

the airport is a people watcher's dream spot. grab a seat, pop on your headphones, and enjoy the show.

i live on a chain

one of my more annoying qualities is that i tend to listen to the same song over and over again for hours, even days, on end. sometimes i do it as an attempt to get songs un-stuck from my brain. other times i do it because a certain song will conjure up images, thoughts and feelings from another time, or another place. for the last week it's been this song:

the worst of all fears is the fear of living

"it is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. the credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat."

"citizenship in a republic,"
speech at the sorbonne, paris, april 23, 1910

once i knew how to talk to you

we are this low

racecaracecaracecar

i don't understand why everything always boils down to race. work trumps skin color. creativity trumps skin color. ideas trump skin color. good ideas trump everything.

your rocky spine

I was lost in the lakes
And the shape that your body makes
That your body makes

And the mountains said I could find you here
They whisper the snow and the leaves in my ear
I traced my finger along your trails
Your body was the map
I was lost in there

Floating over your rocky spine
The glaciers made you and now you're mine

I was moving across your frozen veneer
The sky was dark
But you were clear
Could you feel my footsteps?
And would you shatter, would you shatter?
Would you?

Your soft fingers between my claws
Like purity against resolve
I could tell then there that we were formed from the clay
And came from the rocks for earth to display

They told me to be careful up there
Where the wind rages through your hair

five and alive

call me a hypocrite.