The Gospel According To Boyce

How About a Little "Clemensy"??

2008-02-14T02:18:00.001-05:00

Roger Clemens is guilty as hell.

For those of you who may have an inkling into the world of baseball, Roger Clemens is one of the greatest pitchers ever to grace the game. His power, speed and dominance on the mound is second, in my mind, only to the great Nolan Ryan. He has won 7 Cy Young Awards as the best pitcher in the league over a season...2 more than any pitcher in the history of the league. He struck out a major league record 20 batters in one game in 1986 and 1996. He dominated well into his 40's, and it is now being publicly unraveled that this prolonged dominance may have been attributed to the usage of steroids and/or Human Growth Hormone. And by the looks of everything that has transpired so far, he appears guilty as hell. His once adamant, confident, and defiant denial of any wrong doing has now transgressed into an "Oh shit I'm screwed" denial. Whomever his lawyer was...he's an inept douche bag.

"Just deny everything Roger...they can't prove anything!! We'll play the "Nuh uh...DID NOT!!" card!! It's foolproof, Rog, FOOLPROOF!!!"

He's probably paying hundreds of thousands of dollars to get that delusional legal advice. What a shame...it's Roger Clemens dammit!! Why Roger??

I guess when your best friend rats you out in front of the United States Congress, not much is going to save you from imminent prosecution. Not so much for the fact that you used performance enhancing drugs, but the fact that you have now LIED to Congress about it. That's called PERJURY Holmes!

In what could very well have been a simple, "Tsk, tsk...shame of you Roger Clemens. Bad boy!!" (slap on the wrist and a tarnished reputation). End of Story, life goes on. But instead you have chosen to live out the remainder of your days with a tarnished reputation and career, and a big fat FELONY conviction on your record. Good thing you had a successful career!! Hang on to that cash, because without it you're now screwed!!

But why Roger? It's more than obvious that a relatively high percentage of Major League baseball players use performance enhancing drugs. In a league with so many people fighting for a dream, making the smallest of wages playing 7+ years in the minor leagues in no name towns, they will do anything to maintain that competitive edge. You can go from making $35,000 a year to $2,000,000 if you have a solid year in the majors. The risk is very much worth the potential reward. And for those superstars who age and decline in performance, the threat of the spotlight and glory vanishing is a very difficult and painful thought to bear. So any way you can prolong your career and maintain your youthful dominance, you'll do it. The fire never dies, but the strength of the arm will undoubtedly fade before you're ready for it.

Barry Bonds, the over publicized "guilty as hell" steroid user, went through what Clemens is now going through. Bonds was vilified and his All-Time Home Run Record...the most coveted record in all of baseball...tarnished everything the record and the game stood for. The purity that we all chose to believe was tainted. Even though it was as pure as the most veteran of whores. Bond being guilty as OJ is America's most wide-spread stance on the subject. Many people believe it's because he's black. I say it's because he's an asshole. But calling him an asshole isn't entirely fair. I will readily admit, that the guy is certainly an arrogant prick as well. And that has a large part to play in his public crucifixion by the media and the general public. Every away stadium he plays in, he is faced with a chorus of BOO's so intense, you'd think Bin Laden was playing shortstop. When you're an overall dick to everyone you encounter, not having an ounce of respect for anyone, Karma plays some twisted games with you. Welcome to the show Roid Boy!!

There's something about Barry that elicits an inherent desire in Americans to loathe him and wish him guilt and scrutiny. Probably because he's black. Let's be serious, this is America. Although he DID break the coveted record which was set by another black man, so I don't see what the big deal is, it's not like he was taking it from a WHITE guy. Why are you so mad America? There's nothing to fear..."They" are not "taking over".

Yet...bwah-ha-ha-ha!!!

Roger Clemens is the essence of the game. He has been one of the most prolific players in the history of the game. He is a pitcher you one day tell your grandkids about. The legend of your time. Like the stories of Sandy Koufax and Warren Spahn your father or grandfather told, so you shall tell of Roger Clemens. He's someone you were glad to have seen pitch in the prime of your passion for sports. He was the one who comes around once in a generation. So why? Out of all the scrubs and goons you could have made an example of, you nail one of the greatest ever to play after he's essentially done playing. Where is the logic?

Honestly, I don't care who uses steroids. I don't want to know. If it means you knock 90 home runs out of the park in a season, so be it. It's a new era, a new evolution of the game. The game isn't completely the same as it was when our grandfather watched Babe Ruth and his fat drunken ass round the bases with the speed and grace of a gazelle in the clutches of death amongst a pride of starving lions. Slow as a slug on a fly trap he was. (OK I made that one up) The game evolves every generation, and this is our evolution. Juiced beasts with superhuman strength, speed, and agility. Entertain me gentlemen...even if it's at the expense of your shrinking balls!!

With the country now immersed in a recession, and a Presidential Race comprised of a group of circus clowns on both sides of the ticket, who all show the distinct capacity to be able to single-handedly continue the downward spiral caused by George W. Buffoon...should this government not have FAR MORE important business to conduct? For the love of God, we're entering a trying and critical moment in the history of this Great Nation. Screw baseball you star struck congressional swine!! Balance this budget, solve the housing crisis, fix SOMETHING of worth and significance!! The American tax payers are not paying your salary to nail sports stars who cheat. How about a little Perspective and priority shifting Washington!!

Who would have thought we'd see the day where sports, politics, and media glamorization would merge into one over-dramatized story.

Really America? REALLY???

How can you not trust this face??

So Long PatriNOTS!!

2008-02-14T02:07:00.001-05:00

Justice has been served!! In what was by far the greatest Superbowl ever played...or at least witnessed in my lifetime...a team of cocky, arrogant, overconfident ass mongers choked in a manner and fashion that was as magnificent as their regular season. But as we all know, the most prolific of regular seasons, no matter how insanely dominant, don't mean shit if you're sent packing with anything less than a world title. I admittedly watched every televised game these Patsies played as I marveled at the sheer dominance they displayed. In what was obviously the most dominant regular season by a team in football history, and being the sports fanatic I am, I was drawn to the spectacle and the manner in which they toyed with their opponents like they were peewee flag football teams. To avoid witnessing what was easily the most dominant regular season on record would be foolish as a fan of the game. But throughout this time I in no way wavered from my detesting of this team what they represented. Much like a wicked car wreck, you never want to see them happen, but you can't help but watch.

And in their historic success, their utter failure and collapse made it so much sweeter. Those who watched at my house cheered and roared as if it were our own teams hoisting the Lombardi trophy. And we were confident 49 other states in this fine country of ours were doing the same. And in a beautiful display of karmic justice, this team of crooked cheaters got what they deserved. And as the further investigation into the history of cheating throughout this now questionable "dynasty", the truth behind their supposed success will be unveiled. Amen!!

While few can question the dominance of this team over the last 8 years, no amount of "Well at least our team made it!!" will suffice as a legitimate retort. Any city who plans a celebration parade with the arrogant knowledge that their team can't lose is a town full of chumps. And chumps they shall remain until the 2008 season commences...and maybe longer. Yes, definitely longer...history is forever. And this choke was as historic as it gets.

Editor's Correction

2008-02-14T02:06:00.001-05:00

In my October 26, 2007 blog titled "Mapleween", I wrote about the harrowing experience my sister and I encountered in our childhood when my Mom decided to send us out trick-or-treating as dual Aunt Jemimas. After my Mom was finally able to dig the photo out of the attic, it has been discovered that it was my sister Jen who received a majority of the brown face. I was either a very light skinned Jemima or the spanish version, Tia Jemimita. The author apologizes for the error.

CHRIST-NO-MAS

2007-11-26T23:40:00.000-05:00

Ho Ho Holiday suckers! All of you who have eagerly awaited this most "festive" of seasons, the journey is over! Revel in merriment and booze laden rum cakes for it is the only time of year when it is socially acceptable to devour alcoholic desserts anywhere at any hour. But God forbid you chug a fifth of Captain Morgans in your kitchen with your morning coffee while reading Fred Bassett's latest side splitting head scratcher. A sick, depraved drunk you would be!! But inject a "cake" with half a bottle of the good juice and you're simply partaking in a little holiday joy! Kick it up while you can...and for God sakes, someone hide that woman's keys.

Like the flick of a light switch connected to some obscene million watt halogen, blinding us all with the unbearable glare of consumerism, the holiday season has been thrust upon us with the force and intensity of a skilled pimp's well honed bitch slap. It's lethal and powerful, while still possessing the efficiency and accuracy of a laser guided missile. "The Season" is no longer an event of anticipation, building to a grand crescendo as the summer fades and the fall season rolls out the red carpet for the grand trifecta of Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. No sir, we are no longer afforded the luxury of foresight and anticipation...we are TOLD when the season is here. When you least expect it, the switch will be thrown and the marketing orgy ensues. The only true anticipation of this season resides in the corporate war rooms as 9 months of strategic plotting and scheming unfold in an orgasmic fury by men who are too old and blood thirsty to even think about orgasms.

Halloween marks the starting line for an explosion of commercialism so vast and profound it becomes the very essence and the meaning of the 21st century holiday season. No sooner have the children started sorting out the good candy from the shit (if you're the lame sap doling out the mini Tootsie Rolls...that would be you), ready to begin the forcible onset of prepubescent acne, have the holiday commercials begun revving their engines...fueled by the explosive combustion of the almighty dollar. This year we woke up from the High Fructose hangover to find our TV's plastered with commercials typically seen when we awake from the post Thankgiving meal nap. Surely someone in the video room must have been trigger happy...this must be a gross lapse in judgment, right? WRONG my friend. This one is as calculated and crafted as they come. It's 85 degrees outside these walls and the conniving bastards have blizzards and snowmen littering my screen. It's a crime against nature let alone humanity!

With the nation's economy spiraling into the shitter faster than most of you reading this now have any conceivable idea, Corporate America decided it was necessary to take drastic action. They decided to start "The Holiday Season" nearly a month early to kick start the economy, prematurely inducing spending. Like trying to force a fetus out of the womb at 5 months. The only way to get John and Jane American to spend their green is to force feed their spongy brains with the manipulative powers of marketing. Nothing in this world has the power to control the thought process of humans like television. Not even...dare I say...GOD. Strong statement, but prove me wrong. I'm a devout follower, but an equally staunch realist. A realist who shall provide a sensible example to what shall undoubtedly be perceived as a blasphemous claim. And that is...

BLACK FRIDAY

I'm not referring to the lunch special Popeye's Chicken holds each week, no sir, I am referring to the day where vast numbers of Americans act in a manner that is so senseless and insane that God Himself must look down upon us and shake His head in shame. He reminisces of the days when He garnered that much passion and respect. When people made tremendous sacrifices of their time, effort, and yes...even their money...for Him. But now, these lunatics waking up at 3am, standing in lines wrapping around city blocks for hours on end, fighting crowds of people with ferocity and lack of civility and respect. This is what the Material Nation has risen to. I await the year that Christmas inherits a sponsor. MERRY PROCTER & GAMBLE CHRISTMAS!! The Holiday season in which we claim to celebrate is lost. Granted, there has always been an element of commercialism for as long as their have been gifts to give, but it has now reached a new low where the gifts were once a small part of the big picture...and now the gifts ARE the picture.

I'm not going to go on the stereotypical Christmas Carol "God bless us everyone" holiday rant about how we need to love and appreciate each other because "that's what the season is really all about". No thanks, we'll all be bombarded with it soon enough in the coming month...no need to bastardize that before it naturally occurs. I'm simply a little peeved about Christmas being shoved down our throats so soon and so intensely. If I wanted to be ass raped by corporate America with a candy cane dildo, I would simply...well, I know a little place that would have given it to me for a few bucks and a 6-pack. But that's beside the point!!

The point is, we were once succumbing to the commercialization of the holiday season just as we were slowly on the brink of global warming. Unfortunately, this seems to be the year where both of them have shown the full brunt of their fury. It makes one wonder where exactly we are headed and how fast we're getting there not knowing where it is we're going. There is a distinct possibility that 20 years from now kids will be listening to Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" wondering what the hell this white stuff is that he is singing about. Lets just hope when they hear it, they know what Christmas is.

Little Fish

2007-11-19T00:17:00.000-05:00

Growing up, I was all about sports. I have always firmly believed that sports was the wall that kept my brother and I out of prison or from becoming degenerate scum, infesting the earth like so many do now. Growing up without a father, my brother (along with my 2 sisters) and I did what we could go grow up without that influence. And while Mom worked to miraculously support us, we fended for our selves for a majority of our waking hours. While some kids would emerge into mischievous, deviant creatures...we all were genuinely good kids, and have evolved into great people.

My brother and I immersed ourselves in to all of the local Philadelphia sports teams, played football and street hockey until the sun went down...starting a little after the run rose on weekends. Even to this day my brother and I are die hard Philly fans...texting each other 30-50 times while we watch the same game hundreds of miles apart. And with this borderline fanaticism, I have all of the accoutrement required to represent my teams...the Eagles, Flyers and Phillies. Hats, jerseys, t-shirts, thongs...you name it.

I played a bunch of team sports throughout my youth; football, baseball, soccer, and hockey...hockey being the longest and most intensely dedicated. My Mom would check out a few games here and there, but mostly we'd be dropped off, play our game, and be picked up. It was a blessing and a curse as there was no real pressure or nerves of your Mom watching...but the lack of presence and perceived support had its drawbacks. But win or lose...Mom or no Mom, we did what we loved and it still connects us to this day.

Having a daughter I never felt the disappointment of not being able to share my love for sports. I never threw it on her and never shied away from it. I wore my jerseys, rooted for me teams, and in the process she grew to realize that Dad really gets into this thing! As the years went on she asked questions, cheered when she didn't know what she was cheering for, and in grand Daddy's Little Girl fashion, became a die-hard fan to join her Dad. As she got older she learned more and more, acquiring jerseys and hats of her own, knowing players and positions, and most critically being a Philly fan...knowing who to boo the hell out of. As of late she has been throwing stats and records at me that I had no clue about! Between her step-dad, and me sports too has become a dominant presence in her life. She's a mini Sportcenter at times. I've always wondered if she has truly come to enjoy it, or if she jumps on the train because she thinks it's the best way to connect to connect with me. Thankfully, it has become very apparent that she enjoys it.

I took Abbey to her first Magic game last year and I went in expecting her to lose interest quick. The first time in an arena filled with 19,000 people is quite a site, and the players on the court can often be the last thing being focused on. Basketball being the sport I watch the least, I didn't think she was subjected to it enough to know or care what was going on. Live basketball can be tough to follow as it is. As the Magic are the only professional team in this city I have grown to love them in my years here and the Philly 76ers have taken a backseat to them. And here I was introducing her to a pro sport. My perceptions and expectations of her experience couldn't have been more wrong. She got in to it in ways I never expected. And I knew it was legit and she was screaming not solely because everyone else was, when she jumped up and screamed "Boooo!! You stink Milicic!!" after the team's backup center had been playing horrible all night long. She was screaming for foul calls by the 3rd quarter and with her giant blue foam finger and Magic tee, so was born a soon-to-be die hard fan. And I knew she inherited a little bit of the Philly gene when she started giving our own players flack for missing shots. It was the coolest thing I've ever seen. Who needs a boy to experience sports with...I have the coolest daughter in the world. A grand mix of girly-girl, artsy artist and musician, creative writer, and frequenter of the word "dude"...another little trait from Dad.

About 6 months ago, Abbey joined the YMCA swim team. At 11 years old, it was her first organized sport. She took gymnastics for a year but never competed in an organized meet. From the start we knew she found her niche. She was a natural from day 1. Her form, her focus, and her SPEED, were unbelievable. After trying to figure out for what seemed like forever what activity to put her in, she finally found one that she loves and kicks ass at.

The first few classes she did not have the swimming fins each swimmer uses for practice. So naturally all of the kids had an edge with the fins adding far more propulsion and speed. But Abbey, being ever so competitive, refused to let this hold her back. As they swam laps she kicked and stroked twice as hard to keep pace. Well, she didn't keep pace with the kids. She obliterated them. She was passing her teammates as if she were in a speedboat. It was incredible.

Enter the Fin.

Need I explain the result of the Fins? Domination. As they taught the team additional strokes, she naturally had ones she excelled in, and ones she needed to develop as they were new to her. But regardless of her skill level in any swim style, I am incredibly happy that she found something she loves.

This past Saturday Abbey had her first swim meet. It was an intense and stressful experience for all as her nerves were definitely on edge being in front of hundreds of people at the Aquatic Center. She was to race in 5 races of 50 yards each. It was sure to be a test of endurance...mentally and physically. There were a total of 106 races during this meet - her first being the seventh, and her last being #106. It was a rough start as she began with one of her least favorites, the butterfly. She finished 5th out of 6 but in the end there was a bit of relief on her face having gotten that first one out of the way. But with the adrenaline and nerves she swam so furiously she wore herself out by the end. I ran over and hugged the hell out of her...I was so proud of her. This was her first competitive event ever. The second race was an entirely different story, her favorite stroke...the back stroke. She immediately jumped to an early lead and got to the end of the pool a good 7-10 seconds before anyone else. By the time she was half way back to the other end, the other girls were just turning around at the wall. The last 20 yards she slowed considerably and you could tell she was running on fumes. But even with this drastic trail off, she won by 10 yards. As she swam the last lap I was on my knees at the end of the lane, shaking like a leaf, heart pounding out of my chest, hands together in prayer mode, screaming "GO BABY GO!!!" And when she hit that finish line I jumped like I've never jumped before. I wanted to dive in and swim to the other side to hug her...but I opted to run to the other side instead. She did it, she won her 2nd race EVER. I think she was in disbelief and hadn't truly absorbed the significance of what she had just done. She practices 4 days a week for 2 hours each day, but she wasn't prepared for the intensity of this day. That raced drained everything she had in her, but she was still able to bust out a proud smile. I squeezed her until I absorbed every ounce of water in her swimsuit. It was a moment I'll cherish forever.

Her last 3 races were finished on sheer courage and determination, as she had nothing left to give. She was so exhausted and her muscles were trembling. At this point I encouraged her to give whatever she could in these last races and that she had already achieved so much in her first meet. And I'll be damned if she didn't finish every last lap as hard as she could. After her last race she was so relieved and thankful that it was over...that is until her coach told her she had to swim a relay because another girl backed out. Never before have I seen eyes alone scream "ARE YOU F**KING KIDDING ME???" as these little brown eyes did. I don't know how she did it. But she did.

Few things are more rewarding than to see your child grow to possess such strength and determination when faced with a task or challenge that is intimidating and tests you mentally and physically. I have never been more proud of what she achieved and the little woman...GIRL, girl...she has become, allowing her to achieve it. It will take something drastic or catastrophic to keep me from one of her meets (knock on wood). She will always know that her Dad will be there to support her in her successes or downfalls...whether its in sports or in life itself. And it is my hope that when she one day looks back on her childhood, the meaning of sports in her life will carry an even greater significance than it did for her Dad.

Mapleween

2007-10-26T22:03:00.000-04:00

It's almost Halloween. Holy hell where did the year go?? This time of year initiates the grand introduction to my favorite time of year. Although it's still hot as balls for some twisted and cruel reason. Longitude in proximity to the equator may have a hand in this plot, but that's still under investigation. As the kids dart through the rows of carcinogenic plastic, so begins the intensive search for the perfect costume. A costume which reflects the true spirit and inner self of each child. And with this, so begins the rat race that is the fall and winter season. Madness, mayhem and money...and I guess a little Merriment, melody and martyrdom (definitely martyrdom).

This time of year always makes me reminisce of the days when we cut eye holes in our bed sheets, threw those sheets over our heads and as dull and unemphatically as humanly possible, stood in plain sight and softly say, "boo." to suspecting by passers. The emphasis (or lack thereof) in the "boo" gently reflected the spookiness of the costume itself. As I think back to costumes of yore, I can't help but be inundated with visions of 6 consecutive years of Generic Dracula. Slick back the hair with a gallon of gel, a little lipstick around the face for blood, some dark clothes, and the prerequisite plastic fangs that made you drool like fatty in a donut shop. The latter of those years introduced the vampire cape, adding to an already flawless reflection of the essence that is Dracula. To say it quite lightly...I had that shit DOWN!!!

There were always the "plastic years" when the real deal was the thin as paper plastic mask, which you actually orally ingested as the night wore on. The mask was held on securely by the rejects from the rubber band factory, for once it's on there's no way you can take it off lest the band snap like a brittle twig. Yoda was one of the first plastic mask costumes I wore for Halloween. The heat and moisture created by trying to breathe through slits no wider than the width of a quarter, created a mystical inner mask FUNK. But it was worth it if you could ever get that little pumpkin bucket filled. Of course the little buckets graduated to the medium sided hand-me-out bags you got in school or the grocery store. And then the bags gave way to...THE PILLOWCASE. The mother of all Halloween collection devices. It had it all...height, width, depth, and volume, fortified by the thickest most durable thread available outside of Duluth. If you were able to fill the pillowcase, well....well no one has ever filled a pillowcase. That's just plain crazy.

We all inevitably have the head scratcher years...the "what the hell was I thinking??" costume. Boy did I ever have one of those. I was 4 years old and there were 4 of us between myself, my brother and 2 sisters. We had no dad around, and with only my Mom raising us, money was naturally tight and nonexistent. Time to improvise! There is one picture on this earth of me in this costume with my little sis, and it shall forever remain one of my most cherished.

I am wearing an apron

There is a red bandanna on my head

I have giant hoop earrings in

I'm wearing lipstick

...and...

My face was painted with brown shoe polish, or some sort of brown makeup.

Good God....

...I am....

AUNT JEMIMA.

Now whether my Mom kept a crack pipe somewhere is anyone's guess. I'm thinking its highly unlikely and all but impossible; but my explanation as to why she would decide that her eldest son would be a black woman who adorns a syrup bottle is beyond me. Crack seems to be the only rational explanation. My 4th Halloween on this earth and we make that transition. Plastic Yoda costume at age 3....black face Aunt Jemima at 4. While it would be hilarious at Halloween parties in your 20's (probably getting you shot once the laughs die down upon realizing someone invited Jamaal - the only black guy in the neighborhood), it just doesn't have the same effect in the toddler years.

As for my sis, she too was in black face, a dress, and giant gold earrings. However, her bandanna was blue, therefore eliminating her from the contention of being the ONLY Aunt Jemima costume in southeastern Pennsylvania. And quite possibly the whole northeast. Down south of course Aunt Jemima may have been as commonplace as the white-sheeted ghost. The reason being of course that the white-sheeted ghost is a costume people wear for a whole other reason than hunting for candy. Although the candy is usually brown...and it's stuffed in a bag...oh boy.

So for those of you who plan on getting all decked out for parties this year, or if you're trying to decide what to dress your child as...Jemima baby, Jemima.

Movin' On Up!!

2007-08-27T22:21:00.000-04:00

So here I am, typing away on a computer, which resides in a home that will be "my old house" by week's end. And to tell you the truth, we can't get out of here fast enough. The past 2 years in the home we rented on a quiet little cul-de-sac in the retirement community of Williamsburg have been great to us. It was the first "single family dwelling" (a.k.a. not an apartment or condo) Kristen and I have lived in and it marked a transition in our lives where we kinda got serious on a relationship level. You know, marriage n'stuff, which is kinda up there between leaving her tooth brush in your bachelor pad and farting in front of each other without grossing each other out. In fact it actually becomes quite competitive (I am the reigning champ by the way...I.B.S. has its privileges). And while our time here has been amazing, the house itself is destroying our respiratory systems as we cough, sneeze, and go through tissues like whores do condoms. No matter how much we vacuum, dust and disinfect the damn joint never fails to make life hell upon walking in the door. Good riddance asshouse...sucks to be the next tenants.

After what has been one of the most exhaustive journeys we have encountered in the infancy of our marriage, the relentless pursuit of a home purchase has been the most daunting and painstaking task to say the very least. 2+ years ago we searched for our first home only to find the housing market inundated with investment buyers from the northeast who had tons of cash to throw around, causing prices to skyrocket and essentially cock blocking the average first time home buyer. We were chased out of the hunt in the midst of homes with 10+ bids on them and paid-in-full-with-cash buyers. We were frustrated, pissed off, and increasingly hopeless. It seemed every time we turned on the TV there was some degenerate, or fresh off the boat alien with a nice home...taunting us and making us wonder, "WHY??? HOW???" We then came to realize that being a white middle class family in America was the real estate curse...real estate and beyond actually. Uncle Sam doesn't toss the greenbacks to whitey. That's too easy for us. But that's another blog for another day. This one is all about gratitude, gratefulness and elation.

After we reluctantly conceded that a home was not in our immediate future, we rented the quaint home that is now on the verge of being a dust trail in the rear view mirror of life. We have been scouring the Central Florida area since January and we've seen what could very well be 40+ homes during that time. It was tiresome and it was certainly frustrating at times, but our patience paid off handsomely. It gave me the clichéd age-old feeling that good things indeed come to those who wait. The months and years of raising our arms in frustration screaming, "WHY?? Why can't we have a home?!?!" It was worth every minute. For this Friday our brand-spanking new 3 week old house will be inhabited by the Boyce clan. Step aside Wu-Tang, there's a new clan in da house! And the el supremo bonus of this whole deal? The builders were so eager to unload the last few houses in the new development in this record setting slow housing market, that they dropped a measly little $72,000 off the price of the home. JACKPOT!!! While our neighbors forked over nearly $100k more for their homes than we did, the miracle of patience turned into instant equity. Thank you God.

For those of you who currently own a home or have gone through the process, you know how incomprehensible the process can be. Its like learning a second language or becoming a master of economics at the age of 7. The verbiage, the laws, the lingo and the mountains of paperwork. For all of the studying via books we've bought and online research we've done, no matter how much you think you've grasped, every day brings about a new "Huh?" It's insane. It makes purchasing a car look like buying a newspaper on a street corner. Here we are in the home stretch, our closing set for Thursday, and I look at where we've been and what's ahead. How we did it will undoubtedly be a blur in the month to come, but there is one definitive part of this entire process which I will remember clear as day for as long as I shall live. And that is the efforts of my amazing wife Kristen.

What can I say, the woman knows how to hustle and bust her ass in ways I've seen few people accomplish. The nature of her career requires immense dedication and persistence to be successful, and the manner in which she aggressively and professionally achieves her success, is nothing short of inspiring. Her motivation and drive has lead to a very successful career which continues to skyrocket. And while she continues this drive in attaining her goals...setting new ones as each goal is realized...she took even more of this effort and mindset, shifted into 6th gear, and jumped on the house train.

To say I am proud of My Boo would be a gross understatement. The woman was so determined to get a home that I seriously believe she willed this home to fall in our lap. I truly believe that she wanted it bad enough and worked for it hard enough that God said, "You know what sister...you've earned this one. You two deserve it." Good call God, you hit the nail on the head. It's going to make an already exciting and joyous experience even sweeter. I am the luckiest man alive and I am privileged to have witnessed my lady kick some real estate ass. It truly showed me that will and persistence can and will pay dividends. It has been the trademark of her career, it helped her land THIS guy many many years ago, and it will now play a huge part in placing a roof over our heads...OUR roof baby!

