Thanks for the opportunity to write and to be read, see you around campus.
Jeremiah (chris)
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
With Eyes Widened #28
Suzie laid down her pack of smokes and looked up just in time to see the masked man walk in the door. Her first thought was to scream but as the cigarette fall from her mouth she second-guessed herself and just continued to watch his every move. It was thirty feet from the door to the bar and he wasted no time getting there. She could not hear the conversation between the assailant and the barkeep but it was a heated exchange. No one else in the bar had seemed to notice all the commotion, all their attention was fixed on the hockey game, you will have that this far into the Canadian north. This bar is almost on the other side of the Artic circle and on most days can not be seen from the road.
The bartender must have recognized the man because it had been at least one minute and he has not even started to walk towards the register yet. What could he be demanding? What was his intention? She dropped her eyes just long enough to fumble for the dropped smoke and to light it. Her eyes readjusted to the scene playing out before her through a thick cloud of smoke and flashing beer lights in the window. Out of nowhere a man came running across the bar and tackled the masked man. Suzie choked on a sip of Dwars as her eyes widened, she felt her heart stop and heard a gun shot crack out. The two men on the floor had not stood up yet. All of the patrons were looking around trying to find the cause of the sound but there was a half wall around the bar and no one except her and the bartender knew exactly what was going on. After what felt like an entirety a man stood up from behind the bar but she did not know which man it was. As soon as the man stood up the bar erupted into a round of applause and everyone went back to watching the game. Could she have dosed off and imaged the whole thing? Did some thing fall and wake her up, was that she heard and thought was a gun shot?
In the ash trey sat a half smoked cigarette with a half-inch of ash on the end of it. Next to that was her empty glass that she had been drinking Dwars out of all night. Did she really just down the last of it and witness all of this, or did she just dose off. If anything she knew that she needed another drink so she jumped the one cigarette of the other and went to the bar. Since there was only the one bartender she had to what behind seven or eight hockey fans that had beaten her to the bar. She looked visible shaken, her brow was all a glow, she could not keep her hands still, and the cigarette in her mouth was shaking. After the hockey fans got their drinks and left, it was just her, the bartender, and one of the two men. Her voice cracked as she said "another Dwars" just enough to make the barkeeper ask her "what mam", again she said "another Dwars Please" this stuck her as odd, that she had just said please to a man that might have a hand in a murder just minutes before. When the bartender came back with her drink she add "can I look at a phonebook for a moment" hoping that the man would have to step over the body as he went to the other end of the bar to get the phonebook from next to the wall hanging phone. She had never been in this bar before but the had noticed when she came in that the bar still had a corded rotary phone that was the same one where grandmother had had years before.
For the next hour she stayed next to the bar trying to notice if the bartender or the other man who was now sitting at the other end of the bar, would look down at the body in the floor, if there was even one there. She could not tell by the mens' mannerisms if her suspicions were true. By this time the Dwars was taking effect on her. She felt her head getting heavy, only if she was not in this wheelchair she could see over the bar and tell if there really was a man dead behind the bar.
The bartender must have recognized the man because it had been at least one minute and he has not even started to walk towards the register yet. What could he be demanding? What was his intention? She dropped her eyes just long enough to fumble for the dropped smoke and to light it. Her eyes readjusted to the scene playing out before her through a thick cloud of smoke and flashing beer lights in the window. Out of nowhere a man came running across the bar and tackled the masked man. Suzie choked on a sip of Dwars as her eyes widened, she felt her heart stop and heard a gun shot crack out. The two men on the floor had not stood up yet. All of the patrons were looking around trying to find the cause of the sound but there was a half wall around the bar and no one except her and the bartender knew exactly what was going on. After what felt like an entirety a man stood up from behind the bar but she did not know which man it was. As soon as the man stood up the bar erupted into a round of applause and everyone went back to watching the game. Could she have dosed off and imaged the whole thing? Did some thing fall and wake her up, was that she heard and thought was a gun shot?
In the ash trey sat a half smoked cigarette with a half-inch of ash on the end of it. Next to that was her empty glass that she had been drinking Dwars out of all night. Did she really just down the last of it and witness all of this, or did she just dose off. If anything she knew that she needed another drink so she jumped the one cigarette of the other and went to the bar. Since there was only the one bartender she had to what behind seven or eight hockey fans that had beaten her to the bar. She looked visible shaken, her brow was all a glow, she could not keep her hands still, and the cigarette in her mouth was shaking. After the hockey fans got their drinks and left, it was just her, the bartender, and one of the two men. Her voice cracked as she said "another Dwars" just enough to make the barkeeper ask her "what mam", again she said "another Dwars Please" this stuck her as odd, that she had just said please to a man that might have a hand in a murder just minutes before. When the bartender came back with her drink she add "can I look at a phonebook for a moment" hoping that the man would have to step over the body as he went to the other end of the bar to get the phonebook from next to the wall hanging phone. She had never been in this bar before but the had noticed when she came in that the bar still had a corded rotary phone that was the same one where grandmother had had years before.
For the next hour she stayed next to the bar trying to notice if the bartender or the other man who was now sitting at the other end of the bar, would look down at the body in the floor, if there was even one there. She could not tell by the mens' mannerisms if her suspicions were true. By this time the Dwars was taking effect on her. She felt her head getting heavy, only if she was not in this wheelchair she could see over the bar and tell if there really was a man dead behind the bar.