The next step in the journey of our lives is 4 days away. And as I step back and look at all we have been blessed with and have achieved, I am overwhelmed with a feeling of true and genuine gratitude, appreciation, and gratefulness. It is an exciting time and the future looks bright. And I can think of no one else in the world I'd rather share it with than my amazing and beautiful wife (and my lil girl!).

White Cracker Barrel

2007-08-18T22:39:00.000-04:00

Why it is I always find myself surprised when I see Black people in a Cracker Barrel? As I entered The Cracker Barrel this evening for dinner I was greeted by the store cashier, a modest looking African-American gentleman with big round glasses and a bright smile. His "Welcome to Cracker Barrel!" greeting was upbeat and quite welcoming. And while he exuded a pleasantness that felt warm and sincere, as if he truly enjoyed and took pride in his job, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the position he was in. He was after all, working at Cracker Barrel. And my pity wasn't due to the fact that we worked at Cracker Barrel, but the fact that he was a black man working in Cracker Barrel.

As I reciprocated with a smile and pleasant "good evening" greeting of my own, I began to meander about the Cracker Barrel Country Store. Ignoring the rows of ceramic farm animals and needle point displays consisting of variations of "Home Sweet Home" and various biblical quotes, I stumbled upon the throwback gag display which contained the classic whoopie cushion, squirting flower, and the newest addition to the Boyce household...Gumby. That's right, Gumby dammit! He was packaged just as he was when he was introduced...whatever the hell year that was. Further down the line was the homemade candy display, a grotesque compilation of confections with ingredients consisting of SUGAR, BUTTER, HEAVY CREAM, PIG LARD, EGGS, FLOUR and BROWN SUGAR. None of the processed chemicals you see on nearly all ingredient labels today. No Sir, there are no chemistry book labels here, you're reading the God's honest country cookin' truth...plain, simple and loaded with fat, carbs and sugar. Well into the double & triple digits in each category. And who do we find pillaging this soon-to-be-depleted display but a morbidly obese Puerto Rican family getting their fix, apparently storing fat for the brutally cold winter months those outside of Puerto Rico are unaware of. This husband and wife tandem birthed a boy and a girl who were no more than 7 year of age, but whose combined weight easily exceeded that of a Volkswagen Beetle. The father alone possessed the circumference of a Redwood. It was as amusing as it was sad. Gorge little Ricans...GORGE!!

We finally made our way to the hostess, who possessed all the personality and charm of the dusty jar of pickled eggs rotting on the shelf behind her. As we waited for our table I noticed a family of African-Americans entering the restaurant, making their way to the hostess to get a table. My first instinct was to scream, "What are you doing?? Are you crazy?? Run Black family, RUN!!!" Apparently Cracker Barrels are nonexistent from where these fine folks were from. Were they not aware of the nature of their surroundings? I mean look at this place!! Just as I was certain my look of shock and disbelief would be picked up on, a family of African-American patrons exited the eating area having just finished their meal. My bugged out eyes and "HUH??" expression was now transfixed on them. Are they....are they, HAPPY? By God, they seemed to have enjoyed themselves!! How can this be?? This is CRACKER BARREL for the love of God!!

I began to look around, and there amongst the standard redneck white-bread customers, were a fare share of African-American diners. They were all chowing down on the good ol' southern home cookin' with nary a care in the world other than whether or not the second helping of corn bread would be delivered in time to sop up the remaining gravy left over from the mashed potatoes. It was a display of racial harmony I had not expected in a setting that screamed of the old south. The giant belt buckles, camouflage hats, tight jeans and NASCAR t-shirts that encompassed the wardrobe of your average customer; coupled with the hillbilly music, straw chewin', good ol' boy feel that permeated from the hickory wood floors and walls. It seemed to be the last place you'd find an African-American family. Every time I stepped foot into a Cracker Barrel I got the feel that I had stepped back to a time and place that existed long ago...or still exists to this very day in many parts of the "true south" north of Florida and South of West Virginia. Where smoking or non-smoking is still an option and crayons give way to little white pointed hoods for the kids.

It reminded me that we were indeed in America in the year 2007. And while the racial divide is still quite evident in many parts of our land, "a little racist country town" themed chain restaurant isn't enough to keep all people black, white and morbidly obese Puerto Rican, away from good old fashioned country cookin'.

Don't take it for granted

2007-07-20T22:42:00.000-04:00

"Never take anything or anyone in life for granted."

Its almost cliche as this phrase, in its various shapes and forms, litters the landscape of motivational speeches, graduation commencements, eulogies, and the departing words dispensed from those in the fateful clutches of death. These words are powerful, they are significant, and they possess the capacity to shape human existence in a manner seemingly reserved only for works of fiction and happy-go-lucky fairy tales. So simple is the concept yet so elusive is its application in the every day existence of mankind. To truly and genuinely appreciate and embrace your very existence, its moments, and those in it, with all of the feeling and substance God has granted us. To live life fully, capturing each waking moment as if you've experienced it for the first time...and are experiencing it for the last. To ingest the minuscule to the massive, the insignificant to the insurmountable, the meek to the monumental, without prejudice, bias, or regard for whatever inhibitions and insecurities society may have selfishly bestowed upon you.

Perhaps in the inherent simplicity of this philosophy there is a slight taste of overkill that dulls the palette in life's repetitive actions and reactions. After all, most everything in these lives of ours tends to lose it's luster with time and overuse. Remember the first time you tied your shoe on your own? The glory of achievement after countless failed attempts, and the subsequent pride each morning as you meticulously intertwined those laces until your shoes were snugged just right around those little size 11's. The care and attention to detail given to the length of each loop, not to mention the bragging rights awarded in the presence of those who have yet to master this coveted skill set. But eventually as the months and years pass it becomes so routine that you can now do it in our sleep. Such is the case with nearly every aspect of our lives. The more you are subjected to something the more it blends into the fabric of life. It is no less a significant part of our lives, but it all but vanishes from the forefront of our minds.

The concept of never taking anything for granted is undoubtedly as foreign and incomprehensible to a child as capitalism. Sure capitalism flourishes all around them and has a direct impact on their existence, but so what, I have dinosaurs and Barbie dolls to play with! Hopefully not at the same time...unless the dinosaurs are eating the Barbies, then its all good. Such is the mindset and mentality of a child, and subsequently the teenage adolescent. A child loves his/her parents but it is almost a rite of passage to take them for granted. "The big picture" has yet to develop in the minds of youth and therefore they are far more prone to take life and all of its essential contents for granted. Fortunately as this concept develops with age and maturity, you may salvage the ability to appreciate everyone and everything you've taken for granted in your young naive mind.

I grew up with 2 sisters and one brother, with myself being the oldest. There were only 3 years between us all, my youngest brother and sister being twins. We were raised by our mother and forged through life with a non-existent father. As our Mom worked to support 4 kids we fended for, and were dependent upon ourselves to get through each day. We tended to roam from home to home, at one point living in 5 houses in a 4 year span. We got ourselves ready for school, hiked to the bus, minded ourselves after school, and often made our own dinner before Mom came home. It was a test of self reliance day in and day out and as I now look back on it all I am amazed at what we accomplished, growing into responsible, successful individuals void of a criminal record.

Being so close in age, along with the 2 boy & 2 girl dynamic, there was no shortage of drama, fighting, bickering, and tormenting among us. Every brother vs. sister, sister vs. sister & brother vs. brother scenario played out as it does in every family. It seemed more often than not there was an evident rift amongst any one combination of us. Perhaps it was just the nature of sibling rivalry, or perhaps it was our own method of dealing with the curve balls life threw at us by creating walls around ourselves. Whatever the case may have been we were all in the same unique and deteriorating boat doing our best to stay afloat.

As a whole we were a family fairly void of expressions of emotion, except of course for anger, resentment, and the subsequent flow of tears. Don't get me wrong, we had more than our share of fun and laughs and for the most part we all got along well. But we weren't ones to ever say I love you, or show any form of expression along those lines. Why that is I still can't quite figure out. It wasn't until we all moved out of the house and on to our own paths in life did we finally breach that wall. As we all matured, finding ourselves and who we are, we seemed to grow a deeper appreciation for the relationships and bonds we now had. As we often reminisce about the crazy stories of our childhood it is only now that we understand much more fully the life we made it through together. The good times, the bad times, the worse times, and the funny as hell times...regardless of who was pissed off at who or where we stood with one another, we all shared the same experiences and lived the same stories.

Well over a decade has passed since we dispersed into our worlds and we are now all scattered throughout the east coat. My Sister Jen is in Georgia with her husband and 2 amazing kids who you could watch for hours because they are the funniest kids you'll ever see. To see her finally find her truest happiness and how she has grown so much into the most amazing and kind woman I've ever known. My brother Kevin grew from a scrawny little kid into a rock solid Marine, living in Virginia Beach with his wife and 3 kids who are the funniest and most good natured kids you will meet. The effort and work he puts into his life is nothing short of inspiring as he works on his degrees, officer training, and learning how to kill a human 340 ways with a pen cap. I've never been more proud of anyone in my life. My sister Kellie, who lives outside of Philly is the most talented artist/interior decorator/whatever the hell else she does, I know. Her head is screwed on tighter than just about anyone and her drive and ambition, pursuing her goals through so many ups and downs has been simply amazing. I am proud to call myself the brother of these 3.

So in spite of all the trials and tribulations, we have all turned out pretty damn well. As time passes and distances widen between us, we have continued to grow closer. If you think about it, its pretty strange how when you see each other every day you are further apart than when you see each other a few times a year. As we all go about our lives, moving on, bettering ourselves and popping out more children, I find that I miss them all more and more with each passing day. More so now than I ever have before. I remember the days when we would all hang out at home, the holiday dinners when we were all at the same table, shooting hoops and playing hockey with my brother, kicking one sister's ass to save the other, being able to hang out with each other whenever we wanted...all of the things at the time I thought would last forever. The moments I never realized would soon pass and would be so far and few between. All of the moments I took for granted.

Had I known then what I know now, would I have changed anything? I can't say for sure. But I do know that I would have appreciated those moments even more than I did then. I would have let the little things slide off my back and not hold grudges. I would have continued to pee in the back yard every morning when I woke up in highschool without bitching at my sister for hogging the bathroom. I would have spent more time in the living room than in my bedroom. I would have been a bigger part of the family as opposed to being labeled the Family Hater. So I guess yes...I would have done a few things differently.

I always think of how great it would be if we all still lived near each other. I think about all of the kids and how they rarely get to see their cousins. I think of how I just recently saw my nephews and niece for the first time and how much it sucks being an uncle but never really being an uncle. I think of how cool it was for us growing up and hanging with our cousins and how much a part of our lives they were. And I think of how our kids will never get to experience that. But I guess it makes you appreciate the short time we do have together even more.

Right about now as my siblings read this there are undoubtedly a few tears flowing. So I'm gonna wrap this up now because I don't have time for that kind of weepy pussy emotional bullshit. Suck it up assholes...if we all pitch in we'll have this place spotless in 20 minutes!

I love you guys.

It's About Time!

2007-07-05T00:42:00.001-04:00

On this 4th of July, I cannot help but be reminded of the abysmal deterioration of our nation on a political and ethical level as it continues to tarnish the very fabric and foundation this country was founded on, and the very freedom we celebrate today. I find myself engulfed in an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and inner fatigue as it continues to spiral out of control. I have immersed myself in the ongoings of this "government" and the manner in which it has dictated our great nation for many, many years...to the point where I recently had to all but ignore it for my own sanity and hope for our future...for my child's future. It is however virtually impossible to remain blind and "blissfully ignorant" to the injustices, gross shortcomings, and continually blatant disregard for everything this country stands for. It is infuriating, in part, to witness these atrocities, but the true kick in the balls is the apathy and ignorance of the American people.

We continue to live with our heads in the sand, engulfed in our respective bubbles, concerned only with the superficial and materialistic. This war, these lies, the constitution and laws being rewritten, ignored and essentially shit on...they have yet to have a truly direct impact on our every day existence - YET. They have YET to penetrate the bubbles in which we so ignorantly dwell. We see gas prices spike, drop a bit, then shoot up again. We bitch and complain about the unfairness and injustice of this cat & mouse game without really knowing why its happening. It's them damn Iraqis!! Them towel headed Iranians!! It's the greedy oil companies!! We speculate based on vague perceptions of a world we essentially know nothing of.

Every so often we flip through news channels like Fox News or CNN, their screens broadcasting snippets of the war talking about cities and provinces we've never heard of in a country 95% of the population couldn't find on a globe if their life depended on it. They speak of factions and tribes like the Kurds, Sunnis, and Shiites which we interpret as just a bunch of angry Muslims who want to rein terror on our homeland. We fall victim to the fear mongering and the biased reporting of the American media and begin lumping all Muslims into the insane suicidal terrorist column...likely next to the column of black people who have been categorized as drug running, gun toting gangsta thugs. In these brief, hand selected, pre-approved, censored clips, we are given a misrepresentation so profound it rivals the editing chop jobs of your average reality show...cutting and pasting to accentuate the drama, even if the truth is stretched a bit. Or wholeheartedly fabricated. And as we cringe and shake our heads at mere fractions of the reality of the situation, we flip on over to reality show bliss. After all, "The news it too negative. It brings me down."

As I write these words, knowing they will elicit nothing more than, "Huh?" or "There he goes again...I just don't get all that political stuff" or "Oh shit The Bachelor is on!!", I can't help but be overwhelmed once more with a feeling of hopelessness. Sure it's a bit cathartic to get it out, but it doesn't do much good venting to a wall now does it?

My intentions are not to draw intense debate or to suck people in to my views and opinions. If I accomplish one thing in my occasional rants it is to simply spread awareness in hope that people will take a few minutes out of their day to educate themselves on what it REALLY happening. Look at the difference between the US news media vs. the international media. Fox News gives you the news Rupert Murdoch and the Republicans want you to hear. The BBC news will give you the real story without the sugar coating. We simply are not afforded the luxury of ignorance in this most critical of times in this nation. Its not rocket science, its simply a matter of reading an article or two. Baby steps. You are not impacted now, but buffer zone has been breached and that time is about up. When we're sucker punched by the corruption do you want to see it coming and know why? Of would you rather be caught off guard and have it completely rock your world not knowing how, where, why, or what to do? You have a choice, and a responsibility. Step up America. Before its too late...and I tell you now, its almost too late.

The video clip below is a little miracle in my plight for awareness and the truth. As I've stated, the media's reluctance to communicate the truth and tell it like it is has been one of the greatest deterrents to accountability of those who deserve it, and the knowledge we all need. Keith Olberman of MSNBC aired this bit after Bush decided to circumvent the law, the courts and the jury, essentially overturning a verdict of a "man" (Scooter Libby) in his administration who was guilty of many wrong doings (read it on CNN.com). It exemplifies beyond measure the corruption and repulsive abuse of power this administration has shown since the beginning. To see someone in the mainstream media have the balls to FINALLY say what needs to be said is a huge step in obliterating the wall of ignorance we live in. If you do nothing else, please take a moment to view it.

Thanks for hanging in there for yet another rant. I can't say I'll ever give up until the insanity stops. I cannot emphasize enough the importance of awareness and education. Use this freedom...while we still have it.

If you destroy the foundation of this country to defend it, then what are you defending?

“To announce that there must be no criticism of the President, or that we are to stand by the President right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but is morally treasonable to the American public.” Theodore Roosevelt

“The greatest tragedy is not the brutality of evil people, but rather the silence of the good people.” Martin Luther King Jr.

“What good fortune for governments that the people do not think.” Adolf Hitler

Beating the heat...my way

2007-06-14T22:27:00.000-04:00

Tell me its hot outside. Go ahead, do it. I want you to...I NEED you to. Tell me how the humidity is so thick you can wave a knife in the air and spread it on a piece of bread. Tell me the projected temperature today, hell give me the week's forecast. Live a little, roll the dice, take a stab at tomorrow's heat index while you're at it. You know you want to. It's too hot not to, you'd be crazy to ignore the conflagration of the air around you.

I can see it in your eyes as you walk in the door, the cool climate controlled breeze engulfing your perspiring skin sending a long awaited chill down your spine. You let out a long cathartic sigh...aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh...as your skin eases back to the cool room temperature it has grown to know and crave. Your eyes roll back into your head with an almost orgasmic release. Your journey is over, your long tedious struggle through the merciless elements of nature has finally drawn to a close. You have bravely endured what was undoubtedly a rogue offshoot of a direct portal to hell. Either that or you have been silently stalked by an industrial grade coal furnace, following your every move like an elusive shadow in your wake. Whatever the root of the intense blaze that has singed your soul, you are now free, you are safe, the chill is on.

Tell me now, how do you feel? What is it like enduring the heat of the sun with it's rays of intense heat that are apparently confined only to the path in which you travel? While I certainly do not envy your thermal struggle, my curiosity is heightened by the glaring intensity of the plight in which you have just endured. Hell, your look of relief and exaltation alone has peaked my interest to the point that I now tinker with the thought of taking this unknown journey myself. Perhaps it's the masochist in me but I am suddenly intrigued by this phenomenon I have just witnessed. Please, do tell...what goes on outside these doors? What lies beyond the comfort and sanctity of this 72 degree safe haven in which I so obliviously dwell?

As you regain your composure, your skin fading from its intense sweat glistening redness back to its fair milky hue, I straighten up in anticipation of the forthcoming tale. You wipe your brow and neck, let out one last sigh of relief, and summon the strength to mutter the words I have longed to hear...

"Boy is it hot outside!"

And there it was. Thank you...thank you brave soul. The wisdom you have imparted, the observation of a world so far removed from my own has enlightened me in ways I will carry with me for a lifetime. This observation shall be passed down to my offspring, and I will emphasize the dire importance for them to carry this message wherever they shall roam, and to whomever they encounter in the journeys of their lives. For the message they possess and the infinite wisdom it beholds shall prove to be immensely useful when striking up general conversation, breaking the ice, eliminating the dreaded 7 seconds of silence, and above all...to display their finely crafted penchant for observing the blatantly obvious.

You my friend are a master of meteorological awareness. Your selfless conveyance of today's temperature, knowing very well that the same information has been spoken by dozens of others within a relatively short time span, is a testament to your attention to detail and tireless effort to ensure all know what truly lies outside these walls. In spite of the fact that everyone has too endured the same travels. But as they say, you can never be too sure.

They say tomorrow will be more of the same. 94 degrees with a heavy, chest compressing 95% humidity. The fruit of observation is ripe for the picking my friend. And you are the gardener of truth. For if there is ever a shred of doubt as to the root of my excessive perspiration, beet red skin, and the excess heat permeating from my pores, it will be you that I turn to in my time of uncertainty. And when you make your proclamation that, "It sure is a hot one today!" I will be the first to extend my hand and bitch-slap the living shit out of you.

And that, my friends, is how I beat the heat.

10,000 Examples of Inpetitude

2007-06-09T12:06:00.000-04:00

Since birth I have been a die hard fan of the Philadelphia sports franchises. We are a fiercely passionate bunch who cheer, adore and worship their star players one minute...and then mercilessly boo the hell out of them when they falter. We are known nation wide as the toughest city to play against in all sports. Teams have been polled time and time again asking to name the city they hate playing in most. And time and time again Philadelphia is the clearcut winner.

We are the city that is known for booing Santa and throwing snowballs at him. We threw D-cell batteries at an opposing player who a year prior refused to sign with the Phillies. We booed President Herbert Hoover, chasing him out of the stadium in a release of frustration from a horrible season. We cheered mockingly as a hated player on a rival team lay motionless on the football field with a neck injury that ended his career. We fight anyone who dares to cheer for the opposing team, and anyone crazy enough to enter our stadiums with opposing teams garb is as good as dead. We were the first city to install a court and jail in our stadium to deal with the insane hooligans. We are a passionate...and yes, sometimes too passionate a bunch. Growing up I attended many a game, with the most vivid memories being me as a 10 year old boy hearing 19,000 fans should "ASSSSSSSSS HOOOOOOOOLE, ASSSSSSSS HOOOOOOOLE!!!!" To a referee who made a bad call. If you were oblivious to obscenities going into a game, you earned your wings by the end of it. I was in awe, I was in shock...I was in love.

There are many theories as to why we are the way we are. One of the more logical theories is rooted from the generations upon generations of failure and ineptitude. As the Philadelphia sports franchises have each respectively been around for generations, the opportunity for defeat is frequent and long standing. Year after year we are mounted with frustration, let down, and heart ache. Every time we seem to be in the grasp of glory we squander our chances in mind boggling ways. Thus "The Philly Curse" was born.

Phlladelphia has endured 24 years without a sports championship. 24 years for the basketball 76ers, 26 years for the baseball Phillies, 32 years for the hockey Flyers, and47 grueling years for the city's most beloved football Eagles. With each passing year of futility the hope of the city diminishes. But in spite of the continual disappointment we come back time and time again, filling the stadiums in support. Unless of course you screw up, then you're f**ked.

Within the next few months, our Philadelphia Phillies baseball team will reach a milestone never achieved by any team in any sport in the history of our nation. This team has been in continually in existence longer than any team in sports, with its inception in 1883. As of this blog we are currently 15 games away from this milestone that captures the essence of our struggle. We are a mere 15 losses away from reaching 10,000 losses all-time. TEN THOUSAND DEFEATS FOR ONE SINGLE TEAM!! And what do we have to show for our 124 years of "professional" play? A mere 9...NINE...playoff appearances and 1...ONE...world championship. Sad.

So as this passionate city prepares for this milestone, there is a celebration brewing as we embrace once again our role as the eternally defeated. In some ways it seems we secretly hope for defeat so that the city has something to bitch about. If we finally win one, where will we go from there? When the excitement of the championship finally wanes a year or two later, we will only be a few years removed from glory. Not much leverage to whine and complain there. And a city of raw, uncensored blue collared Philadelphians will be left with nothing more to bitch about than the mere daily shortcomings of individual games. Where's the fun in that? Futility and disappointment have become our identity, a birthright passed down from generations. Its the only explanation as to why we continually come back for more, filling seats and cheering our team on with an intensity unparalleled in any other city in America. We are the masochistic city fueled by failure. And we have 10,000 reasons to back it up.

Rules of Urinal Engagement

2007-05-25T21:06:00.000-04:00

As a man, there are many situations we encounter with other men that can be deemed awkward and unusual, creating uncomfortable silences or eliciting immediate talk about football or pussy. Things such as; drawing attention to a piece of decor that has been added to your living room accentuating the drapes; telling another man his haircut looks great; hanging out with a guy who thinks the pink shirt fad is cool; or simply making the slightest inadvertent contact with another man's hand when you're walking next to him. Its these situations that make men cringe, creating the heeby-jeeby's and sleepless nights. These are the moments that keep therapists in business. We're all bound to experience them at one time or another, but dread the sheer thought of ourselves being the perpetrators of these situations.

One of the more delicate scenarios in a man's existence can be encountered in a place we cannot avoid as the necessity of human function requires it. It's called the restroom, the can, the john, the pisser, mom's kitchen...whatever you may call it, the purpose of this room is the same. When you gotta go, you gotta go. There is an obvious but distinct difference between a men's restroom and a women's restroom which alters the experience significantly. Tampon slot machines and "feminine waste" containers aside...which I suppose is about as awkward and uncomfortable as it gets, not to mention downright eerie and nasty...men face an experience that can be considered uncomfortably personal if not played right.

Women have the distinct luxury of solidarity in their restroom experience as they are cordoned off in individual stalls like horses in a stable. Fortunately piles of poop resting in mounds of hay has given way to plumbing and much more sanitary means of waste disposal (with the exception of the aforementioned "feminine waste containers", or "poon boxes" as I refer to them). This level of privacy most certainly creates an element of comfort and relaxation, allowing the flow of whatever substance is exiting to do so freely and with ease. It's a temporary barrier from the world around you, a few brief minutes of peace...or 30-45 minutes depending on what you ate for lunch. And because the stall is the only option in the restroom experience of a woman, the need to maintain the cleanliness of the throne in which you squat is paramount. For men unfortunately...Well let's just say our experience is as different as men and women themselves.

Going back to these "awkward" situations between men, none is more prevalent and unavoidable than a trip to the urinal. Standing less than 3 feel from another man whilst both of your dicks are whipped out sheltered only by hand that guides it...now THAT'S peace and comfort!! We are the unfortunate breed who are not afforded the sanctity of our own urination luxury boxes. Yes I know, most women will bitch that they have no choice but to squat and our ability to stand is a gift in itself. Well to that I say...OK you're right, it is pretty badass. But for every gift of badass-ness, there is a price that must be paid.

There are unwritten "Rules of Engagement" when using a restroom urinal. Rules that you must heed to not only relieve yourself, but to survive. The fact that rules even exist to answer the call of Mother Nature is in itself cruel, but it is a daunting task we as men must face...the sacrifice for sweet release.

For whatever sick, twisted and perverse reason most men's restrooms contain an odd number of urinals. Who devised this urinary schematic should be shot. I'm assuming it was either a woman or a gay man. First Rule of Engagement, if you are blessed with an empty restroom (cue Halleluiah chorus), always...ALWAYS choose the urinal on the farthest left or right. This not only affords you the comfort and peace of mind knowing your personal space will be upheld for the duration of your experience, it is an expected courtesy to those who may enter thereafter. Tactically it leaves only one exposed side to defend. DON'T be the guy who is standing in the middle of an empty row, no one likes "that guy". You might as well have a sign on your back that says, "Waiting for Strange Cock".

Should you enter a restroom with sporadic urinal occupancy, always go with the "every other urinal" rule, NEVER taking a urinal directly next to a man when it is not absolutely necessary. Life and death, my bladder is about to explode necessary. This is the same philosophy used when determining seating when seeing movies with a group of guys (which in itself is a questionable decision). If every other urinal is taken you have 2 choices:

1. Find a stall. Every attempt should be made to avoid being a urinal neighbor. If the stalls are taken by other wise gentlemen who follow the Rules of Engagement you can do as I do and head to the sink to pre-wash your hands, buying time for the appropriate spot to open. Rule of thumb, do not wait behind a man who is doing his business. It's creepy, it adds pressure and its voyeuristic in a way that should only be reserved for S&M gay bars.

2. Suck it up and join the herd.

Should you find yourself filling a void next to, or worse, in between two guys, a whole new situation presents itself. Peeing next to another guy is a battle of mind over matter as well as intense discipline. To me it's the equivalent of a porn star who is being directed to give the money shot with little to no notice. Cameras rolling and 15 people staring...waiting. You simply freeze up and the floodgates are slammed shut. It becomes particularly difficult when the restroom is small and silent. You want to drain that bad boy quick and get the hell out, but the pressure to put a rush delivery on the stream only hastens the process. When I am personally faced with this dilemma I simply close my eyes and envision myself of a deserted beach peeing freely into the ocean as the waves crash around me and the breeze tickles my nads. Always does the trick.