A Rhetorical Question #27
a rhetorical question
The last time anyone asked me the question "Where will you be in five years" I was living in Palm Beach Gardens Florida with my brother. The question was posed by my brother live-in girlfriend, which sounds funny because she is the Print Ad Executive for Cingular. She is in control, be it maybe a small part, over all the paper ads in newspapers and magazines for the country, so it sounds odd referring to her as a live-in girlfriend and not an executive. My brother worked his way from an installer (then their were car phones) in Evansville, to being over Henderson, Evansville, and Owensboro. Then Cingular gave him Louisville, Lexington, and Cincinnati after a few years there he moved to the National headquarters in Atlanta. He was just an office guy then and had no territory to cover, then I guess, in about 2002 they gave him all the stores in Florida. After a few more years he turned in his resignation because he was going to start a website that sells cell phones, satellite radios and electronics and that would have been a conflict of interest. In 2005, that would have been his second Christmas season, I went down to help manage his website. That initialed all the web chats, phone calls, taking credit card numbers, orders and keeping the web page up and current. The website is Skybox-usa.com, ask me and I will give you a coupon code.
When she asked me that question my brother told her that it was an inappropriate question and is usually is used as a rhetorical question and not a genuine question. Like a genie out of the bottle, I had no other choice then to answer her. After a moment I came up with the perfect response, one that was relevant to my situation (living in my brothers house at Christmas time) I said "In five years it would be nice if the two of you were staying in my spare bedroom at Christmas time".
As for this time, my response will be longer and less to the point. In five years I will still not have gotten my masters but what I most of all hope to have gotten, by then, is the woman of my dreams. Some lady that does not sing along to public radio or fall for all the trends and fads. What do I want out of a woman? Well I can say I do want a woman whom has room to grow as a woman and does not think she knows everything. I would also be nice to find a girl that is my age but has been in a coma since she was like twelve. Most woman my age have "lived" far to much for their own good (or my own good) and I would like to think that there are still a few that have "lived" relatively little. My problem is that I have known some really good women and I look for their qualities in other woman, but that always leaves me wanting more out of them then they have or have to offer. I cannot put up with much dumbness and cannot tolerate any lousiness.
As for ten years from now all I want is to be building my dream house. I see all these two and three hundred thousand dollar houses going up and what do they spent on their landscaping a hundred dollars, two hundred dollars. They plant one Bradford pear, one dogwood, and some reflectors at the end of the drive and call it done. This really erks me. As for the yard of my dreams it would be at least ten acres. My mother has almost thirteen and we keep it all mowed and there are gardens everywhere. She has got to have three thousand flowering plants and tree in eighty verities. I have grown so accustom this way of life, the country way of life.
Another thing with all the new houses I see being built is that there is never enough windows. They will have some in the front but then you look at the sides there are like one window one side and two on the other. I will pay for windows and if I cannot afford them I will have the blueprints tweaked to allow for the addition of extra windows in the future. One thing that I hate is how people build houses that are exact right angles to the road, even if it put their house directly in front of their neighbors’ house. Come on, kick your house a little sideways, I dare you. It would be way cool to build a house with a flat roof. That would give you so much more room to entertain or garden or just sit out on the roof and lounge. I like how Spanish houses, in Spain or Mexico, have a courtyard in the middle of a house and a large double door leading in to the courtyard. I find it cool how some houses are not one solid whole house. There are different wings, one wing that has the kitchen, a living room, and a dining room. Another wing would have a few bedrooms, a parlor, and some common space and then a separate master bedroom wing. It would be so cool to make as much noise as you want and not worry about can the kids hear or did the in-laws hear that. All I want out of life is a nice yard, a nicer house, the nicest lady on the face of the earth and a bathroom you could live in. I would sell my soul for a really nice bathroom
The last time anyone asked me the question "Where will you be in five years" I was living in Palm Beach Gardens Florida with my brother. The question was posed by my brother live-in girlfriend, which sounds funny because she is the Print Ad Executive for Cingular. She is in control, be it maybe a small part, over all the paper ads in newspapers and magazines for the country, so it sounds odd referring to her as a live-in girlfriend and not an executive. My brother worked his way from an installer (then their were car phones) in Evansville, to being over Henderson, Evansville, and Owensboro. Then Cingular gave him Louisville, Lexington, and Cincinnati after a few years there he moved to the National headquarters in Atlanta. He was just an office guy then and had no territory to cover, then I guess, in about 2002 they gave him all the stores in Florida. After a few more years he turned in his resignation because he was going to start a website that sells cell phones, satellite radios and electronics and that would have been a conflict of interest. In 2005, that would have been his second Christmas season, I went down to help manage his website. That initialed all the web chats, phone calls, taking credit card numbers, orders and keeping the web page up and current. The website is Skybox-usa.com, ask me and I will give you a coupon code.
When she asked me that question my brother told her that it was an inappropriate question and is usually is used as a rhetorical question and not a genuine question. Like a genie out of the bottle, I had no other choice then to answer her. After a moment I came up with the perfect response, one that was relevant to my situation (living in my brothers house at Christmas time) I said "In five years it would be nice if the two of you were staying in my spare bedroom at Christmas time".
As for this time, my response will be longer and less to the point. In five years I will still not have gotten my masters but what I most of all hope to have gotten, by then, is the woman of my dreams. Some lady that does not sing along to public radio or fall for all the trends and fads. What do I want out of a woman? Well I can say I do want a woman whom has room to grow as a woman and does not think she knows everything. I would also be nice to find a girl that is my age but has been in a coma since she was like twelve. Most woman my age have "lived" far to much for their own good (or my own good) and I would like to think that there are still a few that have "lived" relatively little. My problem is that I have known some really good women and I look for their qualities in other woman, but that always leaves me wanting more out of them then they have or have to offer. I cannot put up with much dumbness and cannot tolerate any lousiness.
As for ten years from now all I want is to be building my dream house. I see all these two and three hundred thousand dollar houses going up and what do they spent on their landscaping a hundred dollars, two hundred dollars. They plant one Bradford pear, one dogwood, and some reflectors at the end of the drive and call it done. This really erks me. As for the yard of my dreams it would be at least ten acres. My mother has almost thirteen and we keep it all mowed and there are gardens everywhere. She has got to have three thousand flowering plants and tree in eighty verities. I have grown so accustom this way of life, the country way of life.
Another thing with all the new houses I see being built is that there is never enough windows. They will have some in the front but then you look at the sides there are like one window one side and two on the other. I will pay for windows and if I cannot afford them I will have the blueprints tweaked to allow for the addition of extra windows in the future. One thing that I hate is how people build houses that are exact right angles to the road, even if it put their house directly in front of their neighbors’ house. Come on, kick your house a little sideways, I dare you. It would be way cool to build a house with a flat roof. That would give you so much more room to entertain or garden or just sit out on the roof and lounge. I like how Spanish houses, in Spain or Mexico, have a courtyard in the middle of a house and a large double door leading in to the courtyard. I find it cool how some houses are not one solid whole house. There are different wings, one wing that has the kitchen, a living room, and a dining room. Another wing would have a few bedrooms, a parlor, and some common space and then a separate master bedroom wing. It would be so cool to make as much noise as you want and not worry about can the kids hear or did the in-laws hear that. All I want out of life is a nice yard, a nicer house, the nicest lady on the face of the earth and a bathroom you could live in. I would sell my soul for a really nice bathroom
Post-Anit-Counter #25
I have been a skateboarder for a decade as long as I growing my hair, playing guitar, enjoying woman, and rocking out. I have never gotten very good as a skater but I enjoy what I can do, what I can land. There was a time when I would launch myself of an eight stair and put myself right there on the line between ho-ya and hospital. Any more I try to limit it to four or five stairs and gaps under six feet but I do still find time for a good thrash session from time to time.
Most people do not understand why some one my age, whom is not a professional, would still throw themselves off and down stuff. Well the simple answer is that you can not beat the feeling of satisfaction that come from catching a switch nollie pop shove-it off a four stair and rolling away. Some people find more fun in running up ten flights of stairs the to roll down one. I am not that kind of person. My shins have seen a thousand knots, a million bumps, and enough rocks and asphalt to pave a driveway. Just taking a good fall is so therapeutic why go to the chiropractor when you can just as easily fall down some stairs. Picture this, your are going along at a good clip then all the sudden you hit this tiny little pebble, one that you would never usually notice, it bites your wheel and in that moment you only have milliseconds to decide how best to take a fall. What if you are bombing a hill and out of nowhere there is a huge crack in the pavement, it is to late to ollie over it and now all you can do is tuck and roll. Skating really lets you know how fast your brain can comprehend a situation, give you all the variables, and then pick your way out all of this in a split second.
It would be nice if the University of Southern Indiana campus was not smaller then my mothers yard. Then I could take SK8board to school just to get around school in a timely fashion and not shearly for fashion. I have seen huge campuses where people have to either schedule time to get from one class to another or the have to ride a bike or ankles be ware a skateboard. I hate seeing all these kids in globe shirts, Birdhouse hats, Element sweatshirts, and/or Etenies shoes. To me all these people are sheep and they are the sole reason why I do not advertise that I am a skater by the brands of shirt I wear. I am kind of jealous I guess because all of these want a be gangsta, rocker, any thing on television, new wave, new country kids can wear anything they want. The can get away with a AC/DC shirt, Phat Farm, South Pole, Jenco, Hillfiger, Old Navy, Nike, Puma, Addias, AE, PSW, Tapout, Throw Craz, Zoo York, DC, and any other brand they can lay their company stealing hands on. It is getting to the point where you cannot tell anything about someone by what they are wearing. What does that leave me with Perry Ellis and Armani, fine then I take it and bow out gracefully, if I have to, I guess.
I am the most punk rock person in any room and most of the time you cannot ever tell, and that is the way I like it. Why should I let you be able to look from across the room and tell who I am or what I am into. If you want to quiz me on splatter core or spackling just come up to me and ask me, bring it on. I have never owned a black leather jacket or a pair of Dr. Martins but I can call out more underground metal or obscure punk rock then Dez Chapman himself. I learned a long time ago that it is not what is on your shirt, it is what is under your shirt. My one pet peeves is that people might look at me and see "hippie" there is not enough pot smoke in the world to make me agree with some of these no-wing, flip-flop wearing, go green, euro-vegan, postanticounter want-to-be revolutionarieists sheep.
No dinks, preps, hicks, gangstas, mods, goths, beboppers, hiphoppers, b-girls, b-boys, folkies, or any one else was harmed during the writing of this paper.
Most people do not understand why some one my age, whom is not a professional, would still throw themselves off and down stuff. Well the simple answer is that you can not beat the feeling of satisfaction that come from catching a switch nollie pop shove-it off a four stair and rolling away. Some people find more fun in running up ten flights of stairs the to roll down one. I am not that kind of person. My shins have seen a thousand knots, a million bumps, and enough rocks and asphalt to pave a driveway. Just taking a good fall is so therapeutic why go to the chiropractor when you can just as easily fall down some stairs. Picture this, your are going along at a good clip then all the sudden you hit this tiny little pebble, one that you would never usually notice, it bites your wheel and in that moment you only have milliseconds to decide how best to take a fall. What if you are bombing a hill and out of nowhere there is a huge crack in the pavement, it is to late to ollie over it and now all you can do is tuck and roll. Skating really lets you know how fast your brain can comprehend a situation, give you all the variables, and then pick your way out all of this in a split second.