Once the flow is a go, there are rules that must be followed:

Eyes forward! Never, under any circumstances, look anywhere but straight ahead or down at your dick. You should know your dick better than the alphabet through the intense observation required from your urinal experience. Should you have the tremendous fortune of having a blessed divider between you and your pee neighbor this task should be much easier and the experience far less stressful; but the significance of The Rules of Engagement are never to be diminished, lax, or downplayed. The result could be catastrophic.

If you find yourself in a cheap and evil establishment that wouldn't front the measly bill for a damn 2 inch thick 4x2 foot piece of wood, leaving only the air between you, you've gotta be on the ball.

Wait a minute, on second thought scratch that. Stay the hell away from the ball. EYES FORWARD! Study flecks of paint finding ones that resemble silhouettes of cast members from Gilligan's Island; look through the wall like it's one of those 3-D pictures that make you cross-eyed; memorize the "for a good time call" phone number on the wall (calling it later is optional and acceptable in moments of desperation); stare at that wall it as if it had a picture of the most beautiful woman you've ever laid eyes on laying spread eagle on the hood of the hottest car you can imagine (whatever you do, DO NOT sport wood with this thought). Total focus, undeterred like a laser beam. If you happen to be cursed with exceptional peripheral vision, sucks to be you, close your lids fish eyes. You may not want to look, but you'll see.

Don't talk! There is no excuse, reason, or rationale for urinal chat. There are no barstools or TV's in here, and I'm not your shrink, your buddy, or your priest (if I was your priest I'd have your dick in my hand by "hello"). If this rule isn't a documented law, then our great nation is worse off than I thought. I'm here to piss, our dicks are in our hands, I'm focusing on peeing freely in the ocean, this isn't Oprah...save it for your boyfriend Dr. Phil.

These are but a few of the simple but critical rules for the male restroom experience. If you follow them correctly you'll get out of the restroom with not only your dignity, but your manhood. Treat your restroom visit like a mafia hit is going on at the table next to you. Sure you can clearly see Vinny No Thumbs choking Johnny the Snitch to death but, "you know nothing and you see nothing"...eyes in your plate. Enjoy your fucking linguine. This is why men have incredible bladder control, we are trained to contain.

So you see, its sometimes a delicate task for a man to heed the call of Mother Nature. And forget about #2. No man shall shiteth in a public restroom. The only exception being a disguised fart that spilled a little somethin' somethin' in your drawers. It's already there and you've gotta let it go. And explosive diarrhea is a given. The necessity of stall use to avoid being a pee neighbor essentially makes toilets enclosed urinals. Blind quadruple amputees have better aim than the atrocities that lie everywhere but the inside the bowl. The regard for toilet cleanliness is non-existent in a stall and no level of colon pressure can justify squatting on those bad boys.

So women, as you wait in the inevitable queue lines that snake a path hundreds of feet from your restroom entrance, always remember that your patience and time shall be rewarded with an experience that would be deemed heavenly and immaculate by men's standards. For us there are rules to follow, strategies to be plotted, movements, mannerisms, actions and reactions to be monitored and calculated, and even when you play the game right there is no guarantee you will have fulfilled the purpose of your visit. Unless of course you have your own beach to get you through...but it sure as hell better not be MY beach because if you so much as LOOK at my beach while I'm pissing in my ocean I will kick your ass!!!

I leave you with the words of a bathroom attendant I saw in a club years ago after every man finished his business,

"Don't forget to wash that dick off yo hands!"

Dead Beat Dad

2007-05-24T23:59:00.001-04:00

I stumbled upon this amongst my vast collection of writing when I apparently needed to vent about the Dad who never was.

You had a chance to prove yourself, to show what you’ve become-

You had a chance to save yourself, to face up to what’s been done.

You had your chance, you took a breath, just for a minute in your wake-

Your one fleeting moment to do what’s right, to realize what’s at stake.

You looked inside your shallow soul, so narrow and incomplete-

And somewhere within those thoughts inside you, you proved that you were weak.

The space of conscience between thought and action evaded you that day-

So you packed your shit and hit the road, and forever went away.

How do you look back on all you’ve done…accomplished, strived for, and attained?

When the shadow you cast on those innocent souls, forever caused them pain.

No matter how far you go, nor the mountains you climb, every step has been a lie-

For the skeletons you’ve cast and the demons you’ve created are far too great to hide.

So carry on this path you’ve forged, while the baggage may seem light-

Your burdens few, your independence wide, an endless horizon in sight.

For the path you travel is lit from behind you, by what you’ve created in your past-

And forever as your soul shall walk this earth, you’ll be faced with the shadow you’ve cast.

The Superstition of Sports

2007-05-20T19:34:00.000-04:00

I remember it as if it were yesterday...May 20th, 2007. Wait, that was yesterday.

January 11, 2004...the Philadelphia Eagles are up against the Green Bay Packers in the NFC Divisional Playoff game. The Eagles had just commenced a stellar 12 win, 4 loss season claiming 10 victories over their last 11 games. The Packers of Green Bay finished off their season with a respectable 10 win and 6 loss record and were seemingly outmatched against a deep and well rounded Philadelphia squad. Philly was playing a sub-par game and found themselves trailing 17-14 with less than a minute left in the game. The Eagles were driving to get into field goal range in a desperate attempt to salvage what had up until this moment been a strong season. As QB Donovan McNabb dropped back to pass, the entire city of Philadelphia felt the prick of a rusty hand crafted prison shank pierce their lungs, deflating all hope of a Super Bowl year. McNabb was sacked for a 16 yard loss. 4th down, an insurmountable 26 yards to go.

As I sat there in complete shock and disbelief, tears started to well in my eyes. How could this be? Were we cursed? Had we pissed off God THAT bad? Why were we being handed down this cruel twist of fate?

The Eagles exited their huddle looking like someone had stepped on the heads of their new puppies. And as McNabb took center I saw it out of the corner of my eye. The remote control had been moved! It was no longer pointing Northeast!! Before the ball was snapped I dove to the coffee table and readjusted it's position. The ball was then snapped, McNabb was patient in the pocket looking for an open receiver...time slowed to a crawl. He scrambled to avoid being sacked once more and launched a bullet up the middle of the field to wide receiver Freddy Mitchell. Mitchell absorbed the pass and was hammered on the spot. The pass gained 27 yards. First down!!! The Eagles marched down the field and tied the game, eventually winning in overtime. That play would forever be heralded in Philadelphia sports history as "4th and 26". It was a moment that t-shirts were made after. And this bit of history would never have been had I not caught the misaligned remote.

August 23rd, 1993...Phillie vs. Mets. The Phillies were clinging on to a tight divisional lead as the playoffs approached. The rival New York Mets were hot on their trail. In a pitchers duel between Doc Gooden and Curt Schilling the Mets had a 2-1 lead going into the 9th. Gooden was on fire as he struck out 12 batters on the day. Going for a complete game he walked lead off hitter Lenny Dykstra with 2 outs in the 9th bringing up Darren Daulton. Daulton was down in the count, 0 balls 2 strikes. Gooden had owned Daulton all game striking him out 2 times prior to this at bat. The game was looking bleak. The frustration and desperation was plastered all over his face. "What the hell is up with Daulton?", I thought to myself. Then it all became clear. I was sitting on the wrong end of the couch. The entire game I had been sitting on the same side of the couch I sat on when the Phillies blew a 5 run lead to the Pirates just weeks earlier. How could I have been so foolish!! I quickly darted to the correct cushion, Gooden winds up, fast ball inside...CRACK...gone!!! The 2 run homerun by Daulton won the game for the Phils who eventually went on to the World Series.

Few things are more gratifying than knowing you did your part to help your team avert defeat. Whether it's wearing the same clothes you had on the last time your team won...perhaps refusing to wash them in between. Inviting the same people over and positioning them in the same place they were in last game...and kicking out those who weren't there before without a second thought. Turning wall pictures upside down, eating dinner for breakfast and breakfast for dinner, counting the number of steps to and from the bathroom maintaining the same count each time, growing your playoff beard, or placing your team hat on top of the TV, these "superstitions" play a role in the outcome of games that few people truly understand.

Just this past weekend I had the tremendous misfortune of witnessing a very dear friend lose the Preakness Stakes and to a certain degree I feel partly responsible. A week earlier the Kentucky Derby ran and he was monumentally victorious, breaking a 5 year drought of picking the winner of this sacred race. As we set up for the Preakness the coffee table was moved to the side as it had during the Derby, we sat in the same seats as we did a week earlier, we wore the same clothes, the surround sound was turned on and at the exact numerical volume level as before. Everything was a clone for this race as it was the last. With one glaring exception...my wife had a friend over. As she walked in the door an hour before the race something inside me felt off. Would her presence throw off what we had so meticulously recreated? I eventually dismissed the idea and wondered if my friend had thought the same.

As the race ended in the most gut-wrenching defeat we began to ponder what went wrong. We eventually both crossed paths at the fact that this additional individual had been present. It all became glaringly clear. I knew in my heart I should have kicked her out at the first sight of her, but I didn't react to my most primal of sports instincts, to follow your superstitious vibes as if they are the word of God.

A very valuable and equally painful lesson was learned this day, further proving the point that these little intricacies have a profound impact on the sporting world. Never again shall I brush aside these gut feelings. I should have known better. I've followed this philosophy religiously all my life and the results have spoken for themselves.

There are certain things you just don't mess with in this world; speeding freight trains, women who are PMS'ing, hungry alligators, naked black men with "Man Lover" tattooed on their foreheads, gravity, the IRS...and sports superstitions. Now if I can only figure out how to rearrange my bedroom furniture to land an Eagles Super Bowl win, I can die a happy man.

Agreeing to Disagree

2007-05-17T22:25:00.000-04:00

There are many things in this world of ours that test us and taunt us in a manner which can create a mountain of self doubt and the feeling that what we feel and where we stand is invalid and inconsequential. Each of us is unique in that we react, emote and are conditioned to respond to various situations in a multitude of different ways. Any one given instance, event, or action can result in nearly every response and reaction imaginable depending on the individual. This is the beauty of being an individual…who we are and what we feel is unique unto us. It is ours, and whether perceived as right or wrong it is no less significant or meaningful because others may not see it that way.

We are all bred and ingrained with “buttons” that when pushed send a surge of emotion that trumps all others. Perhaps they are rooted from our upbringing, or created by moments in our past that forge mechanisms of defense, fight, or flight. They are meant to protect, they are meant to alert, and they are even mean to entice and arouse. Some of us have more of these “buttons” than others, but regardless of how many we possess and the functions of them each, they are ours and they serve a purpose for a reason that is our own.

Agreeing to disagree is a common ground without a common view, a compromise forged when a stalemate has been reached and two sides remain planted firmly in their ideas, actions, morals, or beliefs. While one side may not necessarily agree with the stance of the other, agreeing to disagree can take 2 paths when this situation presents itself.

The first is to Respectfully Agree to Disagree. While the two sides may not see eye-to-eye, the opinions of each can be generally understood by one another as they attempt to put the shoe on the other foot to better comprehend the stance of one another. These topics are generally less controversial than most, typically inciting less passion or fanaticism in the debate. Topics such as; white vs. wheat, Rocky I vs. Rocky III, or Brunettes vs. Red-heads (Redheads baby…read-heads). While Respectfully Agreeing to Disagree debates can be quite heated, they generally do not create stubborn blindness and a refusal to see where the other side is coming from.

The second is to Begrudgingly Agree to Disagree. These tend to be the doosies…the whoppers that incite riots, rampages and mayhem. OK, perhaps that’s taking it a bit far but these debates nonetheless create an absolute refusal of both sides to see, understand, or accept the stance of the other. These debates are commonly referred to as taboo in most conversational situations and can range from the abortion debate, religion, gay marriage, politics, and cannibalism (tastes like chicken!). These are the untouchables, the topics that are carved in stone, the unwritten laws that hold firm and steadfast in the individual regardless of what opinion, idea, or philosophy may counter it. “The sky is blue and no matter what you try to tell me or convince me otherwise it will be that way…PERIOD! Don’t even try it because I’m not budging!” And as the other side twitches in befuddlement, stirring in an incomprehensible stupor, they must settle, and like it or not…Begrudgingly Agree to Disagree.

To me, this is the beauty of individualism. The fact that regardless what our feelings and beliefs may be, they are our own. And they are so to the point where we stand our ground on them, firm and solid. Whether its faith, belief or hardcore fact, we have come to this conclusion for a reason. And that conclusion is now a part of who we are. Our ideals, visions, beliefs, morals, thoughts, ideas…our conclusions, make us the individuals we are. And while some may be deemed stubborn, ignorant, or blind in the views they possess, the strength in maintaining your respective stance only deepens the significance they hold.

Every day minds are changed and ideas are presented that shed new light on subjects that were once thought to be in essence, law. An open mind, regardless of how firm our stance may be is the key to approaching situations of conflict or debate. But every so often when the volleys are lobbed back and forth, each time hitting a wall as thick as the one it rooted from, the decision must be made to Agree to Disagree. When faced with this situation, remember that no matter now passionate or intense your opinion or view may be, the other side has come to their conclusion for a reason. It may be a reason you will never comprehend or understand, but the reason for their conclusion is no less valid or legitimate than your own. That is the beauty of Agreeing to Disagree. The beauty of compromise.

If you don’t like it, you can go fuck yourself.

Brain Drano

2007-05-16T19:56:00.000-04:00

I've been in a God-awful writing slump lately and to tell you the truth its beginning to piss me off. I've written dozens upon dozens of paragraphs over the past 2 weeks force-feeding my fingers to type things that simply don't exist in my brain. These droughts are nothing new to me as I have a tendency to have bursts of thoughts and ideas where I can crank out 4-5 blogs a week like some assembly line processing good old fashioned boxes of brain flakes. Then, without warning I hit a brick wall. The valve is shut, the lights are turned off, and the WELCOME WE'RE OPEN sign is slowly flipped over to SORRY WE'RE CLOSED as the credits role and the exit music plays.

Perhaps I spout out too much too soon. Maybe I should learn to pace myself. Slow and steady wins the race right? Bullshit. When you have a thought, rant or desire to purge you've gotta go full force. With the inner workings of my mind I've gotta grab what's in there and hold on to it for dear life. Too many brilliant ideas have come and gone like puffs of smoke from a finely crafted glass bong. But those days are done, and with them the excuses for low productivity. So its time to get my ass in gear and rise to the occasion!! What occasion you ask? Well lets take a look at how insane the world has become. These are but a few of the actual "occasions" for the month of May:

Asian/Pacific American Heritage Month
Mental Health Month
Allergy/Asthma Awareness Month
National Good Car Keeping Month
National Strawberry Month
National Chocolate Custard Month
Foot Health Month
National Physical Fitness and Sports Month
National High Blood Pressure Month
National Hamburger Month
Arthritis Month
Better Sleep Month
Correct Posture Month
National Salad Month
Older Americans Month
National Barbecue Month
National Bike Month
National Mine Month
National Egg Month
National Artisan Gelato Month
National Asparagus Month
National Macaroon Day
National Salad Month
National Salsa Month
National Share A Story month

I shit you not. These are all legit. This is what the month of May represents. Screw the April showers that bring May flowers, there is Artisan Gelato to recognize!! And you WILL recognize!! First there was Black History Month and now THIS?? Our penchant for drawing attention to the useless and mundane has reached new heights. Bravo America...BRA-FUCKING-VO!!

Now that you've all been injected with that dose of brilliance (my apologies), on to the point I intended to write many, many tangents ago...

I was watching a show on the National Geographic Channel yesterday about the history of Suicide Bombers...or The Cult of Suicide Bombers as they craftily deemed it. Back in the mid 80's some geniuses in the Middle East contrived the idea of using their own people as human weapons against their enemies. Truthfully, its not a bad scheme if you look at it from a tactical standpoint. They caught not only their enemies off guard, they caught the world off guard. Young men and women are brainwashed under the guise of martyrdom, ingrained with the belief that their acts are honorable, heroic and will please their god sending them to an eternal paradise. They later went on to throw in the "12 virgins await you in heaven" as a sweetener to the deal. Its the same concept "NOW WITH MARSHMALLOWS" had with Alphabets Cereal. Even martyrdom needs to stay up to date with the fads of the kids, and the kids love them some virgins!

As the "craft" of suicide bombing evolved, they soon upgraded to car bombs and truck bombs. Equally evasive and inconspicuous but with hundreds of times they destructive power. Crafty little towel heads...crafty! As I'm watching the videos of these pieces of sand sludge videotape the "missions" from a distance, a few of them tickled my fancy in a way that suicide bombings really shouldn't...but they did.

Johnny Jihad is driving a nondescript truck hauling ass to catch up with a bus full of Jewish settlers. Being ever-alert and rightfully on edge, these brave (insane?) bus drivers are always aware and vigilant of such attempts. So the driver of the bus sees what's transpiring and proceeds to haul ass through the valley. Much to the dismay of Johnny Jihad (JJ) whose truck is packed so full of explosive goodies he simply cannot catch up. Presumptuously distraught and eager for martyrdom (after all, I bought this jumpsuit for death and I'm not about to return it!), JJ abandons his chase and seeks a new target. Off in the distance a checkpoint of Jewish soldiers catches his eye. YUMMY! Fortunately they've witnessed this cat and mouse chase and are prepared for what lies ahead. As JJ speeds toward the checkpoint, the 4 soldiers manning their post haul ass in every direction. And in the blink of an eye - BAM!!!! A massive explosion rocks the area. The shock wave covers and area of 500 feet and a cloud of smoke plumes hundreds of more feet in the air. The damage...no one dead, no one injured, not even so much as a broken nail.

Johnny Jihad died for naught. SUCKER!! These are the stories that make me giggle with glee. The horror and insanity of a suicide bomber does indeed have a humorous side to it...those who fail. I envision the preparation, the prayers, the goodbyes, the coaching and coaxing, the time, effort, sweat and tears. So much invested, so much hope, so much evil...and they fucked it up. Morons.

Every cloud has a silver lining, and this my friends is the silver lining of the suicide bomber. There are those who are bound to fail, and the more destruction and terror they cause, the more it amplifies the hilarity of their shortcomings.

Where I went with this blog may be questionable, tasteless, or simply "HUH?" My point isn't really to make a point, rather this is my way of unclogging the pipes. The usual flow, direction and substance I try to maintain has been chucked out the window to get the cogs in motion once again. So don't hold this one against me or use it as a reference for future literary compilations of the 21st Century. More will follow...hopefully soon. Should it not....well.....shit.

IgnorImus

2007-04-16T00:57:00.001-04:00

OK folks, this whole Imus fiasco has gone on long enough. The media circus is still revolving around this story with the intensity of starving vultures over a massive herd of freshly slaughtered cow carcasses. The fact that it even received this level of attention to begin with is appalling. We're going on 2 weeks now since first Imus spoke those words and its still as fresh in the spotlight as the moment the first person said, "Oh no he didn't!!" With all of the far more serious and critical news and information that so desperately needs our attention, our simple-minded short attention spans are diverted to this bullshit like a jingling shiny object to a child with A.D.D. Its no wonder we can't repair what is so evidently crumbling around us. The urgency needed to turn this misguided and deteriorating world around is overshadowed weekly by mundane, insignificant, mindless bullshit that serves no purpose other than to dehumanize us and further enhance our finely crafted penchant for ignorance and stupidity.

Yes, Imus is an idiot for not knowing when and where to speak the garbage that litters his decrepit mind. His words, thoughts, rants & raves fill the airwaves throughout this great nation on a daily basis. His audience reaches well over a million people, with the potential for millions more. Certainly any and all verbal purges he does not filter or censor will be scrutinized under the microscope of political correctness this country has shamefully fallen victim to. He's done it before and he will surely do it again...and he has. Except this time its bitten him in the ass...hard. His job, and likely his career, is over. Is the punishment fitting? Absolutely not.

Nearly 2 weeks ago, Imus called the Rutgers womens college basketball team "nappy-headed hos". A team that is primarily comprised of black women. Poor choice of words there buddy. Anyone with half a brain can should know that spouting out words like that will not incur the most positive repercussions. For a man who's been in the business for decades, he should know better. But judging by past moments of ignorance, he seemingly falls just below the bar of half-brained. So it's settled, the man made a dumb ass remark and consequences are sure to...and should...follow. This is where things get carried away.

Lets forget about the First Amendment and Freedom of Speech for one moment. We are living in 2007 America anyway so its not too far fetched to imagine an existence with limited and regressing rights. While this amendment is one of many which are vital to the integrity of our country, there are tremendous limitations when using this right in certain forums. Particularly when Big Business is involved; when your words now represent Big Business and the sponsors get angry, the almighty dollar trumps this freedom. I get this, and the Freedom of Speech argument I've heard regarding this subject doesn't hold water here...unfortunately.

Double Standard. Perhaps you've heard this phrase echoing the TV and radio stations as they find every conceivable angle to approach this story. For years now black rappers, comedians, TV personalities and actors to name a few have talked about bitches and hos, and nappy ass weaves quite liberally. They speak a word that was once so abominable and derogatory that up until 15 years ago the use of it would incite anger, rage and resentment. I am of course referring to the word n*gger. As I write that sentence I debate whether or not to edit it as I have. Even if it is being used to explain a point in which it refers. The point in this Double Standard? When and why is it OK for some people to use a word, but not others? If it's good for one, it should be good for all. The "n-word" in my mind is indeed an abhorrent word, but how can it not be to the people it was used against for so long? I can never conceive of nor understand this point for obvious reasons. Now what about nappy-headed hos? It's sung about, talked about, used as the subject for comedy as well as insult. Its used as freely and openly as "please pass the salt" in come circles. Its OK for them, but not for Imus. Double Standard.

Now lets talk about the apology. Imus made a remark to the women of the Rutgers College basketball team. They were the subject, the target...the victims if you will. And because race is involved (although nappy headed is a knock on their hair, and hos refers to a woman who gets around...no race there, right? I know, I know.) the typical slime seeps out of the woodwork. Somewhere in a dark pit of sleaze and greed a red phone rings. The phone sits on a pedestal in the center of a room like the centerpiece of some priceless museum display. And when it rings lights flash, sirens howl and bells ring like a fire house in go-mode. It is the cornerstone of the organization, the key to its success. Whenever an issue of race hits the news this is the hub, central operations, the command center of it all. Racing to the ringing phone with the speed and fury of doped track star Ben Johnson, a man jerks the receiver to his ear.

"Go ahead"

"Mr. Sharpton...we have a situation"

And so it begins. Sharpton sounds an alarm in the Civil Rights Bat Cave and soon his sidekick Jesse Jackson darts eagerly to his side. Finally, they have a situation to exploit for their own agenda and their attention starved egos. We now have a "representative" for all black people who have been slighted. They were not called or summoned by the women of the Rutgers basketball team. Hell, no one asked them to crawl out of the rocks they reside under. They just appear, like roaches when the lights turn off. It's time to spark a protest, a boycott...a travesty is in the making!! Make sure you get my good side for this press conference!!

Sharpton is now the judge and the jury. For it is he who will ultimately accept or deny the apology that ensues. Just as he did in the Michael Richards fiasco, Sharpton represents and speaks for an entire race of people. I don't know about you but if someone had the audacity to speak for me if someone took a jab at me, I'd tell them to back the hell off. I fight my own battles. Who the hell entitles this man to do what he does?

Listen, the man was put through the ringer. Like I said, his comments were off base, ridiculous and ignorant. I in no way condone his words, nor do I support him. But for the love of God to take away his job??? That's just bullshit. Overkill because when a jackass like Sharpton takes advantage of the race card, corporate America falls to its knees because it fears the dreaded race card more than any other. And Sharpton knows this. Can no one tell Sharpton, OK the guy has been punished enough, he apologized, has been dragged through the mud in the press, and his reputation has taken a huge hit. Apology accepted, let's move on. Go back to your radio show where the leash will be tighter than ever, serve a lengthy suspension and prepare to live under an electron microscope for the rest of your career. That would be more than punishment enough for a comment as simple as "nappy-headed hos". Ever listen to Stern when he was on radio? Nappy-headed hos is NOTHING!

Shame on you Imus for being a moron. Shame on you Sharpton for taking advantage of racism and using the black people as your publicity and agenda plugging tool. Shame on you corporate America for bowing to your knees and being the spineless bitch of people like Sharpton. Shame on you America for allowing yourselves to be sucked into this story and every other senseless gossip column controversy as you remain inexcusably blind to the stories we all need to pay attention to.

And shame on me for allowing this bullshit to eat away at me enough to have to write this. But hey, someone has to bitch slap you bastards to open your eyes. Wait, did I say bitch slap? Isn't that what a pimp does? Oh shit, Sharpton's phone's ringing!!!

The Sleaze of Sneeze

2007-04-07T21:29:00.000-04:00

It's a conspiracy...a CONSPIRACY I SAY!!! For the past 2-3 months straight...although lets say the past 6 months for the sake of a scrumptious read...I have been unable to smell the world around me (which in some cases is a blessing), or breathe with even the slightest bit of ease. I've been stuffed up, clogged up, and plugged up like a...well, there's a gang bang joke here but its too easy, so I'll refrain. I think you get the picture. Everyone I've encountered has been suffering the same fate. It doesn't fall in the same category of the flu, cold, or any of the other strains of vicious viruses plaguing the land. It's something much more sinister and evasive. It's not enough to lay you up for days on your sofa while you watch 20 year old reruns of General Hospital (not that I ever would), but its just enough to make you daily existence one hell of an annoyance.

Some call it pollen, some call it spores, some call it mold or dander or dust or pestilence. Whatever the hell it is, it has burrowed its way into a nice little crevice in our nasal cavities and established imminent domain. The foundation's been laid, the white picket fence has been erected and a nice little swing set has been built for the offspring that will soon follow. You can't avoid it my friends. Add this to death and taxes as the only certainties of life...Death, Taxes, and Allergies. Unless you're the bubble boy (I'm sorry, the answer is Moops...Moops) breathing will never be the same.

I know what you're asking at this very moment, "But you mentioned a conspiracy Boyce, what about the conspiracy??" Glad you're paying attention, you get a gold star my friend. The conspiracy you so deftly inquired about lays in the corrupt corporate machine that is the TISSUE COMPANY. That's right, the tissue companies.