It would be nice if the University of Southern Indiana campus was not smaller then my mothers yard. Then I could take SK8board to school just to get around school in a timely fashion and not shearly for fashion. I have seen huge campuses where people have to either schedule time to get from one class to another or the have to ride a bike or ankles be ware a skateboard. I hate seeing all these kids in globe shirts, Birdhouse hats, Element sweatshirts, and/or Etenies shoes. To me all these people are sheep and they are the sole reason why I do not advertise that I am a skater by the brands of shirt I wear. I am kind of jealous I guess because all of these want a be gangsta, rocker, any thing on television, new wave, new country kids can wear anything they want. The can get away with a AC/DC shirt, Phat Farm, South Pole, Jenco, Hillfiger, Old Navy, Nike, Puma, Addias, AE, PSW, Tapout, Throw Craz, Zoo York, DC, and any other brand they can lay their company stealing hands on. It is getting to the point where you cannot tell anything about someone by what they are wearing. What does that leave me with Perry Ellis and Armani, fine then I take it and bow out gracefully, if I have to, I guess.
I am the most punk rock person in any room and most of the time you cannot ever tell, and that is the way I like it. Why should I let you be able to look from across the room and tell who I am or what I am into. If you want to quiz me on splatter core or spackling just come up to me and ask me, bring it on. I have never owned a black leather jacket or a pair of Dr. Martins but I can call out more underground metal or obscure punk rock then Dez Chapman himself. I learned a long time ago that it is not what is on your shirt, it is what is under your shirt. My one pet peeves is that people might look at me and see "hippie" there is not enough pot smoke in the world to make me agree with some of these no-wing, flip-flop wearing, go green, euro-vegan, postanticounter want-to-be revolutionarieists sheep.
No dinks, preps, hicks, gangstas, mods, goths, beboppers, hiphoppers, b-girls, b-boys, folkies, or any one else was harmed during the writing of this paper.
The Big Eviction Notice #21
As the sun begins to break over the horizon the Daybat start to appear, their screech louder than the rooster, their appetite ferocious than a wolf and with their highly territorial nature comes dead Daybats lining the sidewalks and alleyways. With the sunrise comes the garbage-bots scouring around picking up bit of recyclables, bits of trash, and the bats. The curfew has been in effect for months now and watching the solar flares out the window I wonder how much longer it will be imposed. The mail truck is running late but it does not matter my magnetic strip has not been working properly and I will have to wait until after 10:00 before it is safe to go outside to get the mail which will probably be all celluloid junk mail.
On the news George w. Bush IIII has still not recovered from his Xansanphentol infection and there is controversy over if a sitting President can run the office from quarantine and if so how long. Also the World Army evacuated Hawaii for the third time this year, every time there is a new eruption a bidding war opens up on the Global Market Television Channel for the new land. Last time it went up over a million dollars an acre for non-water front land. On the bright side it has been three weeks and the World Murder Rate is still at zero. I sometimes wonder how bad it really was in the days of the outlaws, the numbers paint a bloody picture of the past, but then with only six billion people on earth it would be like 0.0007% chance of being murdered.
Needless to say, I am still taking public transportation to and from college and everywhere else for that matter. It was strange the first few years after they made it unconstitutional to charge citizens of the New Earth for education and that has left me having to work more since there are no more financial aid checks. With the privatization of colleges in 2102 everything has been thrown out of wack. They disbanded community colleges and started the one in a hundred rule that says every class has to have at least one hundred students in it. Some classes end up having a hundred and seventy or eighty students in them. Homework has also changed recently when the Scan-Tron Company invented the first electronic desk to help alive the professors having over a hundred students in them and all the paperwork. Also they have done away with all the staff except for security, which they felt needed to be from outside and the deans of students everything else is manned by students, from the gardeners to the kitchen help it all students.
I wonder how it was before the walls fell, before the global community, before the New Earth was united? What will it be like in the days of our grand-grand-grandchildren? What will become of us? Can they really jumpstart the atmosphere on Mars by 2220? Will our faltering sun start to correct itself? With time all these questions will be answered, all the truths will come to light, and we might even start to colonize our solar system. Man has overcome everything put in his way even himself and if I know anything it is this, that, man is here to stay and until we get the big eviction notice from above, we are here and we are not going anywhere.
On the news George w. Bush IIII has still not recovered from his Xansanphentol infection and there is controversy over if a sitting President can run the office from quarantine and if so how long. Also the World Army evacuated Hawaii for the third time this year, every time there is a new eruption a bidding war opens up on the Global Market Television Channel for the new land. Last time it went up over a million dollars an acre for non-water front land. On the bright side it has been three weeks and the World Murder Rate is still at zero. I sometimes wonder how bad it really was in the days of the outlaws, the numbers paint a bloody picture of the past, but then with only six billion people on earth it would be like 0.0007% chance of being murdered.
Needless to say, I am still taking public transportation to and from college and everywhere else for that matter. It was strange the first few years after they made it unconstitutional to charge citizens of the New Earth for education and that has left me having to work more since there are no more financial aid checks. With the privatization of colleges in 2102 everything has been thrown out of wack. They disbanded community colleges and started the one in a hundred rule that says every class has to have at least one hundred students in it. Some classes end up having a hundred and seventy or eighty students in them. Homework has also changed recently when the Scan-Tron Company invented the first electronic desk to help alive the professors having over a hundred students in them and all the paperwork. Also they have done away with all the staff except for security, which they felt needed to be from outside and the deans of students everything else is manned by students, from the gardeners to the kitchen help it all students.
I wonder how it was before the walls fell, before the global community, before the New Earth was united? What will it be like in the days of our grand-grand-grandchildren? What will become of us? Can they really jumpstart the atmosphere on Mars by 2220? Will our faltering sun start to correct itself? With time all these questions will be answered, all the truths will come to light, and we might even start to colonize our solar system. Man has overcome everything put in his way even himself and if I know anything it is this, that, man is here to stay and until we get the big eviction notice from above, we are here and we are not going anywhere.