Don't let their commercials fool you with their soft, snuggly, comforting message of lotion filled nasal relief. The only blowing that's done here is the smoke they're blowing up your ass. Take your standard run-of-the-mill tissue. No lotion or extra soft 3-ply...just the generic old school version. So ahead and grab one of those bad boys. Now blow baby blow!! Be sure to do this in a well lit area with a dark background. It works great in your car on a sunny day with the windows up. Now go ahead and blow yourself into an aneurysm. Now take a look around you...dust. Tons upon tons of white run off from the very object that is supposed to clear your nose. The air is now filled with white tissue dust created by just one blow. As you crumble the tissue and discard it, taking that first deep breath of life-giving oxygen with newly excavated nasal passage, what happens? You guessed it...in goes the dust. Once again, without warning or knowledge, the very item that was supposed to clear you out has filled you up. This can only result in one consequence...the need for another tissue.

I now ask a question that we all inevitably ask...where the hell does this shit come from? This "pollen" so many speak of. Text books throughout history will tell you a tale of botanical nature in which pollen is created and housed in various plants. They will then tell you that bees pick up the pollen in their physical attraction to the plants that create it. As the pollen sticks to the bee it hitches a ride along the path of the bee's travels as the bee drops bits of it, pollinating other plants. They will also tell you the wind aids in the spread of this congestive nuisance.

It's time to call bullshit where bullshit is due.

You expect me to believe that bees are one of the primary sources of spreading this shit? I'd expect massive swarms so thick they block out the sun with the amount of pollen that litters the landscape. I don't think so. Its the tissue companies. They pump tons and tons of laboratory made, genetically engineered pollen into the air via smoke stacks and air drops. Perhaps you've gazed toward the sky and observed what are commonly known as "contrails" streaked across the sky like some godly game of tic-tac-toe. Planes leaving trails of cloud-like matter in their wake. Do a little research on this and you will find this phenomenon is unexplained. Indeed. Pollen my friends. Have you ever felt a sneeze coming on and in order to bring it on to get it over with you look toward the sky? Works every time doesn't it? Air dropped pollen falling from the heavens like invisible snow, caking the world around us.

Don't be fooled good people of America. If we have learned anything over the past few years it is that corporations run us and will stop at nothing to earn the almighty dollar. They have taken the one thing that is vital to our existence...breathing. All in an effort to peddle fraction of a millimeter thin paper. Hell of a trade off...air for Puffs. And let's not even get into the pharmaceutical companies they are in cahoots with as they bank on the booming business of allergy medicine. Claratin...well over $10 for a week's supply. Nice!

The next time you sneeze, listen carefully...for in the distance you will here the sound of change piling up in a vault somewhere...chump change.

And to you...to all of you...I say, God Bless You.

In the sick of it

2007-03-31T21:28:00.000-04:00

Man, something is awry in this world of ours. Aside from the obvious war and turmoil that is festering like a vaseline covered zit on a 14 year old boy. We're all well aware of the seemingly apocalyptic demise lurking in the air like some foul stench of death...piled on worse than my over usage of analogies. It's not the insane weather, global warming, or extinction of thousands of species every hour. These are all global calamities that are evident and undeniable. What I'm referring to is on a more personal, localized level. An eerie and tragic uprising so vast that it can't help but slap me upside the head with a good ol' dose of humility...and fear.

Everywhere around me friends and acquaintances are falling victim to numerous ailments and medical conditions. It seems to have come out of nowhere, a surprise attack of illness so massive it can't help but raise suspicion and wonder. What the hell is going on? I understand that we are all mortal and are not immune to the ravages of rogue cells and molecular anarchists. The world of medicine can only reach so far as the viruses and diseases catch on to our defenses and morph into impenetrable cocoons, fending off our antibodies and elixirs like a fly on the windshield of a race car. SMACK!! SPLAT!!! Gone.

I suppose as time takes its course and we transition from the immortality of youth to the creaking, aching and creeping days of old age, these things are bound to increase. But for the love of God, I'm in the infancy of my 30's! I'm not ready to see friends and loved ones take a hit like this. The sudden surge of cancer has been jaw-dropping. Just when I pick myself up off the floor from my astonishment of the first 3, a 4th has been struck. What the hell is going on I say?

Perhaps our ever increasing need for a no fat, no sugar, no carb diet and lifestyle is finally giving us a dose of "Oh bye the way...” For every reaction there is an equal and opposite reaction. The chemicals and processed shit that infests these so called "healthy alternatives" are just that...alternatives. Alternatives to actual, real food. Genetically engineered, laboratory made ingredients one molecule removed of plastic. Saran Wrap morphing into margarine. This is the price we pay for trying to do what we believe is the right thing for our health.

Or perhaps this is rooted from our gluttonous lifestyle of fries, shakes and insatiable thirst for cow. Animals pumped with hormones and antibiotics, which in turn are ingested into our bodies. Plants, fruits and veggies laden with pesticides and herbicides. Facial products, hair products, lotions, oils and "Made with aloe and Vitamin E" shampoos. Let us not forget about the chemistry final exam surrounding these "natural" ingredients.

What the HELL is going on?

Every day a new ailment nudges its way to the forefront of the mainstream media.

"Do you find your mind constantly wandering at times when you should be focused? Thinking of what to make for dinner, what to wear tomorrow, or what tomorrow’s weather will be instead of focusing on your child's story of his days adventures? Reminisce about the humorous twists and turns of Will Wonka and the Chocolate Factory while you should be filling out your TPS reports? You have ADD my friend! Gotta pill for it...and your doc today!"

"Leg twitching during your sleep, bouncing feverishly under your desk at work, or bucking like a bronco during sex? Restless Leg Syndrome baby!! Gotta pill for it...race to your doc NOW!!!"

"It's not a going problem asshole...it's a GROWING problem!! Gotta a fucking pill!!!"

"Herpes...it's not just for skanks and prostitutes anymore. Pills baby pills!!"

I recently got over what was by far the longest most frustrating flu I've ever encountered. I've never been sick for more than 3-4 days. Like a bully in gym class I give viruses atomic wedgies and lock them in their locker until the bell rings to go home. They may catch me off guard and knock me down, but I bounce back and bitch slap them fast. Not this one. 3 solid weeks of misery. It was a resilient strain. A strain resistant to a 10 DAY ANTIBIOTIC. I'm not a big believer in antibiotics and stay away from them at all cost, but this one was too big to ignore. 10 days and not a dent.

Something is certainly awry and it’s spreading fast. From cancer to the common cold we're falling like dominoes. While you can't control or foresee the big ones, do your best to take care of yourselves and the minor ailments will hopefully take heed. Never take for granted the health you have, and for that matter the health of those you love. We are not immortal nor are we impenetrable. We all know this, but every so often a wake up call is in order to remind us that our lives and our health are as precious as anything we have.

What the hell is going on? Beats the hell out of me.

The Longest Goodbye

2007-03-27T21:27:00.000-04:00

It's been 41 days and I'm still torn up inside. My heart ripped to shreds as if it had happened mere moments ago. I honestly didn't think it would be this difficult to overcome. I mean, there is a definite period of shock and grieving that inevitably comes with events like this, but wow...41 days.

At one time or another in each of our respective lives we will encounter a definitive moment, event, or occurrence so intense, we will forever remember the very moment in time in which it was thrust upon us. You may have been cooking dinner, driving home from a long day at work, or wrapping up a nice long dry hump during the spin cycle of your washing machine. Every detail is as crystal clear in your memory as the very moment it occurred. Where were you when Neil Armstrong first step foot on the moon? When Kennedy was shot? When the Berlin wall tumbled? When OJ lead 50 police cars on a torrid 25 mph chase on the LA freeway? When the cock sucking coward terrorist swine struck on 9/11? Chances are if you've lived to witness any of these moments you have a clear recollection of where you were and what you were doing when you heard, or saw these events take place.

41 days...

I can't shake it. Perhaps it was the intensive non-stop news coverage that still flashes in bursts in my head. The 24 hour media blitz for weeks on end. It was all just too much for me to bear, a sensory overload of raw emotion. My dreams are plagued with flashbacks of Wolf Blitzer coupled with the hazy remnants of Larry King. These ancient men who by all rational laws of nature should not be alive, working feverish overtime to provide up-to-the-second coverage of a national calamity. I just can't seem to shake it...when will you subside this demon inside?

41 days...

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder perhaps? It would certainly be warranted. Seems to be all the rage these days. All the kids have it. It's the new ADD and Restless Leg Syndrome. Gotta drug for it...ask me how!

41 days...

41 days since you've been gone, my sweet, voluptuous Anna Nicole. The temptress of America, a legend in her short time. The Marilyn Monroe of our generation some say. I say bullshit. Marilyn MonHOE had nothing on Anna. Anna's immense impact on society and the very world in which we live has been brilliantly illustrated in the media frenzy that followed her untimely and tragic demise. The war in Iraq? Oh, there's a war? Push that to page 2. No wait, make that page 3...there's a custody battle brewing here! Massive blizzard slams the Northeast...a ravishing flood strikes Indonesia...The stock market takes the largest one day plunge in history, the arctic icecap will be a regulation sized ice hockey rink in 5 years. The sky is falling!! The sky is falling!! Falling indeed, for Anna herself has fallen.

Anna's intentional weight gain, substance abuse, and deceptively believable downward spiral; followed by her miraculous turn around physically and mentally, was a mere ploy to inspire those who are themselves obese and strung out. A risky and meticulously calculated maneuver, Anna proved to us all that you can overcome any obstacle no matter how immense with a little strength, willpower, perseverance...and a few hundred million dollars inherited from a deceased great-great-grandfather/husband. Anna Nicole Smith epitomized what we all aspire to be and what each of us hope and desire to have within ourselves.

41 days...

The pain subsides a little with each passing day, due large in part to an exorbitant amount of xanax and percocet...my way of holding on to a piece of Anna's legacy. As the story fades from the front page of every legitimate newspaper; as the constant scrolling coverage at the bottom of every news channel dissipates; as the persistent interrupting BREAKING NEWS coverage trickles from every 10 minutes to every hour; and the flashy THE DEATH OF ANNA NICOLE graphics and musical scores are sent to the archives of monumentally historic news events as well as the Smithsonian; the so-called "top stories" of war, politics, global warming, current local and global events, once again barge their way back into the forefront of the mainstream media like some spotlight starved diva.

41 days...

It was bound to happen. The grieving process will unfold as it should and we must all find a way to carry on with our lives...somehow. But that solid month of intense coverage and focus will forever be embedded in my heart and mind. This will be my Berlin Wall, my OJ chase...my 9/11.

41 days and counting...

A New Beginning

2007-01-27T21:23:00.000-05:00

Friends, Family, Loved Ones, and Not So Loved Ones,

In an effort to improve my outlook on life and maintain a healthy mental, physical, and spiritual existence, I have decided to apply a key token of wisdom that has been readily dispensed over the course of generations, but rarely heeded. And my time to heed is NOW. In my aimless travels through countless Myspace pages looking for old friends, distant relatives, and Over 50 Latina M.I.L.F.'s, I've concluded that I have all along been missing a vital component to my life and existence. One that I always knew existed, but never gave much thought to (unheeded).

I say now to these purveyors of guidance and enlightenment, those who have been generous and selfless enough to share this wisdom with the world on their Myspace "quote" section. The highlight and attention grabbing centerpiece of all Myspace pages. The quote that makes or breaks your Myspace legacy. I say THANK YOU to you all for what I am about to reveal. From this day forth I, Kris Boyce, shall:

"Live every day as if it were my last"

Just writing those words fills my soul with a warm, tingling feeling second only to a 10 minute orgasm via autoerotic asphyxiation. The quote that thousands upon thousands of Myspace dwellers use to spread the good word of this life lesson. It was now time for me to embrace this philosophy with open arms and figure out how I would live my existence from this day forth. I began to formulate and mold the foundation of my new life...the last day of my life.

As my quest begins to now live these words - to breathe them in and ingest them - the people I encounter on a daily basis will see evident changes in my presence, actions, demeanor and mindset. As I immerse myself in my new and improved way of life, these are but a few of the changes and improvements that lie ahead:

- For those of you who may have wronged me or slighted me in the distant or not-so-distant past, there is a high probability that I will jack you upside the head with the closest blunt object I can get my hands on. You can press charges, whine, cry or complain, but before you do, remember...this is my last day on earth.

- Should you see me act in a manner that suggests I have nary a care in the world, nor any shame, manners, or conscience...just let it be. It is my last day, and I will act as accordingly.

- Should I gorge myself with shitty food and massive quantities of alcohol, support my endeavor and cheer me on. And if I decide to drive immediately upon binge drinking the last of 15 Long Island Iced Teas, hand me the keys and give me a Daytona 500 pep talk so I may prepare myself for the race that lies ahead.

- If you are a relatively attractive woman (or just a woman with a pulse) with a firm bubbly ass or voluptuous breasts, I will likely fondle, grab, grope, caress or lube them up at will and without warning. I will do my best to be gentlemanly and ask prior to doing so, but the aforementioned inebriation may hinder this courtesy.

- Public urination and/or defecation is a virtual guarantee as my time is short and time racing to the john or can is precious time wasted.

- Any and all opinions, perceptions, thoughts and views I may have of you...good, bad, neutral or heinously vile...will be communicated as such without warning, provocation, or regard for personal feelings. The catharsis of a massive internal word purge is vital to a peaceful transcendence into the hereafter.

- Drug dealers of Orlando...stock up now, I'm cashing in the 401k and lookin' for some fun! Gotta try everything once, right? Well time's a wastin' and I mind as well go out in a haze of colors and crack smoke. KIDS...SAY NO TO DRUGS!!! (unless its your "last day")

- A quick trip to the ritzy Mall at Millennia here in Orlando will be in order so I may visit each of the high class, swanky, "you must be this rich to shop" stores and bitch slap every last one of those pretentious, botox-laden snobs who stare you down as if you are a piss-laden urinal cake who just walked up and dropped a hefty turd in their bowl of Binge Flakes. These of course are the same swine who go home to their studio loft over a garage, eat pints of ice cream (then purge), cry themselves to sleep each night because of their horrid self image and desperate loneliness, while worshiping Oprah and Dr. Phil as if they were Jesus and Mary. Oh and the public defecation I mentioned earlier? It's in a bag, and it's now all over your store....and you. Waste not want not bitches.

These are but a few of my "Live each day like its my last" endeavors. No more work, no more rules, no more excuses, no inhibition, hesitation or premeditation...it's MY LAST DAY.

So there you have it my friends, it's this way all day every day, until it's done...this life of mine. Your quotes have been read loud and clear, and when you sleep at night you can sleep with the comfort and reassurance that your quote has changed a life. For beginning tomorrow, I shall "Live Every Day Like It's My Last"

Sporty McSports-a-lot

2007-01-13T21:22:00.000-05:00

Sports...you either love them or you're indifferent to them. There is rarely a wide variation in the social preference and acceptance of sports in our society. There is of course a stigma attached to the stereotypical sports fan that often revolves around testosterone driven, beer drinking sausage fests. When in fact, sports to the typical American male is the epitome of the historic, ever-present "good vs. evil" mantra that drives every story, fantasy, and folklore that has been passed down from generation to generation. It is the outlet of our primitive instincts...the connection to our genealogical past.

The impact of sports to one who possesses such a profound interest in them, can be quite a strong force and have a tremendous impact on the existence of a "die-hard" fan. Usually the connection to a local team is established at birth. As was the case with me. I was born in Philadelphia, PA. 3 days after the Philadelphia Flyers won the Stanley Cup (that's "H-O-C-K-E-Y" to all you southern folk). Everyone I was related to, befriended, acquainted, or didn't even know at all (I was 3 days old for crying out loud!) was a die-hard Philly fan who partied in the streets for a solid week after that game. It was the one thing that could bring together a city of gritty, thick-skinned northerners with a penchant for spite and a thirst for "fuck you".

The baseball Phillies, the football Eagles, the basketball Sixers, and the Flyers. It was your birthright to adopt these teams as your own, and in this city the raw passion and emotion that was poured into them can be downright scary and intimidating. The first ever stadium jail and court was installed in the recently demolished Veterans Stadium as a result of the violent, rambunctious fans that inhabited it. Philly fans are world renowned for their intense passion for their local teams...and their bitter, abusive, and sometimes (often) violent disdain for defeat. Nearly every obscenity in my everyday vernacular was rooted from the disdain of Philly sports fans. The influence 21,000 raving hockey fans screaming "ASSSS HOOOOOLE...ASSSSS HOOOOOOLE..." repeatedly, along with dozens of other "choice words" will have a huge impact on a young impressionable mind. I loved every minute of it. And yes, this may validate the stereotype of "your typical sports fan", and to you I say, fuck off!

I'll never forget when I was 12 years old and attending my first Eagles game. As we walked toward the stadium from the graffiti-laden parking lot under a bridge, there were 2 cars next to the sidewalk that were overturned and burned to a black, charred crisp. And as I looked on in awe, I blurted the first thought that came to my head...

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to downtown Beirut!"

A bunch of people laughed as they trudged through the bitter -10 degree winds, and I felt a sense of pride for making what was at that time a current socially relevant joke that others understood and respected. I was only 12 but I was king before the game started.

The rest of the day was a hazy blur, probably the result of drinking my uncle's beer when he went to take a leak. I took the blame for "spilling it" when he came back to find that it was gone. It was worth the beating I took in the bathroom stall at halftime, and with the buzz I had inherited I didn't feel a thing.

Where am I going with this? That's a damn good question my friend...a question I may not be able to answer at this time, nor in the foreseeable future. But in rereading the aforementioned blurb, I have deduced that I have been born and bred a sports fan who includes sports into his world like an orphan baby who shits gold bricks laying on your doorstep. It's all I know and is the one thing that has been a constant in the ever changing existence I have always known. It is the comfort I find in the midst of the chaos.

And while every team has sucked gigantic, behemoth, aching, pulsating, blue balls in my lifetime...I still seek solace and comfort as I look back on the history of these teams in my lifetime. There were the teams and players that thrived in my early childhood...Bobby Clarke, Bill Bergey, Mike Quick, Mike Schmidt, Pete Rose, Dr. J. There was the era in which me and my little brother grew up, a time that forged the bridge that connected us both for a lifetime. As we all fended for ourselves growing up, sports was the one thing my brother and I had to fall back on and keep us out of trouble. Playing street hockey from sunrise to sunset. Each point in my life is connected to a generation of sports figures and teams.

And so as the remaining few friends depart from what is now the last Eagles game of the season, I look back on the past 3-4 months of a football season that exceeded expectations. A time I will undoubtedly look back upon and remember those who lived the moment of this last game with me, and the dozens before it. A time, a place, a generation...being created to eventually become a memory that defines a portion of my existence. This has been, and always will be sports to me. I always say if it weren't for sports, I'd be in jail.

My football year is done. It is my favorite of them all. Sundays go from the most significant day in the universe at that time, to a ho-hum, lazy, laid-back, easy-going day. Not bad if you really consider it for what it is, but for 20 or so weeks a year, it's the most intense, emotional, primal day of the year.

I'll miss you old friend.

The Cellular Messiah

2006-12-11T21:21:00.000-05:00

I have noticed a startling trend over the past year or so that I'm sure most, if not all of you, have observed as well. Come to think of it, if you haven't taken notice you probably live life with your head staring straight down at the ground as you meander about your existence. And to that I say, kudos to you!! You're not missing much.

As I've made my position well known in previous blogs, technology has been a blessing and a curse as we travel at warp speed through the progression of our civilization. While it has brought us an infinite number of wonders and splendors (the remote control, the microwave, & hi-def porn just to name a few), there are the inevitable head scratchers that bring us great convenience, but at a cost that makes you wonder if it's truly worth it.

One of the most rapidly advancing technological marvels, in addition to being the highest in demand and usage, is the cell phone. A mere 15-20 years ago, mobile phones were behemoth contraptions that required a 50lb battery that was strapped to your back, a 4 foot antenna, and produced enough heat to warm the city of Anchorage for a few winter weeks. Sure you could lug them around to chat anywhere anytime, but at what cost? A hernia, slipped disk, radiation burns? Was it truly worth it? Johnny Slickster would say yes. But for John Q. Suburb...nada. Not to mention the hefty loan needed to purchase one.

Since then we've gone from a phone booth strapped to your waist, to mistaking the credit card in your pocket for your phone. Their sound quality dwarfs most cars on the street, they play videos, games, internet and email. They slice, dice, julienne, and leave immediately after sex...no strings attached. The power in one single phone these days would have allowed you to rule the world in 1953. Well, in Asia Minor at least.

So here we are, in the "holy fucking shit are you for real?" phase of telephone technology. Everywhere you go someone has one of these things glued to their face, yapping away with no regard to the environment in which they dwell. Walking through the mall, in line at the grocery store, mowing the lawn or eating in a restaurant (while chewing!). No place is sacred or safe from our inability go about our business without talking to someone somewhere about what is probably the most mundane bullshit imaginable. Talking for the sake of talking. I guarantee that encompasses over 70% of cell phone chatter...unnecessary bullshit. So with our insatiable "need" for constant chatter during every imaginable task and situation, holding this thing to the side of your head becomes an obvious burden. Cleaning the house, changing your oil, repairing the roof, juggling chainsaws on a tightrope, and the all time classic...driving.

So here we are America, faced with a conundrum that serves to create a conflict of necessity. A dilemma in which we must choose between our addiction to senseless banter or performing the everyday functions we need to live...safely at that. As you can see, any rational individual would be torn at the seams, laboring extensively over this decision. What is the answer? IS there an answer? There must be a solution that can appease both sides!! Its a no-win situation! For the love of God...Help!!

Well fear not ignorant imbeciles! The great technological eggheads of the world have come to your rescue! Your lives have not been destroyed as you were on the verge of conceding. The sky has not fallen and the end is no longer here. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce the cellular messiah...BLUETOOTH.

No longer will you have to deal with wires to constrict your range of motion, your mobility is free and wide open. Nothing can hold you back my friend. For attached to the side of your head is a little gadget that picks up the signal from your phone and transmits it to the headset. It's a mother fucking miracle.

Not only has the convenience quotient shot through the roof with this little bad boy, but the greatest part of this gadget has yet to be revealed. You get to wear it on your ear ALL THE TIME!! That's right, there's no need to take it off! EVER! Not only is it effective, efficient, and convenient...it's STYLISH!! Be one of the growing number of citizens who strut their shit with a mini shoe horn glued to their ear!

Remember the days as a kid when you watched Star Trek and wondered, "Gee...I wonder if one day we'll have those nifty gadgets?!" Well wonder no more Jimmy! It's here, it's now, it's BLUETOOTH!! What's that? You're phone's ringing in your pocket? Leave it there, tap the ol' BLUETOOTH and chat away my friend!! It's that easy!!

OK here's what baffles the living shit out of me. Its one thing to be tied like a dog on a leash to your phone, lacking the restraint to stay off it for more than 10 minutes at any given time. But to wear a device on your ear ALL THE TIME to prepare yourself for the impending call that may or may not come in the foreseeable future...give me a break!! Do these people not realize that:

1. You look like a complete fucking idiot. If you use it when you're talking on the phone that's one thing. But when you're not using it, TAKE IT OFF!! Why the hell would anyone want an ugly piece of plastic attached to them if its not needed? Why not tie an electric toothbrush around your neck ya moron?

2. You are validating the fact that humans are inevitably becoming technology's little bitch. When technology attaches itself to our face when it's not being used, we've lost. Period.

3. If having a phone on standby to that extent is so critical to your existence, your existence should be questioned. Your mental capacity should be checked, and your control/abandonment issues should be dealt with professionally.

There you have it. Its been said, and I feel a hell of a lot better for having said it. I simply could not live another day watching this atrocious fad spread any further without telling America how ridiculous it is. If I have offended anyone in anyway, call me and we'll chat. If I'm not home, LEAVE A MESSAGE!

Assholes First!

2006-11-10T21:20:00.000-05:00

I'm driving through the grocery store parking lot this evening when a group of Spanish patrons hit the crosswalk at the store exit which I have stopped at. I stopped enough in advance that I could have easily proceeded as the men had yet to reach the crosswalk. Being the nice lad I am (at least on this occasion), I paused for a few seconds and gave them the courtesy wave, allowing them to pass.

Now I've been on the opposing end of this situation numerous times. You know, when you encounter the decent man or woman as you're exiting the store. They wave you across saying "Go ahead my friend, after you." You give the obligatory smile, wave and/or head nod; and to return the courtesy you briskly walk across the way, not wanting to hold them up anymore than they already have been. You essentially reciprocate their generosity. This all seems reasonable enough, wouldn't you say? Or perhaps this is simply my twisted and sadistic view on common courtesy. But I'd say not so much. And I'd feel damn good about it.

There are fewer and fewer instances in the on-goings of humanity where we have the opportunity to display a bit of courtesy to our fellow man. Simple courtesies such as the classic holding the door open for someone, the standard for all good deeds in our society. Or perhaps you pick something up for someone who has just dropped something at your feet.

(*Editor's Note: If you find yourself in this particular situation and you are a woman...you fell for it, enjoy the show fellas!)

Or maybe you allow someone to cut in line ahead of you at the store when you see that they only have a few items compared to your very full load. Sure, just seconds ago you were the subject of their inner monologue about "Fat Bastards and Their Impact on the American Gross Domestic Product and the Global Economic Infrastructure". With their incessant over-consumption of imported and domestic food goods its bound to have an impact!

Maybe it's diving in front of a speeding bus to thwart the attempts of a suicidal man with a painful, agonizing terminal illness. Then again you will have probably done him more harm than good saving him from the death he so desperately wants in order to end his suffering and misery. He's bound to resent you for your actions. Strike that one.

It's these moments that, while seemingly minute and meaningless on a grand scale, show that in spite of the disconnect in the personal relationships of one another, we do possess the decency somewhere deep within, to help one another out.

Perhaps I'm just in a short-tempered mood today, or I've experienced this situation to the point where I need to vent before I blow up and club a seal. Whatever it is I need to get it off my chest, and the time is now.

So as this group approaches the crosswalk and makes eye contact with me, they assume that they are yielding to me as I have reached the stop sign first and I am about to proceed through the crosswalk. Unexpectedly, I give them the courtesy wave essentially saying, "Please...after you." These sons of bitches take my wave, look down without even acknowledging my nice gesture and then to top it off with a little "fuck you" cherry, they take their sweet ass fucking time (30 seconds) to stroll across the 20' crosswalk as they're on a nice Sunday stroll in the park with their paraplegic grandmother. It took everything in my power not to stomp that gas pedal down and send their greasy, slow ass dragging, I-don't-give-a-rats-ass-about-anyone-but-my-fat-ass-fucking-self, clear across the parking lot into the window of a nearby McDonalds that they would inevitably end up at anyway to feed their fat fucking faces.

Here's a tip assholes...IF SOMEONE HAS THE DECENCY TO LET YOU PASS, ACKNOWLEDGE IT!!! I'm not looking for a giant wave, a shit-eating grin, or even a courtesy blowjob. Give me a little nod, a wink, a slight grin, a back hand spring to a round off back tuck & summersault ending in a scissor split. Something that says, "Hey, thanks Pal." Don't turn your head like you had the right of way to begin with and own the fucking ground you walk on, you degenerate slime. It's you bastards who are contributing to the rapidly increasing decline of humanity.