A Puff of #16
This assignments asks me to reflect on my semester so far and then to look forward, well since this is one of the papers that I missed the first time through, I will have to answer everything in a past-tense form. What is left for me to due you ask, well to that I say, "just exit exams and finals". My game plan for the remaining weeks is to just survive. I have been hanging on for so long that I fell like a free climber that has been left stranded on El Capatain. I have ran out of chalk, my hands hurt, there is a eagle harassing me, and it is the off season. I am here to wilt away, I am here to stay.
When reflecting upon my first semester, I cannot seem to get away from the realization that, for the most part, I have spent it by myself. My roommate is a waitress that usually closes, so that leaves me home all day alone, just me and my cat, until midnight or so. If it was not for Charlie Murphy (my cat) I do not know how I would have spent all this unwanted free time that has been forced upon me. I had this weird notion come across me one day, not to long ago, while I was watching a prison show on the MSNBC channel. It was this, that on most days a death row inmate has more interaction with people then I do. This sounds worse out loud then it did when I first decided to type it down. I feel that if I did not have all this free time, I would have been more apt to study more. With no one coming over I would say to myself that " there’s more time, I have all night" well that was just words. For me, it is so hard to get good study sessions in, when I have nothing to look forward to later.
I do not think that I ever got a chance to recharge my batteries this semester. But I know, that next semester I will be more able to cope with everything and that I will do much better. If I had a girl that would strip for me when I answered questions right or would "hold out" unless I showed her that I have done my homework I feel that I would have a 3.99. I need a woman to blackmail me into doing more. Now that I know all the trapping I know that I can tiptoe my way through and past many of the obstacles that I found squarely in my way this last go-around. Sometime I ask myself "can you make it another four or five years before I enter into a career". To this I say a resounding "Yes". A lot of my friends and people that I went to high school with have found normalcy through factory job and bar girls. I really fell that that is not for me. The only person that can say what I am going to do is me and I know that I still have a lot of fight let in me.
The only challenge that I have had besides deadlines is my math class and that ended up to be a losing battle, this time. The next time that I meet Mr. Math in a dark alley I am going to know where to strike, how to strike, and with what to strike with. It is said that a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, well when I took my first step in math class it was already week four and that is when I found that my shoelaces were tied together. My math class was just review for the first few week and I was raising my hand and being involved, but slowly I started to know less and less of what was going on until I was completely lost. I should have not snickered my way through the first month. I just started to admit that I am going to fail my math class a couple of week ago, even though I have known it in way longer then that.
A grand flourish you say, more like a whimper and a puff of smoke. In every box of firecracker you will find a few duds. That does not mean that they did not have to potential to be as crowd pleasing as all the rest, it is just that there needs to be a little diversity in everything and if that means having to let out a sigh everyone and a while instead of a hooray, gentlemen I implore you to sigh right along with me.
When reflecting upon my first semester, I cannot seem to get away from the realization that, for the most part, I have spent it by myself. My roommate is a waitress that usually closes, so that leaves me home all day alone, just me and my cat, until midnight or so. If it was not for Charlie Murphy (my cat) I do not know how I would have spent all this unwanted free time that has been forced upon me. I had this weird notion come across me one day, not to long ago, while I was watching a prison show on the MSNBC channel. It was this, that on most days a death row inmate has more interaction with people then I do. This sounds worse out loud then it did when I first decided to type it down. I feel that if I did not have all this free time, I would have been more apt to study more. With no one coming over I would say to myself that " there’s more time, I have all night" well that was just words. For me, it is so hard to get good study sessions in, when I have nothing to look forward to later.
I do not think that I ever got a chance to recharge my batteries this semester. But I know, that next semester I will be more able to cope with everything and that I will do much better. If I had a girl that would strip for me when I answered questions right or would "hold out" unless I showed her that I have done my homework I feel that I would have a 3.99. I need a woman to blackmail me into doing more. Now that I know all the trapping I know that I can tiptoe my way through and past many of the obstacles that I found squarely in my way this last go-around. Sometime I ask myself "can you make it another four or five years before I enter into a career". To this I say a resounding "Yes". A lot of my friends and people that I went to high school with have found normalcy through factory job and bar girls. I really fell that that is not for me. The only person that can say what I am going to do is me and I know that I still have a lot of fight let in me.
The only challenge that I have had besides deadlines is my math class and that ended up to be a losing battle, this time. The next time that I meet Mr. Math in a dark alley I am going to know where to strike, how to strike, and with what to strike with. It is said that a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, well when I took my first step in math class it was already week four and that is when I found that my shoelaces were tied together. My math class was just review for the first few week and I was raising my hand and being involved, but slowly I started to know less and less of what was going on until I was completely lost. I should have not snickered my way through the first month. I just started to admit that I am going to fail my math class a couple of week ago, even though I have known it in way longer then that.
A grand flourish you say, more like a whimper and a puff of smoke. In every box of firecracker you will find a few duds. That does not mean that they did not have to potential to be as crowd pleasing as all the rest, it is just that there needs to be a little diversity in everything and if that means having to let out a sigh everyone and a while instead of a hooray, gentlemen I implore you to sigh right along with me.
Buffalo Trace #12
Buffalo trace
Charlie was a slender man in his early thirties, gray had begun to creep around his head years ago and now it is filling in the last streaks of brown running past his right ear. His face is still young with just the expected laugh-lines not showing age but revealing years of grinning widely. He has a smile reminiscent of early Chaplin, lips pressed tight with one corner of his smile higher than the other. As a child with a club foot growing up in a working class Boro on the south side on Manchester, his time was spent playing on the street and in the alleys that crisscross the old Irish neighborhood. It was a rough place with all the vices and traps that fall steadily on the shoulders of anyone who is willing or unfortunate enough to find themselves in the embraces of lawlessness.
After dark the gas lamps come on and illuminated the night with an eerie flickering effect as the smell of burning natural gas fills the night air. The towering building seem to curve outward as they reach into sky and it feels as if they bend anymore it would rip them apart, showering the ground below with the contents of a hundred Irish family belongings soda-bread and Scotch, rosined bows and wingtips would rain from above. He has grown into a man with a love for family, a love for community, and a desire to mentor all the kids in his neighborhood. There is nothing that keeps him here, he has no family left and real friends. After the mill closed, he lost all hope in living out his days in Manchester. The shops that use to line the historic downtown have all but closed down and with the mega-stores there seems to be no mom and pop stores left. This has disturbed him a lot and he longs for the good old days when everyone knows everyone and the street were lined with smiling faces.
Charlie put his house up for sale last fall and there was only a hand full of buyers that ever came buy. The only hope for a home seller that he had left was to auction. More people showed up just to watch then to buy, you could tell that because hardly anyone had paddles. After what seemed like two minutes of bidding, the gavel cracked and it was sold. The man that bought it, Charlie knew to be a slumlord and knew that in five years his house would be in a state of disrepair that the house would never come back from. With just a carload of his belongs and two boxes of pictures, there was really nothing keeping him here now. With only a half nights rest at the nicest motel in town he was off with out even a wave goodbye, not even the lady at the bank said bye to him when he cashed out the bank account that he has had for fifty years.
The road has now opened up and the buffalo fights for the pole position as we all go streaking down hill. This stretch of road is bland and bare with only the occasional roadside distraction. In the rear-view mirror Manchester looks more like a plane crash high up on the peak of mount Tarsar. The orange glow of industry and the endless trains pouring for the center of town looks like some kind of mystical beast. Now I can start making decent time. At this time of night, all there is left on the highway is greasy stressed out drivers, strung out truckers and the movers and shakers hitting their own tune on the asphalt stings. The audible zoom and the cars body roll is all I need to tell me that I'm passing these cars at a rate exceeding thirty miles an hour. The buffalo sputters as I lay off the accelerator just in time to pass the last exit. It is going to be a long night from Manchester to Harvic is less then six hour, it will not be a record but for the buffalo and me it will be a commendable attempt.
Charlie was a slender man in his early thirties, gray had begun to creep around his head years ago and now it is filling in the last streaks of brown running past his right ear. His face is still young with just the expected laugh-lines not showing age but revealing years of grinning widely. He has a smile reminiscent of early Chaplin, lips pressed tight with one corner of his smile higher than the other. As a child with a club foot growing up in a working class Boro on the south side on Manchester, his time was spent playing on the street and in the alleys that crisscross the old Irish neighborhood. It was a rough place with all the vices and traps that fall steadily on the shoulders of anyone who is willing or unfortunate enough to find themselves in the embraces of lawlessness.
After dark the gas lamps come on and illuminated the night with an eerie flickering effect as the smell of burning natural gas fills the night air. The towering building seem to curve outward as they reach into sky and it feels as if they bend anymore it would rip them apart, showering the ground below with the contents of a hundred Irish family belongings soda-bread and Scotch, rosined bows and wingtips would rain from above. He has grown into a man with a love for family, a love for community, and a desire to mentor all the kids in his neighborhood. There is nothing that keeps him here, he has no family left and real friends. After the mill closed, he lost all hope in living out his days in Manchester. The shops that use to line the historic downtown have all but closed down and with the mega-stores there seems to be no mom and pop stores left. This has disturbed him a lot and he longs for the good old days when everyone knows everyone and the street were lined with smiling faces.
Charlie put his house up for sale last fall and there was only a hand full of buyers that ever came buy. The only hope for a home seller that he had left was to auction. More people showed up just to watch then to buy, you could tell that because hardly anyone had paddles. After what seemed like two minutes of bidding, the gavel cracked and it was sold. The man that bought it, Charlie knew to be a slumlord and knew that in five years his house would be in a state of disrepair that the house would never come back from. With just a carload of his belongs and two boxes of pictures, there was really nothing keeping him here now. With only a half nights rest at the nicest motel in town he was off with out even a wave goodbye, not even the lady at the bank said bye to him when he cashed out the bank account that he has had for fifty years.
The road has now opened up and the buffalo fights for the pole position as we all go streaking down hill. This stretch of road is bland and bare with only the occasional roadside distraction. In the rear-view mirror Manchester looks more like a plane crash high up on the peak of mount Tarsar. The orange glow of industry and the endless trains pouring for the center of town looks like some kind of mystical beast. Now I can start making decent time. At this time of night, all there is left on the highway is greasy stressed out drivers, strung out truckers and the movers and shakers hitting their own tune on the asphalt stings. The audible zoom and the cars body roll is all I need to tell me that I'm passing these cars at a rate exceeding thirty miles an hour. The buffalo sputters as I lay off the accelerator just in time to pass the last exit. It is going to be a long night from Manchester to Harvic is less then six hour, it will not be a record but for the buffalo and me it will be a commendable attempt.
Two Tickets to Ride #7
Two tickets to ride
I ride the Mets (Metropolitan Evansville Transit System) to and from school every day. In one sentence it does not sound that bad but as I am going to go into this it is going to start to seem more and more unappealing. It is not that it is that bad it is just more of a nuisance that anything. I prey for the day to come when I can stop standing on the street coroner like the captain Morgan guy, well more like the Quaker Oats guy, silently staring down the block hoping that I have not missed the bus yet.