You know these are the same notorious jackasses who don't give you the courtesy wave then you let them merge into traffic in front of you, change lanes, or pull out of a parking lot. You stop in your tracks or slow down to make their commute a little easier and they squeeze on in as if to say, "That's right, you'd better let me in."

FUCK YOU. And while you're at it, fuck your mother too.

What the hell has happened to us? Perhaps I was raised with the iron fist of manners, but not only are small gestures of courtesy the right thing to do, they actually make you feel pretty good. But the world has become so preoccupied with SELF that we mind as well be living in individual bubbles. And that's what we've ultimately become...bubbles. Bubbles that don't break, bend or give. Bubbles that are tinted black to aid in achieving greater ignorance to the world around us. We have our cell phones, PDA's, laptops, and iPods to keep tabs on the world outside these bubbles. God forbid we acknowledge those around us. People who live, breathe, feel and exist just like you - just like everyone. People who have so much in common with one another that we somehow become invisible to one another.

Perhaps we are all merely pages in a never ending book. No one page can be distinguished from one another. The words and stories on them differ, but the ultimate makeup, structure and substance are the same. When you look at the pages from beginning to end, they are seemingly identical. After a while they all integrate...losing their significance, meaning, and purpose. We are all but wandering pages of a book that we are all a part of, but because we do not bind we are meaningless. But together we create a story, a composition of unity and truth that gives us purpose and meaning. All we have to do is recognize it.

Where do we go from here? It doesn't take a scientist to see the path we have paved and the direction we're headed. It's a one way tunnel...and it's deep...and dank, just down right dank.

Is all hope lost? I will to continue to do my part as best I can and as patience will allow. I'll hold the door, say hi to a passing stranger, not walk to the other side of the street when a black guy is in my path, let the non-waving jackass into my lane, whatever presents itself (when I'm in the mood). And while I'll desperately want to give them the finger and shove the front end of my car deep within recesses their selfish assholes, I will refrain...however reluctantly and with immense restraint.

But one day...and hopefully that day will never come...I may find restraint to be a joke and an impossibility. And if you are the sorry son of a bitch who doesn't heed the advice I've just clearly laid out? If you feel an uncomfortable thrusting pressure in your colon, followed by a high pitched honk. That's me. And the front end of my car is burrowed in your ass.

Enjoy the ride asshole.

@#&%!!!!

2006-10-15T21:19:00.000-04:00

This week I had an unexpected moment of self-discovery...an epiphany if you will. It was a heightened sense of self-awareness about something I subconsciously knew always existed, but never gave much thought to. It's something I know I've always done, and have done so fairly liberally in the right place and time...although many times in the wrong place and time...many times...too, too many times.

And like anything done with obsessive frequency, the more it's done more its impact diminishes. Desensitization begins wrapping itself around the shriveled remains of your what was once known as your conscience, your moral center, the place Father O'Reilly told you God loved you most. Engulfing it, digesting it, and letting gravity bring down the brown. After nearly a lifetime of doing it, it's pretty commonplace in my world.

It was only until it was brought to my attention (as only a wife can do...a smokin hot wife I might add) that I began to think of it consciously, resulting in this little revelation of mine. For those of you who are taking the sick and twisted direction with this ("He's probably talking about jerking off!!"), I say to you...well done. I probably would have done the same thing...Although I wouldn't have used such an obvious choice. Masturbation is so cliché.

No my friends, what I am referring to is my profound ability to incorporate obscene language comfortably amidst the nouns, verbs, adjectives, and prepositions that litter our everyday English vernacular.

I am a Cursing Connoisseur, The Sultan of Swearing, Sir Cuss-A-Lot, Johnny Expletive, The Prince of Profanity, Mean Green & Obscene...I'm the guy who gave Samuel L. Jackson the wallet that said "BAD MOTHER FUCKER" in Pulp Fiction. (I didn't get the wallet because I thought I was a Bad Mother Fucker; I got it because it had bad words. As it turned out you really should be a Bad Mother Fucker when carrying a wallet like that. At the time I didn't feel I could back it up in the manner that is fitting of a Bad Mother Fucker wallet. So I gave it away. As it turned out it was to Samuel L. Jackson. Long story, but in the end he truly is a Bad Mother Fucker and is more deserving of such a wallet than I. The rest is movie history.)

Now naturally your first instinct would be to think, "Christ, what a dip shit this jackass must sound like. He must sound like a complete fucking moron using foul language all the time. Like some punk ass bitch on a street corner turning tricks like a little whore trying to scrape together goddamn nickels & dimes to buy his next score." You of course would be wrong. And a hypocrite.

I'm not the type of curser(?) who falls in the same category as the stereotypical fat greasy New York cab driver whose every other fuckin word is fuckin littered with fuckin fucks and too many "yous" and "dat son of a bitch asshole stole my fuckin cannolli". Not quite. Even though I'm a huge fan of stereotypes. No, I'm a little more tactful and selective in my usage of these words. A good portion of my day is actually expletive free; but when I'm around my friends its a natural part of our dialogue. It's not regarded as offensive or derogatory, nor is it viewed in a negative light. It simply blends in with all the others. Equal opportunity verbiage...the integration of words.

There are however, times when obscene words fill the air like the thick cloud of bullshit that hovers over Washington D.C.

Sporting Events:

This time of year is saturated with all kinds of great sports. The NFL is in full swing, I'm losing everything I own on college football, the baseball playoffs have started, and a new hockey season is here. The air begins to chill...as much as it can in hell...balls begin to swell and testosterone begins to peak. Beer becomes a food group and bitch becomes the equivalent of "man" in every day language. "How's it going bitch!" "Hey bitch, pass me the pretzels." "Awwww Bitch!! That sucks!"

Standard obscenity etiquette dictates that everything is fair game when watching sporting events. Racial slurs are optional so long as all races are equally bashed with the same conviction. Although bashing Mexicans more than others is sometimes prohibited...if not encouraged. Some of the most raucous, vile, uninhibited, primal, morally, ethically and religiously abhorrent language can be found on what is ironically the day of the Lord...Sunday. Few things elicit an obscenity-laden fuckfest like a Sunday afternoon football game.

If your team is sucking balls...lookout. Hide the children, close the windows, and remove any religious idolatry from the walls. Shit's going down and the walls will need to be cleaned with holy water on Monday morning. Typically the resonating waves of hatred are directed toward opposing players in hopes of smiting them to failure. In fact, just this afternoon as the Saints were about to kick the game winning field goal with 3 seconds left to defeat my beloved Eagles, I engaged in an overt wish that a sniper would blow the kickers head off. I even attempted to strike him down on the spot with a plea of The AIDS. It wasn't until he made the kick and we lost that I realized The AIDS would not have killed him instantly, rather slowly over a prolonged period of time. At least I know where I went wrong and how to correct it next time. Even when players on my own team fail, they will hear my wrath. No one is safe. Not even you.

In my mind, a word is a word. Sure, there need to be words to appropriately reflect the severity of a thought or feeling. Foul words are essential to our language. But in my world they are more essential to my language than they may be to others. And because others may not use it with the frequency and ease that I do, does it mean I am wrong in doing so?

The biggest culprit in my arsenal is apparently the word Fuck. Versatile word that can be used in more ways than you might imagine. Therefore it finds its way into a wider array of sentences. Law of averages and probability I say. Had I not been asked to pay a quarter for every time I said it, only to be down 4 dollars over the course of an hour, I wouldn't have realized how much I say it. And I was consciously trying to avoid it during that hour. Fuckin-A.

And so as I now possess a strong awareness of this "habit", I now begin to ask myself...do I continue to be me and stick with what I know? Or do I try to pull back on "the language"? My initial thought was naturally "fuck it". It's who I am. But the more I thought about it, the more I began to realize it might be a bit too much. I have been very successful in being completely void of foul language around my daughter, and while I do have the occasional slip (which she emphatically brings to my attention), I keep myself in check. But I know she knows the words. Last weekend we were playing mini-golf and I could have sworn I heard "Goddamn it!" when she missed a shot. I asked her what she said and she backed off in the same manner I do when she catches me. What could I say? I let it slide because who am I to correct her? And more than anything I was in denial that I even heard those words come from her mouth.

Fuckin bitch.

I guess my minds made up.

Extreme Fakeover

2006-10-01T21:08:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting at the computer right now checking my mail (porn), reading the news (porn), and checking the football scores (more porn), and behind me Kristen is watching a program on the TV which dominates the room and gives me no choice but to listen in. And this is my story of this experience.

I'm probably going to hell for this...but that wouldn't be the first time those words have been uttered by myself or countless others, and it won't be the last. (Although overall, I still think my shot of landing upstairs is better than average. I know the bouncer...and he's fucking my sister. So I get in on a technicality).

Ty Pennington...what an obnoxious self-righteous piece of shit. Most of you may know him from "Trading Spaces", and his most recent endeavor as the host of ABC's "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition". You know, the show where they find an unfortunate family who are going through a crisis or hardship. An "EXTREME" crisis or hardship...thus keeping with the title of the show. (Yes, I know you've never heard of it, let alone seen it. Just go along with me on this one, would ya?)

The show features stories like: Husband loses both thumbs after a "trick-shot" at the local bowling alley went horribly awry ("The 2 Ball Helicopter Throw" - degree of difficulty: pain), thereby making his manual dexterity comparable to that of a llama. A llama with no thumbs. Or the story where they relocate a middle class, suburb-dwelling black family with a "slow child", to a bigger, more "menti-capable" modified house on the edge of the hood. The family -and most of the naive middle American viewers- see generosity and kindness. But ABC sees it a bit differently. According statements released by ABC, they are "...preserving the integrity, safety, economic stability, and racial harmony of suburban white America by keeping it...white."

Regardless of the storyline of the week, ABC and the heroes of "Extreme Makeover" come to the rescue to rehab or build new homes for families in need. (Extreme Need)

Let me start by saying that I think the concept of this show is exceptionally giving, caring, and inspiring. It exemplifies something television lacks these days and desperately needs. The stories and the end result often give you goose bumps, and depending on your sensitivity and emotional state...can bring a tear to your eye. It's an hour-long display of major karmic penance. So, with that said...back to Ty.

Let me first put a face to the name:

Here's the smug little bastard in front of a project in progress and well underway. It's the demolition of a large portion of a home in preparation for a generous expansion loaded with padded floors, walls and rubber eating utensils. The project is dirty, dusty, sweaty and exhausting work, but the cause makes it all worth while. Blood, sweat and -

Wait a minute...what's up with Ty? Perhaps its just me, but Ty's looking might crisp and clean for a guy who's taking all the credit for a massive construction project. I mean, there is obviously work being done, and from even a limited glimpse it appears they're well into it. Hell, there's even a cone! Orange cones can only mean one thing...DANGER! Heed the cautionary glow of the orange cone mother fuckers, for DANGER is nigh!! So obviously some serious shit is going down. And Ty is primped up like a preteen girl at the Thursday night church social and bake sale.

Ty is essentially the Second Coming of Christ to most middle-aged, conservative, white women who live on Dr. Phil's every word and eat ice cream by the pint...Lane Bryant shoppers you might say. How can you fault them? After all, the producers of "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" play this chump up like he's the miracle love child of a Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Pope 3-way. For every act of heroic generosity this prime-time messiah grants the poor destitute souls, another gift of equal or greater proportion follows it. The deep, soft, compassionate voice Ty uses to sympathize with the struggle and grant light to the plight. It's this moment that inevitably precedes the next surprise up his sleeve (1st 2 seasons of "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" on DVD anyone?).

The task of building a 4000 sq. ft. lead reinforced concrete structure for a boy who fears aliens are reading his mind, is a painstaking and physically demanding task. Workers forge on intently day and night to meet the deadline. And amidst the fervor of this endeavor, where is Ty you ask?

The pious jackass is standing on the sidelines polluting the environment with his "Fran Drescher sodomized by a lawnmower" voice blaring through a bull horn. You spineless whore. Don't be fooled when they throw some raggedy clothes on ol Ty and give him a hammer and a ham sandwich. Much like a dog working off signals from a trainer off screen, Ty has been known to watch reruns of Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor on Home Improvement behind the camera. Mimicking his every move. Laughing at every "HUUUUH??? ARR ARR ARR ARR". Oh that Tool Man!! Have another line of coke Man. Ty then retires to the comfort of his trailer where "Queer as Folk" plays repeatedly on the TV.

Ty's a glorified cheerleader. Like the male cheerleader on the high school squad. He claimed he did it "to touch chick's asses without getting in trouble", when the fact of the matter is, there is no ass on this earth worth touching for that shit. And this cheerleader, the pansy ass who is put on the pedestal...HE is the one who claims the glory, and collect's karma points. Ty is the one they embrace an praise. He is the one who gets hand jobs in the trailer from grateful fathers and brothers. It's Ty....it's always Ty. Glory stealing swine.

Here's Ty on the last Extreme Makeover project. It says here he's laying cement for a pool deck. Oh my bad, he's laying ON a cement pool deck. How cute. Asshole.

How about showing us the real heroes? The men and women who do the actual work! Not the surfer dude who sticks his ugly mug in the camera with all the charm and charisma of Carrot Top on a meth binge. Humility apparently wasn't taught in the Pennington household. (Although they could show the real workers throughout the show...I wouldn't know, I didn't actually watch it.)

Son of a bitch, if I didn't watch it, then where the hell am I going with this? What just happened? It was just 8pm, now its 12am. How the hell??

Awww man, I just wasted my night!

It's a great day for Jihad!

2006-09-17T21:03:00.000-04:00

Look around you...all around the world, shit is going down. War is spreading like E. Coli spinach and countless people, innocent or otherwise, are paying the price with their lives. But how much of this global tension is legitimate, and how much of it is an over exaggeration by people who don't grasp the concept of the phrase, "GET OVER IT"?

Pope Benedict XVI recently incited worldwide anger and good old fashion riots resulting from a speech in which he attempted to emphasize how Islamic holy war -or Jihad- was against God's nature. Sounds simple enough...blowing yourself up to kill others in the name of God doesn't come across as very holy. Who knew? His message, however hidden it may have seemed, was to invite the Muslim people to engage in a "cultural dialogue" in an effort to achieve peace in an increasingly turbulent world. And boy did it backfire.

In his speech, the Pope quoted a 14th-century Byzantine emperor, Manuel II Paleologos in reference to these acts of violence in the name of God. Before reciting the quote, the Pope made sure to say, "I quote"...TWICE, thereby following the Vatican's decree of "Cover Thy Ass". The quote:

Show me just what Mohammed brought that was new, and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached.

OK, probably not the best choice of quotes while trying to convey a message of initiating peace. I can certainly see how this would spark anger amongst the Islamic people. While Benedict was not expressing his own opinion, the words that were spoken- his or not - were the equivalent of answering yes to the question, "Do these pants make me look fat".

OK, I get it...he's your God; and the Pope is a very influential individual whose words will undoubtedly be magnified and dissected like a biology class frog. And sure, most people take offense when anyone criticizes their God, or their mother, but just how far do you take your disdain? What is an acceptable and "reasonable" conveyance of discontent of spoken word?

Face it people, no matter where you go, what you do, or who you encounter, there will ALWAYS be assholes who think differently, or have differing opinions and ideologies than you. Some will even do so to the extent that they take a cheap shot or low blow at you, your mother, the size of your dick, your tits, or your god. That's life my friend...welcome aboard. Please take off your shoes before going through the scanner. If you're that ticked off, then go ahead and communicate your discontent. Write a letter or one of those lame blogs, call your local congressman or Shah, book yourself on Oprah or Maury. Do whatever you have to do to tell the world, "Not cool". But here's the key...when you've said what you have to say...GET OVER IT!! Move on, take a xanax, toke the bong, flog the log...whatever you have to do to move on peacefully, do it.

An influential Islamic cleric declared "a day of anger" today. A day of anger?? Give me a fucking break. Are they just looking for a reason to riot? I love burning cars, smashing windows and looting as much as they next guy, but you don't see me going ape-shit because they mocked Jesus on Southpark. I don't rear-end the hippy with the Darwin fish on his VW bus. I dont gun down people with the bumper stickers that say; "Jesus Saves, Buddha invests", Jesus is Coming- Look Busy, and Ive Found Jesus He was hiding behind the sofa the whole time". Whether I agree or disagree (Jesus has since invested his savings in Mutual Funds and IRA's), find it amusing or if it pisses me off, I deal with it and move on.

Some cock sucking douche bags in Palestine and Indonesia firebombed churches, and a missionary nun and her bodyguard were killed in Somalia in retaliation for the Pope's speech. ALL BECAUSE OF SPOKEN WORDS!! Words that were not even his own!

The pope immediately expressed his sincerest apologies for the reaction his words caused, clarifying the intent of his message. Many of the decent, RATIONAL Muslim people of the world accepted this apology and MOVED ON. But the extremists goons who asked for an apology, only to claim the apology was not enough, continue to display overt acts of violence, ignorance, and simply put...fucking stupidity.

As the world continues to boil over with anger, hatred, ignorance and David Blaine; I continue to ponder the necessity and longevity of the issues that create and feed this horrendous state. How much are we holding onto "just because?" What is the statute of limitations for a grudge? When will we get the sand out of our panties and quit the whining and crying over something someone says?

Destruction, violence and murder because someone said something you don't like. No, you're right.... the Pope got it all wrong. I can't think of a better reason for a jihad.

TERROR!!!!

2006-08-17T21:02:00.000-04:00

It was only a matter of time...something was amiss; there was a vibe in the air; the raw stench of impending doom. We watch, we wait, cautious of every move, every step...vigilant, thirsty for resolve. It was only a matter of time...they wait, patiently in the shadows. Waiting for the very second we display an ounce of complacency, dormancy, indulgency in our gluttonous, self-absorbed Zionist ways. It was bound to happen, as we are our own weakness. Surely we have brought it upon ourselves. We have yet to learn from generations past, so we continue to be blinded by time. We build an immunity to the scare, the threat, the warnings, watches, color-coded systems of fear like some poisonous green, blue, yellow, orange and red striped lollipop. We suck it down like a fat kid does cake. A cliché, sure...but its analogy for the time we're in, the battle we face, and the war we wage. It is, my friends...TERROR!!!

That's right, it's everywhere. Behind every shadow, in the alleys and in the valleys, in the parks and in the malls, inside the walls, under the bed...and most importantly...TERROR in our heads. TERROR is everything and everywhere, it is the alpha and the omega...the beginning and the end.

But we are strong, over a quarter BILLION strong! They may have sucker punched us once, but we'll be damned if it happens again. We WON'T let it happen again! Not on our watch! We're ready you sons of bitches, and we're vigilant as a motherfucker!! A very wise man once said,

"There's an old saying in Tennessee -- I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee -- that says, fool me once, shame on -- shame on you. Fool me -- you can't get fooled again."

These words have never held more true than they do in the times we now live. Fool us!! They can't get fooled again!!! Damn right Mr. President...damn right.

And so my friends, we find ourselves once again staring down the barrel of a beastly cannon called TERROR. Like the menacing, jagged, flesh tearing jaws of a great white shark in heat, TERROR is hungry and were the only meal on the menu. Take out anyone?

The TERRORISTS have connived yet another devious scheme to threaten liberty and the American way. A scheme that derived in the country we once fought to gain the very independence we now fight to protect. A scheme so simplistic in nature that it evaded even the most masterful minds of Homeland Security. Who would have thought that something as seemingly innocent as a bottle of water could be the centerpiece of "...a plot to commit mass murder on an unimaginable scale"? And did the threat of toothpaste get buried at the bottom of a "To Do" pile, perhaps behind the Hurricane Katrina Emergency Preparation Plans? We simply never considered the destructive capabilities of toothpaste. Not to mention Shampoo.

For as long as TERRORIST live under rocks, in sand dunes, and places where people look like Mexicans but possess a mild intangible quality that separates them from Mexicans, they will continue to devise more complex strategies and wicked ideas to destroy our livelihood. And we must stay one step ahead of the game to survive.

As reports about the alleged terror plot to blow up planes with liquids poured over the Atlantic into our homes, every media and communications outlet ran continual in-depth coverage of the "BREAKING NEWS". Synthesizers programmed with ominous tones and sound effects painted an audible picture of the crisis at hand...and the undeniable severity of it. The ratings implications are monumental. Graphic artists race to create the screen images that will be plastered on your screen for the next 168 hours, attempting to convey the raw emotion and fervor of this thing called TERROR. 3-dimensional red, bold and italic lettering screaming of TERROR!!

As the story is reiterated, field reporters take to the streets to find the inside scoop that will give their station the edge, and their career a boost. It's moments like these that separate the national news anchors from the paperboys. This is what they live for, this is where they thrive, the action is now. TERROR IS NOW!

Reporting from "The Aisles of TERROR" in local grocery stores, we are shown the instruments of death that we unknowingly encounter every day. Like the thwarted plot of Richard Reid, the "Shoe Bomber", we are shown once again how everyday items can be turned into heinous weapons of TERROR. Bottled water, toothpaste, Gatorade, even baby bottles with breast milk!! EVERY liquid is suspect.

"Excuse me, what's that in your bladder sir? Is that liquid I detect? We'll need you to urinate into this cup behind the protective blast shield to verify the substance youre holding within yourself is safe and not a weapon of TERROR".

That's how we stay one step ahead of TERROR. "Fool me -- you can't get fooled again."

Shoes, liquids, box cutters, airplanes, subways, public places and brownish faces. Only a fraction of the growing list of items, people and substances that could result in "the imminent threat of TERROR". And where will it end? Tampon TNT, Nitroglycerine breast implants, incendiary wigs, agent orange juice, belt buckle cruise missiles...like some freakishly high-tech contraption from a James Bond movie, they're planning it, somewhere, as we speak.

So remain vigilant America!! Heighten your awareness of your everyday surroundings and those in it. Always keep your personal threat level on red...for SEVERE!! Rhymes with FEAR. A coincidence Im sure, but you never can be too sure in this time of...TERROR!!

So wherever you are, and whatever you're doing should you take the time to stand down from your watch post of freedom to read this...be alert, and be vigilant!! How well do you know your neighbors? Your mailman? Do you know what's REALLY in your medicine cabinet? Meter Maid? Or martyr for Allah? Look around you...your furniture, your pet, the computer screen you're staring at, even the shit that you take 15 minutes after reading this. For you could be staring face to face with...........TERROR!!!!

Please Sign My Daughter's Petition!!!

2006-07-28T21:00:00.000-04:00

Abbey and I were watching the Tom Brokaw Global Warming special on the Discovery Channel last night, and by the end of the show she had a fire in her eyes. In awe and disbelief of what she had just learned, she immediately called for a petition! I was amazed. Only 10 years old and she's standing up for what she believes in and taking the initiative to do something about it. That's my girl!

The petition will be sent to Florida Governor Jeb Bush. Her goal is 500 signatures, but I know she can blow that number out of the water. With your help and the help of EVERYONE YOU KNOW, we can make that happen. It's the success of projects like this, when a child takes the initiative to make a change, that acts as a huge building block for who she ultimately becomes. That's monumental.

Here's the site to sign. Thank you for your help, this means the world to Abbey...please spread the word! It only takes a minute.

http://www.thepetitionsite.com/takeaction/580135952

THANK YOU!!

If it weren't for us you'd be speaking...

2006-06-17T20:57:00.000-04:00

Today I was watching the USA vs. Italy World Cup match, and while I am not a dedicated soccer follower in the least, every 4 years I immerse myself in it as if I'd been watching it all my life. There's just something about one country playing another. Us vs. Them. Good Guys vs. Bad Guys. Balboa vs. Creed.

Love the sport or not, engaging in battles with foreign countries is just "our way". However fucked up that "way" may be. And I am drawn to the passion and focus the world places on this event. I'm a die hard sports freak, and a change of pace on the sporting front is always refreshing. Except for figure skating. That's just horse shit.

In the 7-8 games I've watched since the beginning of the tournament, I've made a consistent and oft proven observation regarding the playing style of European and South American countries. They're goddamn pussies. Every single one of them. How many times do I have to watch another one of these pansies drop to the ground grasping his shin...his knee...no wait, shin... (CONTINUITY PEDRO!! Commit to one injury!!) in horrific anguish, only to see him sprinting down the field 20 seconds later like a gazelle? (The same gazelle they eat) These bastards take more dives than Greg Louganis; and its no wonder Hollywood movies are such a hit throughout the world. These assholes can't act for shit! The flailing, the dramatic stumble to the unforgiving grass. Grabbing the one part of their leg that's actually padded (the SHIN). At LEAST have the common sense to grab your knee, or calf...NOT the padded shin, dumbass!

Perhaps playing ice hockey for 13 years has skewed my perception of pain as a result of physical contact. Of perhaps it's because most major American sports are played by men who can take a hit (except basketball...HE HIT MY HAND!). I've been watching the NHL playoffs for the past month. You wanna see a guy take a hit? There's no flopping, grimacing, whining and menstruating. These guys get banged up, knocked out, and slashed open only to get stitched up, jolted back to consciousness with smelling salts, and they're back on the ice not missing a shift. And football...need I say more?

While soccer is stealthily inching it's way into the American mainstream (30,000 miles away @ an inch a day), something must change for Americans to accept this foreign a sport. ("Infidels don't play that!") America will never accept a sport that is littered with the kind of over saturated soap opera drama soccer is infested with. It's not our style...it's not our bag. This is America, suck our balls.

Today I lost a bit of respect for a country I once had all the respect and adoration for. The wops made a fool of their country today. And as the rest of the civilized world follows suit with their Vagisil, injury-faking ways, I can't help but wonder if we truly ARE better than the rest of the world.

I've always accepted our country's status as a "Superpower" , but I've never been the "Fuck yeah, we're America!! Suck our fucking balls, world!! WE run the show, and if you don't like it...suck my bunker buster!!"

I'm as patriotic as they come, but unlike most Republicans in congress, I'm not blind, arrogant, and ignorant. I know our supremacy comes with a price. A price most of us never see and will never know. Clandestine operations, plans and scams. Our hands are just as dirty as the next shady regime. But our supremacy is ultimately rooted from, well...our supremacy.

So I say grow a pair Europe! France, you'll always be worthless cowards, so disregard this message. But for the rest of you douche bags, cut the pussy routine. And as for you South America...for the love of hell man, IT'S ALL YOU DO!! Your poverty stricken planets are never too depraved for a spherical object to kick around. So quit your flopping and diving. Shut the fuck up and play!!

This message has been approved by the North American Amateur Soccer Association. Drawing animosity through diversity.

kb
(c) 2006

Side Show USA!!

2006-05-16T20:41:00.000-04:00

OK, as painful as this is to admit, I am watching American Idol right now. In fact, I've watched it from season one. That's right, I said it! I consider it karmic penance for the "little things" I've done wrong in life. The guilty pleasure that is watching the show, comes with the price of shame and embarrassment as I watch a program that goes against the very fiber of my being. It represents several facets of our modern culture and society that irk the hell out of me. But there's just something about it that makes it tolerable to watch. In the early stages, the show is much easier to watch and quite frankly is just downright funny. What lures in the unsuspecting viewer are the auditions and early episodes where all the freaks come out to play. Let's face it, we all love to stare at the car wreck, laugh at other's misfortune, and mock those who possess personalities that defy the "norm". Who can turn down a sideshow? After 3-4 episodes of simply retarded comedy, you slowly build subconscious attachments and favorites as they blast notes, pitches and seismic vibrato that tickle your soul and pinch your bladder just enough to send you to the can 4 times in the show's hour.

Personally, I rationalize watching the show by comparing it to the gladiator fights in ancient Rome. Except in 2006 they sing instead of fight to the death.
The further on the show goes, the less interested I become. Like the last 2 presidential elections, as a collective whole, the voting America has proven to be blind, ignorant and simply dumb. See all those Red States? Yeah, there are a LOT of people in those states...a lot of dumbass people. Not ALL of the people in these states naturally, but enough to decide the fate of the country when it counts most. So with that in mind, there will naturally always be the head scratchers where you say aloud, "You gotta be KIDDING ME!! You're fucking STUPID America!!" as they vote off the next David Hasselhoff (HUGE in Germany).

Oh, and all the Blue State voters...it's quite obvious that you are "with the terrorists" and I probably shouldn't speak with you. In fact, I'm probably on some "watch list" right now for typing the word t3rr0r1$t.

"Congratulations!! You've just won a week long...no, month long..no, year long...actually we really can't say so let's just call it indefinitely...a trip to the United States tropical resort in GUANTANAMO BAY!!"

No thanks...not me...So I'm gonna wrap this up now. But before I do, the whole reason I felt compelled to write...

Paula Abdul is a fucking LOON, a certifiable, Grade A, pasteurized, homogenized, 100 percent, Now with Marshmallows, QUACK!!! She has not an ounce of credibility because everyone's SOOOOOOO fucking good! The power of pain killers and boxed wine, my friends. Happiness through chemistry and fermentation. Understanding that (once again) the circus sideshow fetish our society has boosts ratings, expect to see her inebriated, flighty, sluttiness to only intensify as the contest enters it's twilight.

Gotta run...there's someone at the door. 3 jet black SUV's and guys in trenchcoats. Maybe it's Publisher's Clearinghouse!!

Boyce....OUT!! (that was so fucking gay)

The Gap Between Space and Time

2006-05-13T20:41:00.000-04:00

I was out walking the dog last night when I looked up at the sky above me, and there resided the brightest, most luminous moon I had seen in quite some time. So bright was this night's moon that the usually prevalent craters that littered its landscape were lost amidst the glaring white light that emanated from it. And as I gazed skyward at this celestial beacon, I began to scan the rest of the night sky as hundreds of stars flickered with varying magnitudes. I immediately eyed the most identifiable constellation, Ursa Major (the Big Dipper). There was Virgo, Centaurus, and Corvus. The brightest and most prominent was the planet Venus, with Mars trailing not too far away.

It was at this moment that I realized just how long it had been since I've taken the time to observe this magnificent display that loomed overhead. For most of my life, astronomy had been a passion of mine. Ever since I was a little kid, all I wanted to be when I grew up was an astronaut. Up until several years ago I had telescopes, books upon books about stars, planets, and the universe. The infinite nature of the universe and all of the questions and potential discoveries that it held amazed me to no end. I would spend nights sitting in dark open fields with my book of constellations, memorizing every one, and the name of every star it was comprised of.

My earliest memories of this fascination with astronomy came when I was 7 or 8 years old. I would look up at the sky and think to myself, "This star is the exact same star Benjamin Franklin looked at in his time." That thought alone occupied countless hours as I attempted to digest the sheer magnitude of such a concept. I thought of how amidst all of the change and evolution we have experienced on our planet, the one constant has been the stars. The stars are the one thing that connects all beings on earth. Look at something on the land or the sea, and only those within range can view it. But the stars...if you look at a particular star in the night sky, within 12 hours someone on the other side of the earth can see the same one. Someone thousands of miles away can look at the same star as you are at the exact same time. Nothing else can achieve such a remarkable feat.

I used to imagine that when it was time for the people on Earth to sleep, God would put a blanket over us, which made it dark. And so we could breathe, he poked holes in the blanket, which allowed the light on the other side to peek through, creating the stars. I would stare in awe knowing that there were more stars in the universe than individual grains of sand on all of the beaches in the world. When I took astronomy in college, I never studied for a test and still got an A.

So as I looked up at this night sky, now a 30 year old man, I realized for the first time that somewhere, somehow, the passion that once burned inside of me was lost. The marvel, the mystique, the wonderment...all of it, was gone. Nothing had changed; it was still the same sky that captured my imagination so many years before. And it was no less a mysterious puzzle now than it was then. This starry sky that had conjured up so many questions and such an overwhelming curiosity in me, was now evoking a new mystery, and a new round of questions.

At what point in life do we lose touch with the things that once stirred our imaginations? There is a certain measure of innocence that is inevitably lost as we travel on our respective paths in life. Our tastes and perspectives change, as do our thoughts, wishes and dreams. Priorities shift and we suddenly find ourselves somewhere we never thought we'd be. These are evident truths that we all face whether we meticulously plan and craft them, or if the twists and turns of life ultimately dictate them, and one day...there you are.

That night, as I stood in the street with Charlie tugging at his leash, I felt a bit despondent. I am beginning to accept the reality that whatever youth I now possess seems to be created only through conscious decisions and actions. In a few short weeks I will be 31, and while that's nothing - a mere blip in the timeline of the average man - in the grand scheme of things it does serve as a reminder that although the sky will always be there, how you look at it will inevitably change. Sometimes you see it coming, while other times you won't know it until it's too late.

So whatever your starry sky may be...your passion, your dream, your hobby or lusts...make the most of it while it lasts. Because one day you may look up to find that it's gone.

Talk is Cheap...Action is Priceless

2006-05-12T20:38:00.000-04:00

Call me a hypocrite, call me a flip-flopper, call me whatever the hell you want. Today I took a sacrificial action in an effort to appease my seemingly endless mountain of frustration...to alleviate a bit of the growing pressure that continues to fester within me. A few weeks ago, I went on a bit of a tirade - a stubborn, reactionary tirade - about my right and my well-earned privilege to drive my dream SUV in spite of the fact that it sucked gas faster and harder than Jenna Jameson in a gangbang. I fully understand the impact of such gluttony and what it means in this most volatile stage of our generation. My actions and blindness helped continue to feed the insatiable oil hungry behemoth that is our nation. Not to mention the sudden realization that this global warming "myth" is no longer on our doorstep, but is now in our bathroom taking a lengthy shit while reading War & Peace. And it's not leaving until it's finished. Like the unexpected in-laws that invite themselves over for a week-long vacation; they're here, we're fucked, and they're not going away until we take drastic action.

So in the midst of my political rants and bouts of helpless frustration, not knowing what to do to make an impact on any level, I found one way I that hope will make the slightest difference...my own version of the Butterfly Effect. Today I decided to stop talking the talk...it was now time to walk the walk.

In a move that I in no way anticipated when I awoke this morning, I dropped my daughter off at school at 8:45am, and took a little drive. Little did I know, it would be the last drive I had with my dearest most faithful friend. At 1:30pm, I drove off the lot with a 2006 Honda Civic. Estimated MPG: 34 City / 40 Highway. The gas monster was no more. She was put to rest in what felt like my own real-life version of Old Yeller. She never saw it coming, it hurt like hell for me to do it, but I knew deep in my heart it had to be done. My 13 MPG lust machine was nothing but a faint, black blur in my rear view mirror.

I loved that truck. Everything about it was me. Like the 5.9L V-8 engine with 4 wheel drive and 7500lbs. of towing power. Sure I never used the towing package, nor did I ever so much as engage the 4 wheel drive. And that massive V-8...never had a true need for such power. But that was ME. The oft-heard phrase that predominated my childhood and adolescence, "You have so much potential...you just don't apply yourself." It epitomized everything my SUV was. Raw power, grit, and muscle...but never did I need it or use it. That's what made it special to me. I could seat 9 people comfortably, but 98% of the time it was just me...with either Kristen or Ab. I had a studio apartment just behind the driver's seat, but it remained vacant for as long as I owned it. I never dreamed I would part with it. And to this very moment, I think it all happened so quickly that I haven't fully absorbed the impact of my decision. Tomorrow I'm sure I will awake, peer out of my front window, and shit my drawers whilst screaming like a 5 year-old girl in the midst of the slimiest of snakes. Pure horror...shock and awe. Big picture...I know I have done the right thing. Although I know there's some jackass out there who will buy it days later and take the place I have so reluctantly vacated. And with that revelation I wonder...did I make a damn bit of difference? Does it really matter if the beast is still out there? The thought of having someone else's ass on that seat stirs my gut. I have to put it behind me. It will eat me alive if I continue to dwell on it.

All I know is that I can now sleep at night knowing that I am no longer "one of them". I am no longer an Emission Whore, I am no longer Hugo Chavez's little bitch. I am no longer the spoiled little princess, begging Daddy "Middle East" Warbucks for some oil to appease my spoiled rotten ass. No sir...not this cat. Change has to happen somewhere. If it means giving up something you love to take the first step, then so be it. We are no longer in a position of "hope". Words, dreams and wishes are no longer meaningful, nor are they useful in accomplishing the action that is now needed.

The action of one may not make a profound impact on the big picture, but one action from many can change the landscape. The time is now...are you in?

Taboo Dinner Conversation #1

2006-05-05T20:36:00.000-04:00

I learned a valuable lesson tonight, as well as learning a bit more about myself and who I am. I was at a restaurant with about 6-10 of my friends tonight; many of which I have not seen in a long time. One couple who I have known for years, and have all the love and respect for, are Republicans. Some would even say they are staunch, loyal, diehard, Republicans. I could have sworn the last time I was at their house I saw elephant footprints leading straight to their garage door.

So they're Republicans...I know this, I've always known this, and for the most part we've merely dabbled in surface level conversations about our views on the world and politics. Some things we agree on, and some we do not. Some debates are great, others simply fizzle out onto the subject of the weather. But either way, the conversations are usually so lighthearted and laid back that they really don't elicit any raw emotion.

Tonight, the subject once again made an appearance at the table. In my mind it was inevitable, given the current state of the world and those who we deem responsible for it. Plus, I hadn't seen them in a long time.

We were talking about movies when the subject of "Flight 93" came up. Some thought it was too soon, some thought it was time. The movie will bring out a little of everything emotionally from a wide array of people. And in the midst of this open engagement, the road split...and went straight down the road less traveled. Initially there was a light apprehension to even broach the subject of politics, the war, terrorism...etc. To some, it's like talking about abortion...or like talking religion with Catholics and Muslims. Politics can be some serious shit in the right places with the right mix of people.

I typically know when and where to do my thing and speak my mind, no matter now intense the subject. But I also know when to turn off the valve that spews these passionate views freely to the brain. Sometimes it's just not the right time, nor the right environment. And there are always the inevitable imbeciles who you wouldn't think twice about wasting a thought or ounce of energy on.

Even though our minds cautiously weighed the result of an open debate, it appeared as if we would opt out of a discussion to keep the mood light and positive. But just as the conversation was at the apex of it's turn to another topic, those words muttered out of her mouth ever so softly, as if spoken under her breath.

"9/11 would never have happened if it weren't for Bill Clinton."

For the briefest of moments, and what seemed like an eternity in my mind, the world stood still. The look on my face was surely as priceless as any facial expression ever conceived by a man who had just experienced pure, raw, unadulterated shock, befuddlement, and disbelief at the lunacy his ears had just ingested.

As the insanity of the statement briefly triggered a lapse in time, thought and judgment, what poured out of my mouth can only be described as a slow motion, drawn out, "WHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAT???????"

I'll refrain from going into detail regarding the topics of the debates we engaged in, because they covered...well, everything. The time we're living in is a virtual media orgasm, and the debates that derive from the endless global topics are like blow jobs to everyone with an opinion.

But I will tell you that for a long time now, I have read, watched, researched and studied politics and global events voraciously. Yet all of the people and situations I have vehemently disagreed with have been nothing more than faces on a screen, on paper or the radio. In the business I work in, we are very Democrat dominated. It's a liberal environment by nature. So in the midst of my urge to speak out and speak up, and spread awareness of what's happening to this incredible country of ours, I have always done so primarily in the presence of others who agree with me and feel as passionately as I do. On the rare occasion I run into someone who is a Republican because their parents were and that's just how they grew up. The depth of their political knowledge is typically:

"Dude, the President's name is BUSH. And like, the Vice President is DICK. That's so fuckin cool!"

Where's the challenge in that? I'm sick of sympathetic ears! But this couple...they're living breathing PEOPLE actually sitting in front of me! (where's that baseball bat?) Seriously, they're great people. Politics has not affected friendship in the least (yet). So in spite of the fact that logic told me to drop it, I had the ability to communicate my feelings to someone who would most certainly not agree! I could then....are you ready for this......DEBATE! MUAH-HA-HA-Ha-HA!!!

The ring girl paraded around the table with a 4'x4' "Round 1" card, and before you could say "Karl Rove is Satan" the bell had rung and the match began.

Disagree indeed. I felt my face swelling and reddening as I was completely overwhelmed with disbelief. The beginning stages of pure furiousness increased exponentially with every blind and ignorant statement that followed the mantra of, "We must follow our leader without question. If we have to destroy everyone blocking our path of global democracy, we'll kick their ass. We're AMERICA!" At that moment I was amazed that people like this actually existed. My wife and a friend next to me could see the frustration I was feeling as I know without a doubt it could be read all over my face. I am typically a certified master of hiding emotion. But even I knew this was too much to hide.

So without further hesitation I commented on the food that was just served to us. Being that aside from the guy I was debating with along with his wife, we were the only men there. When chatty friends all convene in one place for a social gathering, changing the subject is as easy as distracting a retard with A.D.D. in church. The battle has ceased. No winners, no losers. It was done just like that.

As they all talked about God knows what, I dropped my head nearly winded from the experience I just encountered. My heart was pounding, my nerves were on edge, and my usual everyday shaking upgraded to trembling. That was some intense shit. I felt like I was tied to a chair with duct tape on my mouth while Bill O'Reilly discussed his personal opinion on everything that's happened over the last 30 years, while holding a giant megaphone.

How people can have such a strong view point without truly understanding the full scope of what their opinions are based on shouldn't have opinions. There should be a prerequisite for opinions. If you don't know what you're talking about, then you don't have an opinion. Only a first class ticket to Ignorance. Population: You.

As I left the restaurant after a prolonged cooling down period, I went to say good by to my dumbass - I mean, Republican friends. The first promise I made was to never discuss politics with them again. It was nothing personal...it's simply that I like them too much to have politics ruin a good friendship. A friendship that was founded on, and up until this night had been practically void of politics. Those rare chats we did have came during a less volatile time in the world, and debates were never heated. And besides, politics have ruined enough in this world...I'll be damned if it's gonna ruin me.

I'm gonna turn on the TV and yell at CNN now. (Unless Robin Meade is on...SMOKIN'!) At least there's a mute button and I can shut it off when I want.

What if...

2006-04-26T20:33:00.000-04:00

If I stopped eating meat tomorrow...would I save a cow or chicken? And if I saved said cow or chicken, would they be eaten by someone else and thus not truly saved? If I ditched my car and rode a bike everywhere, would I help reduce greenhouse gases and on some strange minute plane of relativity or butterfly effect, help to slow down global warming? What about all of the kids who are now turning 16 and will soon join the millions currently on the road...will my paltry bike riding really make a difference? What if I stopped wiping my ass tomorrow? Would I save a tree? Or would the extra hot water I would have to use to wash out the horrid stains in my drawers just add to another facet of our environmental abomination. If I eat right, exercise, and live the healthy productive life that is preached by everyone everywhere, will I live a longer life? In doing so, would I not be contributing to the overpopulation of the world and thus further deplete what’s left of our resources?

For every question, theory or idea, there are inevitably counteractions, retorts, and rebuttals that negate and contradict everything from a mere whim, to extensively researched scientific data. So when looking at the big picture, does it make a difference either way…these decisions with perceived global, ecological, or environmental implications? Left or right, up or down, for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. For every step I take forward, someone takes 2 backward. For every light I turn off to save electricity, a skyscraper consisting on tens of thousands of light bulbs turns it’s power on for the first time. For every ounce of water I save, somewhere in Iowa a curious 5-year-old boy repeatedly flushes the toilet, watching it spiral into the great unknown. I know what you’re thinking, what the hell else could there be to do in Iowa? Nothing. Nothing at all. But nonetheless the water has been wasted.

And so I wonder…does anything really make a difference?

Of course the typical response is, “If a million people stopped wiping their ass today, we would save 50 acres of rain forest a year! Every ass makes a difference!” Power in numbers you might say. Of course that is a perfectly reasonable assessment…if not for the obscene population explosion that theoretically negates this “million strong”. Millions upon millions of newborn baby asses are primed and ready to be wiped down with precious Amazon rain forest toilet paper and baby wipes. And let’s not even get into 2-ply…sheer devastation!!

If the concept of “everyone doing their part” had any chance of succeeding, we would have seen the results long ago because it’s been drilled into our heads from the get go. I recall my mother’s tirades when I was a child…

”Close the door, do you think we live in a barn?!? What are you trying to heat/cool the whole neighborhood??”

“Turn off the light in your room!! You’re wasting electricity!!”

“You just wait ‘til I find out who your father is, he’ll whip your ass for leaving the refrigerator door open!!”

If the pleas of our own mothers were insufficient enough to make a difference, then what is?

While the motivation behind these seemingly environmentally conscious maternal rants may have appeared noble and eco-friendly, the reality of it is they were rooted from nothing more than money and the need to save it. Cash, baby…Daddy Greenback. The truth is, the great majority of the world’s populace throughout the past century has never really seemed to give a rat’s ass about the environmental repercussions of their actions. Or they simply turned a blind eye (an eye that ironically became blind from overexposure to toxic waste). Unless of course it was a blatant and obvious offense like clubbing a seal with a piece of dead veal and using the dead seal to choke a whale. Then laughing at the dead whale for being dead and throwing its carcass back into the depths of the ocean “just because we can”. Aside from that marginal offense…chop it down, burn it up, toss it in a river, lake or stream, nuke it, ditch it, dump it, pump it…anything goes. There was no need to worry about the consequences, for dwelling on consequences only serves to deter progress.

And so here we are, probing the inner depths of these “consequences” like the receiving end of a prostate exam by Shaq. We are the generation who will now pay the price for those who have preceded us. And those of you who are still around and contributed…hell of a job, really. LOVE what you’ve done with the place. Is that a lead-based paint? It really provides a nice shine!

So the proverbial ball is now rolling with a momentum and fury that is virtually impossible to reverse, let alone slow down. Have we reached the point of no return? Some would say without a doubt, while others would vehemently disagree. Point and counterpoint, action and reaction. The collective consciousness of those who inhabit this planet appears (in the eyes of this author) to be that of self-absorption fueled by a determination to achieve success for one’s self. You might say the American Dream has created the American Nightmare. A pursuance of self, that resulted in the negligence of all.

And so we have come full circle, back to my initial point: Are we beyond making a significant difference considering the magnitude of damage that has already been done and the rate it is accelerating? Do we even know where to begin? All of the changes I’ve made on my part seem futile and miniscule in the grand scheme of it all. It seems we should divert the primary focus from preventative measures and focus now on damage control. The stories, the warnings, the hypothesis’…they not too long ago predicted our ecological demise. Subconsciously, we knew they would come to fruition, but never in our lifetime…or at the very least, the distant future. But here it is, without warning.

It’s as if we woke up one morning and there it was…you wake up in bed next to El Nino and La Nina in a cheap motel room that’s 98 degrees in November. You’re lying on a bed that is vibrating like an earthquake while water from the overflowing bathtub surges in from the bathroom like a tsunami creating a devastating flood in the room. Your throat is a severe drought and burns like a raging forest fire from the stacks of smokes you sucked down the night before. Your head is spinning like a tornado from the 5 hurricanes and 3 mudslides you drank last night and your gut is telling you a volcanic eruption is about to occur at any moment.

Somewhere an egghead scientist is sending hundreds of “Fuck You, I told you so!!” cards to the colleagues who questioned and denounced his theories. Bravo Mr. Science Man…B-R-A-V-O.

Now can you figure out a way to get us the hell out of this jam? This heat and humidity are really fucking with my good hair days. Thanks man. I owe ya one.

Fill 'Er Up!!

2006-04-23T20:32:00.000-04:00

As the gas prices across the country continue to skyrocket to levels never seen before, people everywhere are now beginning to reexamine the efficiency of their automobiles, how they drive, how often they drive, and any other means of reducing the inevitable cost associated with this hike. This story dominates the news with predictions of over $4.00 per gallon increases by mid-summer. The impact on lower income families is huge as they are forced to reevaluate their budgets and cut back on other essentials. Buses and subways are now overcrowded with frugal passengers trying to minimize the hit to their wallets. We need gasoline, we need oil, and regardless of the price increase, most of us will continue to pay, as our immediate alternatives are few. And as the nation becomes consumed with this growing panic and concern, I now begin to reflect on my own personal opinion on this matter. My conclusion?

I don’t give a rats ass.

With current gas prices inching over $3 a gallon, the cost to fill my tank is now over $80. This will usually last me 3 weeks...sometimes 2. Under the hood of my SUV lies a V-8, 5.9L, 4-wheel-drive mammoth engine. On a good day, I can hope for 13-15 miles per gallon. My mode of transportation epitomizes the American way. Large, gas-guzzling behemoths whose size and ruggedness serve no purpose other than to look like a badass or a status symbol to the shallow society in which we live. While my M.O. falls into neither of these categories, my logic is simple: I’ve earned it damn it. For 12 years I've dealt with cars that required constant attention, upkeep and maintenance. I had to coddle and baby the engine, often rubbing the dash, thanking the vehicle for getting me from point A to point B. I would drive with hesitation, paranoia, and in constant prayer that I wouldn't be stranded on the side of the road on a blistering summer day. Sometimes my prayers to the automotive Gods would go unanswered, and I would be left blocking traffic as I attempted to start a dead piece of shit at an intersection. All too often I have been faced with the question, "Will it cost more to fix it, or to buy a new car?" Analyzing and weighing the options; trying to predict the future ailments that would surely plague my car after this repair is complete. No thanks...not anymore.

I've paid my dues, put in my time, and swallowed more than my share of pride. Now it’s my turn to drive without a second thought. It’s my turn to start my beast without crossing my fingers in hopes it starts on the first, second, or third turn of the key. It’s my turn to drive in comfort without the fear of stalling. No knocks, no pings, no screeching, whirring, clicking or clunking. Just smooth sailing. Riding high above the highway in all my glory, silently and comfortably.

So is the increase a pain in the ass? Damn right it is. It hits my wallet just as much as the next guy. But the bigger picture for me is the path I've endured to get the vehicle I now own. Sheer principle, coupled with my own stubbornness says, "fuck it." Raise it all you want. You're not going to stop me asshole. I'll watch as my needle drifts rapidly toward E. And when that light pops up and the chime rings, I'll fill it again.

This is my ride, and this is my time...For I am the glutton of gas.

Action or Inaction?

2006-04-14T20:24:00.000-04:00

I've been engaged in an ongoing dialogue with my dear friend Patrick about a subject I feel very passionate about. In my plight to spread awareness, I have decided to share these thoughts with anyone who cares to hear them:

The ol Bush regime is attempting to approve a bill that will allow the use of "small" nukes to use at will in battle. Not the giant ICMB's we were taught to fear during the Cold War. These are new nukes...mini nukes. I was blown away when I heard this. In my mind, a nuke is like a lie...no matter how big or small, a lie is a lie and either way you size it, it's wrong.

I've been doing a TON of reading lately on this administration and the history of Bush's cabinet members. Nearly all of them are crooks with ties and connections to corporations that serve to profit from their plight of a "New World Order" - they should just say it for what it really is, Global Domination. Granted, most politicians are crooks, but these guys raise the bar to a whole new level. It's horrifying. The US has also backed out of the nuclear test ban treaty created after the cold war and has been trying to test these mini-nukes in the Nevada desert. People in the state have been protesting, and this is now "on hold" (for now). Bush has also eliminated the mandate that we do not attack other countries without provocation or proof that they pose an immediate threat to us. Now we can attack anyone (Iran & Syria) at any time (soon) for any reason (oil & power). This is also a likely result of the fallout from the WMD fuck up before the war in Iraq. The Bush family and their cronies are determined to take control of the Middle East. I guarantee you we will be squaring off with Iran and Syria before this goon leaves office. Mark my words.

I know it all sounds "gloom and doom", but my friend, never in my life have I been so concerned about the abuse of power this administration continues to display and the direction they're leading us. It's the "don't be so negative" and "that stuff is too depressing" mentality that gives birth to complacency and allows this corrupt regime to continue it's actions. I'm just as baffled by the ignorance that John Q. Public has about the atrocities that are going on. Abu Ghraib, Guantanamo, the approved use of torture, illegal wire-tapping. We've lost the values and the morals this country was based on. The qualities and characteristics that have allowed our nation to thrive and become the superpower we are today. Sure, you have to fight dirty every now & then, but this stuff crosses the line by miles. We can detain anyone we deem "enemy combatants" INDEFINITELY without a trial. What the hell is THAT about? Can you say, Communist Russia? In their mind, there are no repercussions. Look at what they've gotten away with so far. "Fuck the constitution...I'm going to invade your privacy, limit your freedoms and silence your voice. And what are you going to do about it??"

Every great nation eventually falls. It's been proven throughout the history of mankind. No matter how strong, how dominant, how powerful or prosperous, it's an inevitable fact of the world as we know it. But when the pillars begin to crumble, do we sit idly by on the sidelines twiddling our thumbs and watch as a handful of people tear it down? Or do we take a stand and fight like hell to maintain what we have worked so hard to establish. For years now I've been reading, researching, keeping a watchful eye on various news sources, and paying very close attention to the world around us. In doing so I have essentially been sitting on the sidelines...watching as a helpless spectator as the infrastructure of this nation continues to be tainted and diminished by a handful of cock sucking power mongers.

I find it harder and harder to stand around and watch. I am angered and enraged. I feel absolutely helpless and powerless. That petition (http://political.moveon.org/dontnukeiran/)...I know it probably won't amount to a pile of shit, but if it spreads even an ounce of awareness, then maybe the groundwork can be laid for eventual action. I don't want to be "that guy who thinks the sky is falling" always sending scary emails to the masses about the truth they refuse to see. So what do I do? Where do I go? How do I open people's eyes? I have yet to find the answers to these questions as I am in the infancy of my own action.