On Monday I have my Mesoamerican Art History class at eleven and my Math class at noon and then I am done for the day but it takes me six and a half hours to go to school for less then two hours. My day starts at eight when my alarm clock goes off. I get up yawning, stretching, and searching for the correct profanity then I go into the kitchen and fill my espresso pot. I have grown accustom my coffee pot it is stainless steel, does not use filters, and makes a cup of mean, but it only makes two cups. Most mornings I have two pots. While I am waiting, I tune the television to CNN and let my cat out.
After I cook breakfast for myself and do some more decompressing I leave my house for an eight-block walk to the downtown Mets terminal. There I wait another few minutes and smoke. The buses leave at fifteen till and fifteen after, I have been almost ran-over by a bus that I was only thirty seconds for. It takes two transfers and over an hour to get to school and by then I have been awake for three hours.
On the bus you run into all kinds of people all with their own story to tell. There are smelly ones, hairy ones, ones that are more smelly then hairy. The worst kinds of bus people are the talkers, not just the regular type, but the ones that bring shitty conversation with them. There is nothing worse than having to listen to someone babble on about how they can't this and don't that and just go on about nothing for a half hour. Some of them talk to the drivers incessantly and they do it every day so you can spot them out before they even get on the bus and of course their are the people that when you talk to them they do not ever drop the conversation, the non-droppers, drop it already.
Sometimes I end up getting pissed off of the bus. Most of the time it is just because it's too much wasted time. There has been a few time that some middle-aged person and there elderly parent/parents have gotten on the bus and for the whole ride they yell at their them, argue and demean them. One time this lady kept saying that he father had Alzheimer's only because they were fighting about money. You could see it in the old mans eyes that he was fine and tell it pissed him off, although it seemed like he had heard it all before. He ended up clamming up but to me it seemed that he had became embarrassed over the public incident rather then knowing he was wrong or suffering from some Alzheimer's attack.
I ride the Mets (Metropolitan Evansville Transit System) to and from school every day. In one sentence it does not sound that bad but as I am going to go into this it is going to start to seem more and more unappealing. It is not that it is that bad it is just more of a nuisance that anything. I prey for the day to come when I can stop standing on the street coroner like the captain Morgan guy, well more like the Quaker Oats guy, silently staring down the block hoping that I have not missed the bus yet.
On Monday I have my Mesoamerican Art History class at eleven and my Math class at noon and then I am done for the day but it takes me six and a half hours to go to school for less then two hours. My day starts at eight when my alarm clock goes off. I get up yawning, stretching, and searching for the correct profanity then I go into the kitchen and fill my espresso pot. I have grown accustom my coffee pot it is stainless steel, does not use filters, and makes a cup of mean, but it only makes two cups. Most mornings I have two pots. While I am waiting, I tune the television to CNN and let my cat out.
After I cook breakfast for myself and do some more decompressing I leave my house for an eight-block walk to the downtown Mets terminal. There I wait another few minutes and smoke. The buses leave at fifteen till and fifteen after, I have been almost ran-over by a bus that I was only thirty seconds for. It takes two transfers and over an hour to get to school and by then I have been awake for three hours.
On the bus you run into all kinds of people all with their own story to tell. There are smelly ones, hairy ones, ones that are more smelly then hairy. The worst kinds of bus people are the talkers, not just the regular type, but the ones that bring shitty conversation with them. There is nothing worse than having to listen to someone babble on about how they can't this and don't that and just go on about nothing for a half hour. Some of them talk to the drivers incessantly and they do it every day so you can spot them out before they even get on the bus and of course their are the people that when you talk to them they do not ever drop the conversation, the non-droppers, drop it already.
Sometimes I end up getting pissed off of the bus. Most of the time it is just because it's too much wasted time. There has been a few time that some middle-aged person and there elderly parent/parents have gotten on the bus and for the whole ride they yell at their them, argue and demean them. One time this lady kept saying that he father had Alzheimer's only because they were fighting about money. You could see it in the old mans eyes that he was fine and tell it pissed him off, although it seemed like he had heard it all before. He ended up clamming up but to me it seemed that he had became embarrassed over the public incident rather then knowing he was wrong or suffering from some Alzheimer's attack.
Without Cometition #4
Without competition
In my life I am driven to excel in many different areas. I like to think of myself as a renaissance person even if I feel that that phrase is played out. The reason why I say I am of the medieval old school is because I adhere to those qualities. I play the guitar, bass guitar, piano, drums, violin, and I will sing if there is no one else around, I draw, paint, watercolor, carve, make things and more. That is not all that qualifies me as a renaissance person I read and write, cook, garden, grow vegetable, tend to the yard and house, search for truth, and I am so open minded that it makes me second guess myself on almost any topic.
The easiest way to excel at something is to know someone who is better at it then you, that is were the drive to become better comes from. I have a buddy Casey that is a killer Blues guitarist; he is now playing for the number one Stevie Ray Vaughn cover band in the nation. The band is Voodoo Blue and they are out of Dallas, they can be found at Voodooblue.net. Having a friend around that plays the blues made me want to write some blues songs just to prove to myself that I could, just to show him up, just to show him that I could. I even took one of his songs and kept the progression and chords but changed it around to make, what I felt like, was a better sounding song, a better flowing song. The cool thing was that he liked what I had done to his song and incorporated some of my ideas in to his song.
Without competition and the human desire to out due each other the world would be a far different place. As people we love to say that we are good at something, that we are better at something then someone else. Most of the time this is just fair competition but some people take it to far, some people are consumed with outdoing people and I think that the can become a unhealthy. I do not feel that I have mastered anything, there is not any one thing that I can say I am best at but just because your not great at something does not mean you can not be good at all kinds of things.