But I will continue to strive to figure this out, one way or another. Times are changing, and it's up to us to determine whether they change for better or for worse.

K

The Flu Part II

2006-04-12T20:23:00.000-04:00

OK, so we're on day number 3 of this bullshit. Typically and historically, I've been a two and out kind of guy. Two days, no matter how bad or how severe, and I'm DONE. This is certainly not the case with this flu. I'm just a hair better than I was on Monday, but not by much. Kristen sucked it up and went to the doc today for her flu. She encouraged me to join her, but my stubborn ways prevailed and I stayed home. I'm far too dizzy to experience the outside world, and right now light and sound are my enemy. Second only to the germs that have invaded me.

I'm not a big believer in modern medicine (unless it's for recreational purposes). My theory is, let the body fend for itself. If you use antibiotics as a crutch, your immune system becomes a total pussy, and the next time a speck of germ hits you, it mind as well be the Ebola virus. Fuck that. I'm digging trenches, bearing down, battening the hatches and riding this one out sans meds. It's man vs. microbial virus. Come and get me punk ass bitch!

I must say that being pent up in my house for 3 straight days does take a toll on the mind. My living room is a dark cave of pestilence and disease. Lord only knows what kind of germs are floating around this place...mutating into stronger, more resistant strains. If you ask me, I think they're conspiring against me. They're probably all huddled under a cushion beneath me, formulating a plan of attack. A second wave...perhaps flanking me from the right end table. I should get rid of this grocery bag that is overflowing with used tissues. They could use that as their launching point for their airborne sorties. Fuckin A. It's go time.

If this should be my last correspondence, know that I have enjoyed my time with you all...however intimate, brief or inebriated it may have been. In some way, shape, or form, you have all molded me into the man I am today. Or at least I would have you think so. But enough about that. I must devise a line of defense....or as the Canadians and Europeans would say, "defence". Pussies...using a C instead of an S. I bet you they all use antibiotics.

Until next time,

K

The Flu.....IT BLOWS!!!

2006-04-11T20:22:00.000-04:00

Being sick sucks ass. It completely, undoubtedly, wholeheartedly sucks royal, open, rotting ass. One minute I was great...went grocery shopping, did some laundry...then BAM!!! What the hell is that gnawing pain in the back of my throat??

Son of a bitch.

I break out the Airborne, the Zicam, the vitamins...anything and everything to stop this bastard in its tracks. I make herbal concoctions, doing voodoo with chicken bones, dog hair, belly button lint...anything within arms reach. I've GOT to beat this thing!!

A little background on my weekend, which may shed some light on my current situation. Mrs. B and I spent a long weekend on Boston, sightseeing and visiting my new brother and sister in-law and their baby. Boston this time of year, for those of you who make note of this sort of thing, IS FUCKING COLD!! Luckily I checked the weather beforehand and had prepared for this. What I did not foresee was the rain. The cold, dreary rain. Add on to that the wind tunnel effect that skyscrapers create in large cities, and you're clawing your way up the street against 30 mph winds.

Son of a bitch.

OK, so I should have seen this coming. I live in Florida...weather's been mild, bordering on the hot side...I then visit cold dreary hell. Perfect combination of primordial soup to create what is now a hellacious, evil, mind-numbing flu.

Son of a bitch.

My throat feels like Freddy Kreuger conducted a symphony in my esophagus; my nasal passages are clogged like John Holmes in a pre-teen virgin midget; I've got the equilibrium of Nick Nolte after a coke, booze, amphetamine, ether, and meth binge; and my body aches like I went 3 rounds with Mike Tyson...in his prime. You know, when he was pounding Robin "I walked into a wall" Givens.

Well, enough about this. I can't see straight anymore. I want some chicken-fucking-noodle-soup!!!

Son of a bitch.

Tonights Conundrum

2006-03-28T20:21:00.000-05:00

Here's an interesting conundrum...

Scenario #1

Say you're the proud parent of a brand new baby boy or girl. Whichever makes you the happiest. You're in a wonderful marriage, and you both have been so eager and ready to start your family.

(Now I know this will be a stretch for a lot of people out there. You'll REALLY have to work hard to totally suspend reality as you know it to truly imagine this scenario...but bear with me)

9 eager and joyous months pass, and the long awaited and anticipated day finally arrives...the baby is here!! Labor is a breeze. One hour between breaking water and launch. Epidural is King.

The doctor takes the snap from the mother, he cuts the umbilical cord left, hands off to the nurse, who wraps the baby tight...she jukes, she spins, around bed pans, around placenta, she reaches out, and extends the baby into the mother's arms...TOUCHDOWN!!! The baby celebrates in the end zone by sucking nip!! Way to go!!

And as you look down into your baby's eyes...for the first time...as proud, pouring-tears-of-joy parents...you are met with the round, smiling, wide-eyed smile of THE UGLIEST FUCKING BABY IN ALL OF HUMAN EXISTENCE. Before a word is even muttered, the parents slowly turn toward each other with looks of disbelief and sheer shock that can only be compared to the look George Bush gets when asked a question that has not been approved by his entire cabinet. This kid makes ugly look like Angelina Jolie. He transcends ugly to plains and dimensions the likes Stephen Hawking dare not speak of, let alone attempt to comprehend.

For the entire childhood of this baby, you will endure stares, cringes, and the most insincere compliments on "how cute....it.....is." You have one goofy looking baby. No one dares to tell you which one of you they think the baby looks like. In fact, no one has EVER uttered those cruel and unusual words. No one claims responsibility for this genetic massacre.

Eventually the kid begins to morph out of fuglihood, and at the point of adolescence turns into a halfway decent looking individual. The gore and horror that was this child has peeled off like the skin of a rattle snake, leaving behind a dry, crusty, deteriorating shell of U-G-L-Y.

Through their teenage years and into adulthood, eventually blossoms a physically beautiful and attractive individual. A hot ass chick comparable to Angelina Jolie...wait, I already used her. Like a Kristen Boyce! You've heard the story from these pretty Hollywood types:

"I was the ugly duckling growing up...I was the geek, the nerd, the awkward one"

And here they are, adored by millions...phony millions...due large in part to the fact they are gorgeous. Keanu Reeves can't act for shit. But people out there think he's hot, and he therefore gets roles. If he had half the looks he has now, he would be selling corndogs at minor league baseball games; angering his section as he takes 5 minutes to figure out how to make change. "Like, a fifty-cent hot dog...and, like, a dollar...how much does this dude get back?"

You are now the proud parent of a hot adult who has it a little easier in life due to his or her beauty. But you had to endure a childhood of ugliness to get there.

Scenario #2

The same storyline from Scenario ..1 applies here. Happy couple, yada-yada-yada, here comes the baby!! Baby pops out, travels the doctoral conveyor belt, and into the arms of it's mother. Except this time, they look down upon what can only be described by all who encounter it as an angel sent down from heaven by the hand of God himself. This child beamed, and glowed, and emitted such a profound, enlightening and calming peace on all who gazed upon it. Beaming, gentle eyes, with the fairest, soft-as-silk skin. And all this child did was smile and laugh. The baby's farts and shits possessed the faint smell of lavender. This was indeed, the most beautiful child the world had ever seen.

The child becomes older and the parents are at their peak of pride in the life of their pride and joy. Years pass and around 6th grade, the child starts to develop more mature features from the infancy it just evolved from. The child had now entered...well, childhood. This once work of indescribable beauty eventually "settled in" and leveled out to a halfway decent looking kid. No longer was the child the center of attention. Dad was no longer able to meet hot chicks when taking walks with the child in the park. Throughout the baby's infancy, many hours would be spent walking in the park, preying on MILF's. Of course, Dad wasn't looking to pursue any of these women. Instead, he viewed it as a practice field to ensure he maintained "game" for his wife. That rationale never made sense to anyone who heard it, but he always stuck with it.

The adolescent years are filled with all of the things that can go horribly awry, almost overnight, in those early teen years. The acne, the creaky voice changes, the "awkward" phase that can only be described as "awkward", the uncontrollable erections when being called to the front of the class to solve a problem on the chalk board, the first peach fuzz upper-lip hair (on a girl), and the ever apparent need to wear deodorant. And the only way you find out you need it is when the person you have a crush on finally breaks the news to you that you reek of unholy rat carcass.

As we approach the end of the teen years and on into adolescence, this child not only maintains the awkward phase, but swallows it whole. Awkward eventually becomes a compliment and before you know it....

Clint Howard is born.

(The brother of Ron Howard people...come on now...everyone knows who he is. If you don't, do a Google image search. Hell, even if you DO, do an image search!)

The unfortunate part of this scenario is that the child will likely not become as successful as Clint Howard. Or maybe he or she will. But whatever the child does, it will go through life as one goofy looking bastard. And that usually means they'll have a higher hill to climb in our deranged and shallow society.

So that's the little conundrum (that word's beginning to annoy me) that popped into my head an hour or so ago.

You're the parent to be. You have a choice. Which do you choose?

I SAID SUSPEND REALITY!!!! MAKE BELIEVE!!!!

Damn pessimists.

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Cigarettes

2006-03-24T20:20:00.000-05:00

It's a beautiful spring Sunday afternoon in a small suburb 30 miles outside of Philadelphia. An 8-year-old boy walks into the local 7-11 amidst a crowd of people who just poured out of the 12:00 service at the Catholic Church next door. Old school Catholics, mostly Italian and Irish mill about, loading up on high-octane coffee to recover from the awkward, jerking-in-and-out slumber that is the Catholic Church experience. Every Christmas / Easter Catholic knows...the church doze is inevitable. The grandiose ritual just gets monotonous with all the sitting, standing, kneeling. No one really sings but the old ladies, and the pipe organ...SO 1500's!

So the boy approaches the counter, eyeing the shrine of fructose, glucose, and other code words for sugar. The display of colors and wrappers with "WOW!!" "NEW!!" "TASTY!" "YEE-HAW!!" burst from the brilliantly placed display. The entire wall below the counter, covering every square inch, is filled with chewy, crunchy, sticky, gooey delicacies...right at eye level. It's all he can see, and it knows him by name. Each one of them. For candy after all, was his friend.

He engages the cashier who has to lean in deep and peer over the far edge of the counter, to what can only be seen as a little tuft of brown hair peaking over the counter's horizon. In his indistinguishable accent he asks, "Can I help you?"

"Soft pack of Merit 100's please."

The cashier pauses for the briefest of moments, before standing upright while still eyeing the boy. The boy's face is unfazed, cool and casual. He could have been asking for the time for all you could tell.

The cashier turns toward the wall behind him, the adult version of the candy wall the boy just experienced spontaneous wood over. All of the things that just aren't safe enough to live beyond the safety and sanctity of the cashier counter. Protected from the forbidden world that is, The Other Side of the Counter.

The cashier grabs a pack of cigarettes off the wall, and the boy promptly corrects his selection, "No, the 100's". The cashier was obviously in the presence of a pro. The cashier shifts to the 100's places them on the counter, and rings up the transaction.

"That'll be $1.45 kid."

The boy places a crumbled up wad of two $1 bills on the counter and grabs the smokes. He turns to leave just as the cashier reminds him of his change. The boy takes the change, dumps it in the pocket of his worn corduroy pants, and walks toward the door. Just as he opens the door, placing one foot on the gum-riddled pavement outside, the cashier shouts,

"Hey kid"!

The kid stops in his tracks...turning hesitantly, yet curiously to face the man. The cashier continues,

"You need matches"?

The boy rolls his eyes and walks away.

I must have lived this scenario at least a hundred times over the course of my childhood. Buying them from the vending machine in the pizzeria a few blocks from my house, convenience stores, gas stations, and drug stores. I never understood why my Mom didn't want to make the quick trip inside. I chalked it up to one of those annoyances of childhood. Like cleaning your room, taking out the garbage, changing the oil in the car, sweeping the chimney. But each time I performed this chore, someone broke the law. And as far as I was concerned, it wasn't me. And that's all I cared about. Except the tiny slice of pride I lost with each transaction. I'd get the occasional glare from the church dwelling granny, shaking her head in disgust of my blasphemous immorality at such a young age. I often dreamt of telling those who stared that I was actually a 34-year-old, and smoking had stunted my growth. But being that young, I never really had the balls. They eventually went on to drop.

Try to buy a pack of smokes today when you're under the age of 21 and it takes an act of congress to get them without a hassle. Hell, you can't even buy spray paint these days without an ID. That's right my friends, the good old days are gone.

Gone are the days when a good, honest young boy can walk into a hard-working American business establishment, and purchase tobacco that was grown right here in the good ol' US of A. Gone is the laidback mentality of the local shop keep, who figures if he sells it, it's good enough for everyone. Even if it was tobacco to a minor. What happened to the America I knew?

Land of the free...not any more.

The Art of Invisible Neighboring

2006-03-11T20:19:00.000-05:00

I was sitting at the computer this morning with my essential cup of coffee, browsing ESPN.com for any new updates on NFL free agency, trades, scores...the usual. ESPN is my "non-world/national/local news" information sports entertainment destination. I am currently in the middle of an ongoing effort to reduce the amount of news I watch. I began to realize alarmingly quick that too much of that stuff will make you crazy, while creating an overwhelming sense of pessimism about the fate of the world around us. And as much as politics fascinates me, and as passionately as I feel about certain topics in this world, it was all just a bit too much. Besides...I am but one person. What the hell am I going to do? Spend the rest of my life worrying about something so massive that I can in no way humanly or otherwise control? Fuck that! This shit's been going on for as long as we have inhabited this planet. We are a species dominated by fucking idiots. How we allow ourselves to continually self-destruct through our greed, ignorance and sheer stupidity is beyond me. My only explanation is that the fucking idiots greatly out number those with common sense, rationale, and reason.

And so these traits...they tell me not to worry about it. To sit back and let the buffoons chuck shit at each other until every buffoon in the sandbox tries to obliterate each other, taking many of the innocent people who don't give a damn down with them. It's happened before, and it will surely happen again. Except this time we have some SERIOUS poo to fling. Poo like the world has never seen before. And I guess that's what I worry about. Or at least, I used to.

So I'm at my computer, which is right next to the front window of our house, and I look across the street to see one of our neighbors moving out. According to my daughter, they're moving to Jacksonville. I wouldn't know because...well, I don't talk to people. And besides, if you live across the street, technical "neighbor etiquette" does not apply. See Code 945.6a in your local county "Neighborhood Etiquette Handbook."

945.6a: "Any lot, home, trailer or makeshift residence separated from another separately owned property by a city road, the road herein shall act as a metaphorical 40' impenetrable wall, with a moat, a dragon, and a poultry farm filled with Avian Flu. All applicable Neighborhood Etiquette Laws no longer apply..."

See...It's in the statutes. And I'm a law-abiding citizen. I don't see anything across the street, do you? That's what I thought.

The neighbors next to you on the other hand...well, you can avoid them for as long as you can, but the time will come when you ultimately have to succumb and acknowledge their existence. Usually with a head nod, albeit the most subtle of head nods...like a base coach giving a base runner a sign to steal. If they're lucky, they may get a smile and a quick wave. You know...if the mood's right. The key to prolonging this avoidance of acknowledgement is in the eye contact. The better your peripheral vision, the greater your advantage. If you see your neighbor out of the corner of your eye, and you know they're positioned in just the right direction to set up an imminent exchange of acknowledgement, here's what you do...

IMMEDIATELY get the dull sigh and mumbling of "Fuckin-A" under your breath out of the way. That way you get it out before you make eye contact. Never rule out the possibility of your neighbor being a linguistics expert who has mastered the art of lip reading. They're out there somewhere, and that somewhere could be next door to YOU.

NEXT, look down at your watch just as you feel him look up in your direction. This will buy you time as you look away from him, but possess a legitimate reason in your need to know the time.

WALK HURRIEDLY! As you look at your watch, speed up the pace of your walk. Make it look like you're in a hurry. Your neighbor will then think to himself, "Better not introduce myself now...looks like he's in a rush."

Sucker. A rush to avoid YOU.

Now, to avoid being a total dick (which you just might be), glance up directly into your neighbor's eyes JUST AS YOU TURN TO THE DOOR, PLACING THE PRE-SET KEY IN YOUR HAND IMMEDIATELY INTO THE KEYHOLE. You will have approximately three tenths of a second to make direct eye contact, wave, smile, and nod.

Turn the door handle fast and thrust yourself through the door a la "Cops". Congratulations, you did it! You smooth mother fucker! DAMN you're good. Now treat yourself to a beer. You, my friend, have earned it.

Now, your hope would be that your neighbor thinks you're a pretentious jackass and avoid you on sheer principal. But, having a "neighbor" in retirement community tourism suburbia, it isn't very likely. And besides, we're both white. And we all know what it's like when white people live next door to each other. Right? Am I right? Heh heh heh....they'll never know.

But alas, the day inevitably arrives. You could be taking out the trash, chasing down 17 bottles of wine that collapsed from the colossal pile in the recycling bin, walking the dog, or peeing on the tree in the front yard at 7 in the morning because "I like the feeling of freedom it brings.... not to mention the crisp morning air on my boys". Whatever it is, your neighbor was waiting for it before you decided to do it. You'd swear he had a stakeout point atop his garage. You tiptoe around at the most obscure hours, hoping to avoid all contact, but he finds you.

You immediately turn your head away and act like you don't see a thing. And then it happens.

"Hi there!"

You ignore him and act like you didn't hear him. Maybe he'll give up and go away.

"Hello! How ya doin!"

(SIGH) "Fuckin-A"

"What's that?"

"WELL HEYYYY.... NEIGHBOR!"

Here we go. You knew the day would come, but you didn't know when. It's like the apocalypse...

"But of that day or that hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father."
- Mark 13:32

You drag your feet across the lawn like a dog being dragged to the vet for a good ol' neutering. Except you know he knows it. And he knows you know he knows it. You know?

You shake hands with your "neighbor", share an awkward conversation that is completely consumed and over-saturated with meaningless small talk as you attempt to get a read on one another. (My dick's GOTTA be bigger than his) The level of awkwardness is actually far greater than it should be as a result of your many months of blatant and unpolished avoidance tactics. But hey, you have to take risks in this business. The payoff far exceeds any price you will ever have to pay.

You shake hands and chat for a while. You talk cars, tools, and sports even though you KNOW he's gay (and you have a bigger dick). From that day forward, you are obligated to exchange small talk when you run into each other working on the yard on weekends, borrow tools you know he doesn't know how to use, fuck his wife, borrow some sugar...typical neighbor shit.

Follow these easy steps, and you too can maintain absolute ignorance to the existence of your neighbor! And if you fail...well, you basically formulate a meaningful relationship with your neighbor that last for years. It's a win/win really.

Wait a minute...wasn't I telling a story about the people across the street who were moving to Jacksonville? Son of a bitch, I was!! There was a whole other story there!

I guess I have something to write next time...

Knowledge is...

2006-02-20T20:15:00.000-05:00

For a majority of our existence, we are taught the age old adage that "Knowledge is Power." Every level of schooling, religion, wisdom, GI Joe ("...and knowing is half the battle!"), teaches us that knowledge is the key to a meaningful and productive existence. But at what point does too much knowledge become detrimental to our own existence? Now I'm not referring to an innocent bystander who inadvertently witnessed a mob hit, or the measly bean counter who crunches numbers in the basement of Enron, covering the tracks of the executive swine 90 floors above him. Not the kind of knowledge that can incriminate you or result in the loss of your thumbs. What I'm referring to is the simple, logical truth of life and the world around us.

I don't know if it's a result of my progressing age, or simply an innate desire to keep the wheels in my brain churning to prevent atrophy; but for the past 5 years or so I have developed a growing obsession with the current events of the world. Whether it's the madness in the Middle East, the growing economic and civil turmoil in Southeast Asia, or the rapid recession of the Arctic icecaps...if there's something going on anywhere on this planet, I want - and need - to know about it.

Looking back, if I had to pick one moment that may have triggered this current passion, it would most certainly have to be the events of 9/11. I honestly don't recall the frequency in which I watched the news before that day, but I do know that every single day since then I have become a certifiable news junkie. Every day I peruse the CNN and BBC websites 6-7 times, covering nearly every section they offer. My intent in doing so has never been a conscious thought to me, other than the fact that I felt once again...Knowledge is Power. This especially holds true in my ever-growing interest in politics. I cannot simply stand by and say, "Holy shit things are fucked up...this Bush guy is horrible" without knowing exactly why, and being able to confirm and validate my opinion. To do anything less would be just plain ignorant. And so for the most part it has been an invaluable tool in not only the votes I cast during each election from top to bottom; but has helped me to strengthen my core truths and beliefs as an individual and an American. So in that regard, my "obsession" has been beneficial.

Anyone who watches the news with regularity will tell you it's morbid, depressing, riddled with the worst of the worst. Because as we all know, the crazier the shit, the better the ratings. From the most reputable world and national news coverage, to the lowest backwoods local news broadcasts, it's crime, devastation, looting and laundering. From the grease fire in Mabel's kitchen to the insider trading on the New York Stock Exchange. Everyone knows what the news is all about. And in the time I've immersed myself in this, I always maintained a level head and a mindset that 90% of what I see is about ratings. You simply have to read in between the lines and the bullshit. Somewhere in that thick cloud of over dramatized programming lays an inevitable truth. I get it, and with my keen X-Ray glasses I have been able to see through it. Although admittedly, it can be cumbersome in large doses.

A few days ago I finished reading a book entitled "What Every American Needs to Know About the Rest of the World". It's a comprehensive breakdown of the most significant countries of the world broken down by the areas that are at the boiling point (the entire Middle East), the areas that the on the verge of hitting the boiling point (North Korea, Iran, Venezuela...), and the countries that are caught in the middle and becoming increasingly irritated by them all (most of Europe). It's loaded with facts, figures, the history of what created the current global tensions, and the direction these situations are heading in. When I saw it in the bookstore, I knew I had to have it. I would now be able to eliminate all of the bullshit, the slander, the one-sided bias...everything the current world media portrays. I would now be able to view the facts as history has written and begin to fully understand why so many of these countries are at each other's throats. Maybe then I would gain a deeper appreciation for the world we live in and see things objectively from both sides.

What did I learn? I learned that our country meddles WAY too much in the business of others and for every hand we have down the pants of one country, there are 5 more I never knew of. We arm the world...dozens upon dozens of countries with trillions and trillions of dollars worth of weapons. Most of which are now being used against us. I learned that more than 60% of all global conflicts are the result of our obsession and inability to live without oil. These things I've known about, but I never realized to what extent. It's mind-boggling.

My intent here is not to go on another political, gloom & doom rant. But as I have continued my aggressive plight for knowledge of all things pertaining to the world we live in, while having it completely dissected country by country, I came to a terrifying realization...things are not good. In fact, they are far worse than I had ever imagined.

As I concluded my book, I spent the next few days in a gloomy daze. Contemplative, pessimistic, and increasingly hopeless. And so the question inevitably arose in my head...is too much knowledge too much to handle? Have I crossed the threshold of tolerance to the world around me? Has the media machine finally broken down what was once a seemingly impenetrable and defiant fortress?

And so I find myself at a crossroad. Perhaps I should back off and take the route of ignorance. I hear it's quite a blissful place. Then again, once you know, you know...there's no turning back. Perhaps I could find a way to use this knowledge for good. Encourage others to use less of the oil that controls our existence and invokes dozens of wars. Of course as I ride around in my massive gas-guzzling SUV that gets a paltry 12 miles per gallon, I might consider changing my license plate to HYPOCRIT.

At this point, I don't know. What I do know is that the world is very cyclical. The ebb and flow has gone on for millennia. Things worsen; we wipe out a good portion of our species, use it as a wakeup call, and hopefully learn from it. We seem to be rapidly approaching another wakeup call.

Perhaps it's the knowledge of our past that we need to be more in tune with so that we may better the reality of the present and our future.

The KNOWLEDGE of our past IS the POWER of our future. Now it all makes sense...

Olympic Fever!!

2006-02-18T20:14:00.000-05:00

Olympic fever is here people! Can ya feel it?? OK, I'll give you a minute........

...still not feeling anything huh? Don't worry, recent estimates show that only 814 people in the continental United States possess enough Olympic spirit to watch it somewhat regularly. (Margin of error +/- 600...although it's probably minus)

What's not to love about these games? Athletes commit 4 years of their lives training like dogs, sacrificing all they have for that one moment of glory. To stand high on a pedestal with a chunk of precious metal dangling from their necks as they ever so dramatically fight back tears of joy. 4 years of blood and sweat for the grand daddy of all payoffs; the "money shot across the chest" of the Olympic games...when they play the national anthem of the gold medallists country.

For 2 minutes, this stud experiences the ultimate high when they look down on 2 far more inferior medals and proudly proclaim, "I'm the king (or queen) of the fucking world!!" (Of course, in the event of a figure skating gold it's always "queen")

This is drama at it's finest people! 4 fucking years! I can't fathom committing so much time for one single moment. Except for when I lost my virginity. I prepped hard for that. 17 years of hardcore training for one minute - OK, 45 seconds, of glory. Sure, if you succeed you are "it". No one can fuck with you. You're the BEST-IN-THE-WORLD.

BUT.....

What about the poor chumps who are primed for gold. The favorites who are destined to win it all. For the past 4 years they have absolutely dominated everyone they've faced. Like a few months ago when I took on those 4th graders in a 3-on-1 game of hoops. Man, I brought my A-game that day. Those little punks couldn't touch me! And there were THREE of them! The kid with the leg braces a la Forrest Gump...dunked on his ass. Final score: 10-7. BOO-YA!!

My point being, these athletes are put on the pedestal before they set foot in the country. Remember the speed skater Dan Jansen from the 1988 Olympics in Calgary? His sister died the very day he was to skate in the 500m and 1000m. He was a shoe-in for gold. It was the heart-warming, feel-good story every Olympic games seem to generate. You just knew Oprah was creaming her size 48 drawers at the exploitation potential of this story. He was winning this one in the memory of his deceased sister. The world was on the edge of their seats...as he fell in the 500m. Ouch. No worries. We still have redemption in the 1000m. But alas, gravity would prove to be the dominant force once again as Dan barreled into the wall, looking skyward asking "WHY?". 4 years. I swore I heard someone gently say "Toe Pick!" in the background.

And how about the people who say in the midst of defeat, "It's OK, it's just an honor to be here. I had a great time." I swear I've heard this a dozen times this year. If I was the trainer or coach who committed 4 years of my life training this jackass, and heard them utter that line of bullshit, I'd dice them into pieces with their skis, skates...whatever it took. Just happy to be here my ass. You know you're pissed. You'll never get this opportunity again. Let the world know it! 4 YEARS!!

For the most part, I find the events of the winter Olympics to be fairly exciting. Any time you mix ice, snow and altitude, the resulting speed and hang time make for an interesting night in front of the tube. Of course there are exceptions...