I do find myself for time to time wishing I could find a new hobby to delve into, a new challenge to apply myself to. It just seems so hard to figure out what I would be good at I guess that is also why I have yet to pick my major. I mean, I know what I like and what I like to do, but how do I apply it to a career, how do I apply that to the rest of my life.
In my life I am driven to excel in many different areas. I like to think of myself as a renaissance person even if I feel that that phrase is played out. The reason why I say I am of the medieval old school is because I adhere to those qualities. I play the guitar, bass guitar, piano, drums, violin, and I will sing if there is no one else around, I draw, paint, watercolor, carve, make things and more. That is not all that qualifies me as a renaissance person I read and write, cook, garden, grow vegetable, tend to the yard and house, search for truth, and I am so open minded that it makes me second guess myself on almost any topic.
The easiest way to excel at something is to know someone who is better at it then you, that is were the drive to become better comes from. I have a buddy Casey that is a killer Blues guitarist; he is now playing for the number one Stevie Ray Vaughn cover band in the nation. The band is Voodoo Blue and they are out of Dallas, they can be found at Voodooblue.net. Having a friend around that plays the blues made me want to write some blues songs just to prove to myself that I could, just to show him up, just to show him that I could. I even took one of his songs and kept the progression and chords but changed it around to make, what I felt like, was a better sounding song, a better flowing song. The cool thing was that he liked what I had done to his song and incorporated some of my ideas in to his song.
Without competition and the human desire to out due each other the world would be a far different place. As people we love to say that we are good at something, that we are better at something then someone else. Most of the time this is just fair competition but some people take it to far, some people are consumed with outdoing people and I think that the can become a unhealthy. I do not feel that I have mastered anything, there is not any one thing that I can say I am best at but just because your not great at something does not mean you can not be good at all kinds of things.
I do find myself for time to time wishing I could find a new hobby to delve into, a new challenge to apply myself to. It just seems so hard to figure out what I would be good at I guess that is also why I have yet to pick my major. I mean, I know what I like and what I like to do, but how do I apply it to a career, how do I apply that to the rest of my life.
Constructing #2
My mother is a thirty-year veteran of the construction business. She was worked all over America and she is now in Macon Georgia where she has been for a month. My mother was born in October of 1948 so she is now 58 and in excellent health. If you were to ask my mother what she does for a living she would proudly tell you that she is a pipe welder. She has built all kinds of thing from a boiler for the new Nashville courthouse, to a chiller unit for a super computer that circulate liquid nitrogen.
Being a woman pipe welder in the seventies was not an easy task. She had to endure all kinds of harassment and discrimination. I believe my mother has heard it all, she sometime tells me jokes that I would have never said to her. Sometimes my mother will go out of town to work and end up working for some asshole and end up dragging up, this has not happened for a while since she has worked for the same company for the last seven or so years. Here is an interesting story; in the seventy she sometimes found it hard to get a job being a woman and all. So she would have my father (whom was a pipe welder as well) call and talk to the man in charge of hiring people and tell him that he had a "jam up welder traveling with him" and then he would refer to my mother as L.K. Myers so the man on the phone would not get wise to the fact that he had just hired a woman. I remember a couple times packing everything up and moving to a different town just to have some sexist jackass say that he was not going to hire my mother and then having to repack everything and drive back home. The silver liner is that the company would still have to pay travel time to both of them and that all those good-old-boys probably ended up getting theirs.
I sometimes-meet people that say they were army brats when they were kids a moved from base to base with their family. I know exactly where they are coming from, growing up I lived in so many cities and states that I still do not know everyone of them. Sometimes my mother will say, "Do you remember living here or do you remember living in this kind of house or that kind of place" and to that I will say " did I ah... I do not know...no I guess not". I went from kindergarten to the ninth with out ever finishing one whole grade in the same school except once. My parents built a paper mill in Perry Florida and we were there for almost two years so that is the exclusion. I kind of lucked out in high school; my parents built the Tyson Chicken factory in Henderson and that took three years so we (my brother and I) got to finish out high school in the same city.
Being a woman pipe welder in the seventies was not an easy task. She had to endure all kinds of harassment and discrimination. I believe my mother has heard it all, she sometime tells me jokes that I would have never said to her. Sometimes my mother will go out of town to work and end up working for some asshole and end up dragging up, this has not happened for a while since she has worked for the same company for the last seven or so years. Here is an interesting story; in the seventy she sometimes found it hard to get a job being a woman and all. So she would have my father (whom was a pipe welder as well) call and talk to the man in charge of hiring people and tell him that he had a "jam up welder traveling with him" and then he would refer to my mother as L.K. Myers so the man on the phone would not get wise to the fact that he had just hired a woman. I remember a couple times packing everything up and moving to a different town just to have some sexist jackass say that he was not going to hire my mother and then having to repack everything and drive back home. The silver liner is that the company would still have to pay travel time to both of them and that all those good-old-boys probably ended up getting theirs.
I sometimes-meet people that say they were army brats when they were kids a moved from base to base with their family. I know exactly where they are coming from, growing up I lived in so many cities and states that I still do not know everyone of them. Sometimes my mother will say, "Do you remember living here or do you remember living in this kind of house or that kind of place" and to that I will say " did I ah... I do not know...no I guess not". I went from kindergarten to the ninth with out ever finishing one whole grade in the same school except once. My parents built a paper mill in Perry Florida and we were there for almost two years so that is the exclusion. I kind of lucked out in high school; my parents built the Tyson Chicken factory in Henderson and that took three years so we (my brother and I) got to finish out high school in the same city.
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