Curling - interesting "sport" if I do say so. I've done a little research on this one and I think I have a legit shot of making the 2010 games in Vancouver. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I've seen this "sport" before. Cruise ships, retirement homes, Miami Beach. I believe they call it.....SHUFFLEBOARD!!

Sure it's on ice and they use 42lb. stones (in curling terminology they're called "rocks" - go fucking figure), but let's get real Canada, it's glorified shuffleboard. Any sport that utilizes a broom as one of it's primary pieces of equipment shouldn't be called a sport...housekeeping is a bit more fitting. If you ever have the chance to watch it, I highly recommend it. It's amusing as hell for about 5 minutes. The thing that kills me is the guy at the end of the ice screaming commands at the poor bastards feverishly sweeping the ice in front of the "rock". Telling them when to sweep and when not to. Faster! Slower! Harder! Softer! (where have I heard that before?) Do you believe this goofy fuck actually gets a medal?? Sport indeed.

There is one other sport that I personally find to be obsolete in these Olympic games (aside from every figure skating event, but that goes without saying). The luge. Now don't get me wrong, I have all the respect in the world for lugers -

Wait a minute, is that what you call someone who does the luge? A luger? HA!

Anyway, these guys basically lay flat on their backs - feet first - on a board with blades, somehow steering with their feet while speeding down a twisting and turning track of solid ice at 90 mph. That takes balls. But this year I was introduced to an event that one-ups the luge. And they call it, The Skeleton. It encompasses all the speed and danger of the luge...it's basically the same thing - with one minor exception. You're on your stomach barreling down this thing, again at 90 mph, but instead of being a pussy and going feet first, you go HEAD first. That's Balls baby...brass fucking balls. And even the name of the event says, I have balls the size of fucking Russia - "The Skeleton". You know these guys look at "lugers" like little bitches. It's the equivalent of comparing an ice hockey player to a figure skater.

Interesting observation - have you noticed the surprisingly few number of black people in these games? Is it because the snow is white? Do they hate the cold that much? I don't get it. Perhaps someone out there can indulge me on this racial anomaly.

Interesting observation part II - the medals this year have holes in the middle. They look like shiny CD's. I don't know about you, but I would be pretty pissed if I won a medal knowing that every Olympic medalist before me got an entirely intact medal. Why don't you cut it in half why you're at it? Cheap bastards.

But hey...it's just an honor to be here.

The Backstretch

2006-01-28T20:13:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since I've posted a blog, and I'm not quite sure why it's been so long other than the fact that nothing has inspired me enough over the past month or so to take the time to write. As a matter of fact as I type, and you read, these very words I have no clue what I am going to write about. Every single word on this page is typed without a premeditated thought, without knowing who, what, where, when, or why. I just go.

And then it hit me.....

Nothing.

Is it possible for a person to write something half way interesting without having a clue what the beginning, middle or end is or will be, let alone which letters his fingers will hit next? It's quite astounding what the human brain is capable of....

Today I finished reading a book that had just been written by a very good friend of mine. This thing was so new that when I received it in hand it was still hot from being printed. I was one of the first to read it.

The author I without a doubt consider a brother. I'd take a bullet for him. However much it would suck to eat that piece of lead...I'd do it. But God DAMN would it hurt! You sure I have to take it? OK, OK, I'll take it. We've known eachother for most of our adult lives....an adulthood that creeps frighteningly deeper into the 30's. Albiet I'm only fucking 30....no worries here!

(But I worry)

Point being, we've know each other - and have been through - many years and absolutely insane experiences together. Some of which are deemed illegal, unethical, unconstitutional, obscene, and down-right-immoral in most countries including the entire European Union.

But let us not forget the exceptionally brilliant, awe inspiring, and generally cool as shit moments as well. There were MANY of those. And yet for the past however many months, if not YEARS, this guy has been writing a book that until the moment he told me it was finished, I had no fucking clue on earth knew existed. He tells me that in 2 days I will have it in hand. Before I can grasp the magnitude of what has just happened, he asks that I read it, as my views (or lack thereof) on the subject of this book would be most impactful on it's hopeful success. Wow....not only is one of my best friends handing me what is no doubt the most important piece of work he has ever created, he is handing me his fucking MEMOIRS!! I knew this was big, and my anticipation peaked as it had not in.....well, for a very damn long time.

This was gonna be good.....

And so the day arrived and I received what seemed to be an anonymous, make-shift package consisting of 2/3 a manila envelope (1/3 was torn off down the length of the envelope) and a piece of green paper covering that 1/3. In lamens terms, it was what one would call "ghetto". Oh, and did I mention the green paper was taped over the gaping hole in the envelope by 4" wide bright ass yellow and black striped CAUTION TAPE?! It looked like..........

Ya know, I don't know WHAT the hell it looked like. The thing was odd. But within this retarded wrapping lied (or is it 'layed'?) the piece of literature that intrigued the hell out of me. This was gonna be good, I just knew it!!

I got home from work, dressed into "something a little more comfortable"
(if you know what I mean....and you KNOW what I mean! YEAH! Go with it baby! Go with that nasty thought!).

I poured a glass of wine (or was it a pint?) and opened the unbinded, loose leaf 150-200 page book. It was about a 10 or 11 font, wide margin...it took up a good portion of the page, so I knew it would be a good, hearty read. Hearty like "Campbell's Chunky Soup"...it eats like a meal!

Sorry, the sponsors....you know. They're all over me.

So I dip into this newly fabricated creation, wondering what journey lied ahead. It was a tale so unique that Hollywood itself had yet to exploit it and outright bastardize it. The man I had seemingly known as well as anyone I claim to know, suddenly became a stranger. The deepest facets of his being, his passion, his one true love...exposed for all the world to see.

Stories that are nothing short of miraculous.... upsets, lessons, triumph and tragedy. From the deepest belly laughs, to the goose bumps and raised arm hair. The sentimental, heart-tugging moments...This book hits on every emotion. I read it in it's entirety in 2 days. That is a feat in itself for me. I am currently "reading" 3 books. Books which I start and stop over the course of a year or so. With my hectic schedule, books are hard for me to maintain for a constant period of time. I just can't commit hours to the endeavor of reading.

But this book...it reeled me in. Each chapter is but a short story in itself. This read is quick, but deep. Keep an eye out for it…it's coming.

Ho, Ho, Ho......ly Shit!!!

2005-12-12T20:12:00.000-05:00

There are 13 days left til Christmas, and I just NOW realized that Christmas was coming. At what point in life do things hit fast forward? I recall the days when Christmas NEVER seemed to come. Time dragged on and on...each day passing slower than the last. The anticipation of the imminent gift jackpot that awaited surged through your body like the sugary rush of Frosted Flakes in Hershey's Chocolate Milk running through your viens. And then snorting a line of crushed Smarties just for good measure.

Come on. We all did it, so don't act like you're reading the literary work of a desperate fiend. A hardcore "High Fructose Corn Syrup" junkie.

"Fuck you!! I can quit at any time!! Don't touch my Fruity Pebbles Asshole!! I'll kill ya....I swear to God I'll fucking kill ya!!!"

So no sooner are you baking in the hellacious heat of August...humidity 453% with a 60% chance of spontaneous human combustion. Everything you see outside looks like a bad acid trip as the heat waves from the scorching surface of the earth distort everything in view. Hot as BALLS people. And trust me, I have them...and they're hot!

Then suddenly....it's December. Without warning, Christmas songs are being sung on TV as corporations vie to be the 1st to brainwash the heads of the simple-minded consumer.

Everyone wants to be the next "Tickle Me Elmo". Well tickle my dick Mr. Corporation!! Remember the time when Christmas meant something? The time when it was about giving and helping others? The time when people were charitable and gifts were just the topping of the thick, moist cake of humanity?

OF COURSE YOU DON'T!!

Unless you're over 50 years old, the "Holidays" have been nothing more than an essential economic spike that keeps our currency and economy in check. Without it, we wouldn't spend nearly as much. Everyone would horde their cash, and the economy would creep to a standstill.

And so here we are...without warning. Like the woman in bed next to you the night after a voracious drinking binge. Who are you, where did you come from, and what did you do with my money? That is essentially "The Holidays" in a nutshell.

Halloween is a cavity and a filling past us. Thankgiving passed faster than the shit I took an hour after I ate. And here comes Christmas. Staring me down like a retard to a lollipop. How many licks does it take Mr. Kringle?

One.....two.....three.....(CRUNCH)......Three

3 Holidays down, 2006 to go.

Whatever you do, don't look back folks. Because if you turn your head for one instance...if you blink too long...it'll pass you. This rollercoaster they call life...we're hauling full speed ahead.

Hope you brought your vomit bag, because we're in for one hell of a ride!

Until next time I humbly remain...
Boyce

Dreaming of a white...summer?

2005-12-05T20:11:00.000-05:00

I was at an art festival with Kristen and Abbey this weekend...killing time on the most beautiful, crystal clear 73 degree day imaginable. So since winter is near (from what I hear) they had 3 hills set up in a vacant lot next to the festival. Of course since we live on land that is flatter than an 11-year-old Korean boy, they had to MAKE dirt hills. And some how...some way, they managed to make snow and fill 2 of the 3 hills with it for sledding. The fact that they managed to keep snow from melting in this furnace we call Florida is beyond me. Sure, 73 degrees is a chilly fall day to us; but to Northerners and the science of frozen water, 73 degrees is the pit of hell. Hotter than Bea Arthur. (Disregard that last sentence - I'd delete it, but I'm on a roll, and any loss of flow will result in a complete loss of any thought I now have).

So they have snow. Bad ass. Abbey is naturally excited, as she's never gone sledding before. She saw snow for the first time at the age of 8 last year in Pennsylvania. It came down, coated a few inches, and that was that. A few snowballs were thrown, the vile, nasty, reclaimed, evaporated-through-a-pollution-ridden-atmosphere snow hit our tongues repeatedly. Which is essentially eating raw sewage. Eating this "snow". I don't remember it having such a rancid taste as a kid.

So the snow...it didn't melt. And she climbed atop this 20-foot high dirt hill, covered in chipped ice. With inflatable circular raft in hand, she sat upon the hill and 2 of the elf-like assistants dressed in Christmas garb, propelled her down the hill. It was reminiscent of "A Christmas Story" when Santa laughed off little Ralphie's apparently ludicrous request for "an official Red Ryder, air carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle" and shoved him down the giant slide amidst evil laughing dwarfs and a shopping mall full of whacked out 1940's people. "Ho Ho Ho."

And what the hell is up with that kid in the WWII pilot mask as they're waiting in line?? "I like Santa." If you don't remember it, you'll know when you inevitably watch it this season. Because you know you can't escape it...no matter how hard you try. TED TURNER IS GOD!!!!!

Sorry. Had a moment there. What just happened?

This kid is creepy. Like the kid on the bus at the end of "Ferris Bueller's Day Off". The freak that says, "Wanna Gummi Bear Mr. Rooney?" Staring blankly with a perverse desire for pedophile love. You know in 30 years this kid'll like little boys, live at home with Mom, and acquire a foot / shit-on-my-chest fetish.

My apologies for that horrid analogy folks. It's intense, but it happens. In neighborhoods just like yours, houses just like yours, basements just like yours.... hey, wait a minute, is this YOUR basement???

Oddly enough Mr. Rooney WAS a pedophile, adding an even more creepy twist to the end of that movie.

So she blazes down the ice covered hill! The mid-day sun has melted just enough of the top layer to create a rock hard icy surface. This was no ordinary sled ride in fresh powder snow. No my friends, this is "Florida Snow". They essentially took a giant Snoopy Snow Cone machine and, sadly without juice flavoring, they blow it onto the ground in large doses.

And as I watched her continue up and down this "faux hill", I began to realize the incredible difference it makes in one's life when they are raised up north as opposed to down south. As long as she lives here, she will never experience the beauty of snow. Sure, it sucks ass when you have to shovel it, freeze your ass off with blistering winds, and become trapped in your own home (or bar). But that's the beauty of it. One extreme to the other. 90 degree summers and 0 degree winters. But here...Hot As Balls, or "Little chilly today, eh?" Chilly indeed.

I'm watching the Eagles game and giant flakes of snow are pouring on the field. It's so serene and peaceful. It blankets the earth and makes black people white. Just kidding. I love black people (with snow).

Wait a minute, the game's on!!! It's the 2nd quarter!!! Son of a....!!!!

GOTTA GO!!!

And on a closing note: Gentlemen, next time you're taking a leak give this a try. Just as you start to...well, piss I guess...flush the toilet. Now aim your stream at the top of the hole at the bottom. Basically near the flow of water rushing down the drain. You'll notice that a single stream of "your" water added to the existing flow, alters the flush. It prolongs the rush of water going down the drain. Give it a try. With stream and without. Let me know your results.

Thanks,

Boyce

It's time to do something

2005-11-01T20:10:00.000-05:00

Sick of the direction our country is headed? Oh, you don't KNOW where our country is headed? Let me put it simply: It's headed straight for the shitter. Today, Democratic Senator and Leader of the Democratic Party, Harry Reid of Nevada took evasive action by calling the Senate into a closed session, hopefully forcing the Republicans to continue the much needed investigation into the lies that Bush used to start the war in Iraq. WMD's? Nope. Nuclear & chemical weapons? Nada. Ties to Al Qaeda and 9/11? Not even close. Yet these, and many more lies, were used to generate support of this hideous war. Please...if you have any interest or concern at all...write your senators. Use your voice. Today I sent an email to Mr. Reid applauding his efforts. Shoot him a line if you have a moment: http://reid.senate.gov/email_form.cfm

Dear Mr. Reid,

I am not a resident of Nevada, nor have I ever had the pleasure of visiting your state. I am a resident of the state of Florida and a proud citizen of this great country of ours. And as an American, I want to sincerely and emphatically applaud your efforts in forcing the Senate into a closed session as the Democratic Party continues to push toward the much needed investigation of the Bush administrations handling of the prewar intelligence on Iraq.

This is the first time I have written a member of the government on any level. And I do so today as a tremendously concerned and increasingly perturbed citizen of the United States of America. Day after day our great nation falls further and further into an abyss of disarray, deceit, and global abomination. Never have I been so deeply concerned for the state and future of our country.

As you and the Democrats continue to push for accountability for the heinous actions of our so-called "president", I encourage you - as do tens of millions of Americans - to continue your aggressive plight for justice and resolve. And your action in calling the Senate into a closed session is just the kind of aggressive action we need.

We are unfortunately in one of the most pivotal moments in the recent history of our country. The Republicans have dug us into a deep hole, and it's depth increases exponentially with each passing day, with each blatant lie, and with each deceptive cover-up. Keep fighting the good fight. Please don't back down. The fate of our country and its citizens depends on it. We need you...all of us. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Kris Boyce

Wow...

2005-10-27T20:07:00.000-04:00

Holy shit. 2 weeks from this Monday...on November 14th...I will marry the hottest chick I've ever laid eyes upon. My best friend. The peas to my carrots.

Holy shit. I have the coolest job in the world. I've made my way to the top and I'm happier than ever. "It's good to be the King".

Holy shit. Kristen and I just moved into the coolest house. It's perfect. And I bought a regulation air hockey table for the Florida room. How cool is that???

Holy shit. I have the coolest kid ever. Sure she tried to hide her report card in an act of defiance (even though her grades were GREAT). But that rebellious mindset will lead to power and leadership. Or prison. OK, time to crack the whip.

Holy Shit. I am a white guy in the greatest country in the world. I make great money, and have few - but very select - friends who I would trust with my life. I live in a good neighborhood, and am about to marry the coolest, most amazing woman I've ever met. I can say for the first time in a VERY long time, that life is good...and I am happy.

So...needless to say...do everything you've wanted to do NOW. Make amends with those whom you hold a grudge with NOW. Live like the world will end soon. Because it will.....soon.

Things are too good for the world to continue without imminent annihilation. It would only make sense. Life is going too well. This just doesn't happen to people like me. The undeserving.

But then again, I've dealt with my share of shit, and I really do try my damndest to be the best person I can be. I try to treat everyone with respect and I take life very lightly. Always have fun in the midst of adversity.

And so I say to you all. In all my life, things have never been so promising, so enlightening, so damn good. So this must mean one thing. The world is coming to an end. It only makes sense. Along with the crazy weather, the wars, the new diseases...all of it. It's all coming to fruition. I'm not trying to be gloom-n-doom or apocalyptic, but things cannot be this good without it all crashing down at any given moment.

Brace yourselves. Do what needs to be done. Make amends, forgive, love, be patient, be kind, don't fret, don't regret.

Because at any given moment........................................................

Waiter, there's a fly in my...Never mind

2005-10-08T20:06:00.000-04:00

I was at popular restaurant chain a month or so ago (for the sake of argument we'll call it...TGI FRIDAYS) with my lovely fiancé and beautiful daughter. It was one of the rare Saturday afternoons when we all had off and could spend some time together. It was a great day…miniature golfing…a little loitering around the mall…good times are being had by all. So we pull in to the Friday’s for some lunch. We’ve been out since late morning and our tummies were growling for some grub. Now typically, Friday’s isn’t all that bad. The food selection is good, the atmosphere’s nice, and they have TV’s all around the bar and surrounding areas, which is perfect for those 7-second moments of silence. ESPN... conversation…ESPN…color on the placemat…ESPN…”What’s that dear? I do to listen to you!”…ESPN…

I think you get it.

So I open the menu, ready to scan the numerous selections. I go straight to the sandwich page, “The Greatest of ALL pages”.

I can’t help it, sandwiches are my thing. I’ve always been that way. They’re simple, yet can be piled with nearly anything to suit your taste. It’s the most brilliant and versatile food invention ever. Growing up, my Mom would give us the choice of anything we wanted for dinner on our birthday. My brother and sisters would pick lasagna, giant spaghetti & made-from-scratch meatball dinners, steak, mammoth casseroles with tons of sides…the best of whatever your heart desired. So for my 10th birthday it was MY turn. Everyone eagerly awaited the decision, as they all knew they would be eating very well tonight. It was only a matter of what the meal would be. So my Mom asks, “It’s your day! What would you like for dinner?” She was all cheery and smiling…basically pulling off a brilliant acting job convincing me that she’s enjoying the thought of having to slave in the kitchen for hours to appease my goofy ass - who by the way was already raking it in with presents and cake. Why the hell go through THIS? I knew deep down inside she cursed this day, but she played the part well - as every parent must at some point during a child’s life. So she leans down, awaiting her sentencing…a perfect 50/50 smile consisting of half sheepish grin and half “son-of-a-bitch”.

“I want ham and cheese sandwiches…all the way.”

So unique is the look of sheer confusion, complete surprise, and massive relief all combined. This was her face…encompassing all 3 emotions simultaneously. Yes, that’s what I wanted. Brother and sisters be damned. This is MY day…these are MY rules! I want sandwiches!

And sandwiches I had. Sandwiches we ALL had.

So I’m looking at the sandwiches on the menu, and what is typically 12-15 sandwiches spread over half of a page, had been Jew’d down to a mere 5 sandwiches. That’s it. Five fucking sandwiches. So I ask the waiter, who’s a pimply little chump that’s still in high school, has the work ethic of [Insert ethnic or racial preference here], and is about 7 minutes late in saying, “Hi, my name’s Thad, what can I start you off with?”

I ask, “Thad…buddy. Where the hell are the sandwiches?”

His reply? “Yeah, we’ve downsized our menu a bit.”

No shit, Pimpleton! Did ya cut down on spoons too? How about napkins? Salt & pepper? KETCHUP?? Because it would make about as much sense! (Of course I didn’t really say this. If you have any grammatical sense, the lack of quotation marks would have told ya.) How the hell can a restaurant like this cut back on SANDWICHES? Sandwiches are the staple of any “good times, we’re hip and fun, eat our greasy fries and drink our flat beer til you puke in our air blowing, non-paper-towel-having restrooms” restaurant. You know the kind…your Bennigans’, Ale Houses’, Jungle Jim’s ...etc. They all have mean sandwiches to compliment their over-priced platters and drink specials.

None of them are worth eating.

So I was somehow talked into ordering these Sesame Jack Wings. I had no clue what they were, but Kristen and my boy Jim swore by them. And of all the people I trust in this world, they would be ..1 & ..2 respectively. So Sesame Jack Wings it is!

We finally got our food (after each plate and side was delivered in 2-minute intervals over the course of 15 minutes). All seemed to be enjoying their “good times, fun food joint” food. I take a bite…

What the fuck is this shit? (Apologies for the continued language, but if you tasted these things, “What the fuck is this shit?” is exactly what would come out of your mouth.) This stuff was hideous. It was even ugly to look at! Each bite created a massive seepage of oil and goo from the soggy, deep fried and taken out of the fryer 10 minutes too soon, “pseodu-chicken” wings. It was vile, and it was repugnant. And I immediately thought of all those who had raved over this putrid delicacy. Rest assured, a wide-spread wave of lost respect made it’s way over Orlando that day. Who in their right mind would eat this shit?

Not me. I don’t care how bad my gut is growling or how shaky my hands are from not eating. Oh…..right….they shake regardless. Well whatever.

So Kristen gets ticked off that they served me this crap. She insists I take it back.

“Tell him to take it back! Order something else! That’s crap!”

But I don’t do a thing. Oh I say a thing…but I do nothing.

When good ol’ Thad returns, I tell him of not only my displeasure of the service, but of the piss-poor quality of this establishment’s food. I went into great detail about the consistency, smell, taste and feel of these chicken atrocities as it swirled around in my mouth like a vile storm of inedible waste. I figured if I had to endure a bite of that crap, I mind as well indulge him with every last grotesque detail of my encounter. Sparing no detail, and embellishing the hell out of it for effect.

He asks if I would like another plate of them. Silly boy. Why the hell would I ask for MORE of something I am disgusted with? That would make me an idiot!

And I DID say that.

The boy cowers and runs back into the shadows, leaving what appeared to be a trail of shit behind him. Kristen asks why I’m going to sit here and continue to starve when there are a ton of other choices on the menu. What she did not understand, and what I tell you now, is this…

You simply do not return restaurant food. Period. If your food sucks you have 2 choices:

1. Suck it up and eat it.
2. Push it away and hope to God you have something in your refrigerator that has not expired in the past 3 months.

Regardless of your decision, you let the waiter, the manager…anyone in earshot know how bad the food was. They took your time; you take their pride.

But do not…DO NOT…take it back.

They will spit in your food, pick their nose and wipe it on your chicken, sneeze in your mashed potatoes, and piss in your Lemonade…among many other sick and perverse atrocities.

And that is why I’m here. To spread the word. The Good Word. Don’t take the shit back. You never know what you’ll get.

The Song Remains Insane

2005-10-06T20:05:00.000-04:00

So I’m sitting here staring eye-to-eye with a glass of sangria. That’s right, I said it…sangria. Yes, I know after my “Sangria” blog one would think that I would have long ago abolished even the sight of the dreaded juice. But alas, I am sitting here having just finished a very long weekend moving in to a new home. It’s been a grueling, hellacious week and I’m winding down here at what is now 10:00pm. All beer was voraciously devoured yesterday – some may say in “excess” - on the greatest day of the week; Football Sunday. Aside from a 6-year old bottle of Formula 44D, sangria is the only thing going on this, Monday Night Football night. I see the bottle staring at me…calling me. I contemplate driving to the store to pick up a 6-pack. But my first instinctive thought is:

You stupid motherfucker! You’re gonna get up, put some clothes on, shlep your tired, beaten ass to the store for some BEER? Sit your ass down fool – you’re going nowhere! Dumb bitch – now pass me the pretzels!

So it’s settled. I’m staying put.

No sir…I’m comfy, cozy, beat, and football is on. Fuck that.

So it’s this or nothing. I look at it and tell myself, “I’ll just have a little. Not enough to go back to that horrible, God-awful abyss of immeasurable misery and despair. The “Sangria Hangover”. Never again. Just fill the cup half way, and we’ll nurse this baby.”

The sangria pours out a little faster than I had anticipated.

So we’ve got a ¾ ………to about a full – yes, a full glass of sangria to nurse through the night.

And so here I am, glass in hand.

But this isn’t actually my point tonight. My point is; have you ever had a song in your head all day that just won’t go away? You don’t know how it got there, and for the life of you, you just can’t shake it? Of course you have. Even Hellen Keller awoke some mornings to find a certain muffled beat or mumbled rhythm in her head, not knowing how it got there, but it lingers all day. We’ve all been there.

My friends, I have long been a helpless victim of this common phenomenon in a manner that is not your ordinary, run of the mill, got-a-damn-song-in-my-head-and-can’t-get-it-out sort of thing. You see, the songs in my head tend to drift toward rare, obscure, HORRIBLE songs.

It all starts with the blaring sound of my morning alarm clock. Unlike the majority of the general populous who experience this nuisance, the song that first blasts from my alarm has nothing to do with the song that lingers in my head all day. In fact, I rarely recognize what it is at all. Someone could be reciting satanic spells in a voice 5 octaves deeper than James Earl Jones, sacrificing virgins while evil elves fucked sheep in the background live on the radio. Imagine that sound?? The point is, it wouldn’t faze me. I hit the snooze button instantaneously with the start of the radio and shoot up out of bed. Then it happens….

Without warning, without coherent thought, my vitals have just barely begun to ignite from their nearly comatose state. Before I can pry my crusted eyelids apart, it appears. Louder than the radio alarm that just woke me with a piercing volumatic fury. (that’s right, “volumatic” is hereby a word. Deal with it.) Like a sonic boom in my brain, it appears.

Lionel Richie’s, “Say You, Say Me”

I don’t know why, I don’t know how. I haven’t heard the song in what must be 10-12 years. I would have remembered hearing it because my Mom was an avid Lionel Richie fan in the mid-80’s. I simply haven’t heard that song in many, many years. Why now? Why this sudden rush of,

“Say you, say me, Say it together….naturally.”

“…I had a dream, I had an awesome dream. People in the park, playing games in the dark…”

What did I do to deserve this? Is this some random extension of a vivid nightmare? Has some freak glitch in my neurological system bridged the gap between unconscious fantasy and the now painful conscious reality?

And it plays…all day. It drifts in and out of course…I’m not a COMPLETE lunatic here. I’d go mad if I had to endure 24 hours of that shit. It ebbs and flows, in and out. You’ll go about your day; not realizing the song has vanished. But when you find yourself in those brief moments of silence…when you have a small window of opportunity to catch your breath and gain some time of quiet reflection. Perhaps it’s taking a shit in the privacy and intimate solitude of a bathroom stall. Or during those few minutes when you pretend to pick something up from under your desk so you can pick the living shit out of that nagging snot buried deep within your nasal passage. Or when you’re walking about oblivious to the world, ignoring all forms of life around you. It’s those moments when it hit’s you unexpectedly.

Last week it was the theme song to “The Golden Girls”, several days ago the theme to “The Great Space Coaster”, and in the middle of July, amidst 100 degree heat…”Jingle Bells”. I’ve gone through weeklong periods of day-after-day Christmas songs. FOR NO REASON!! “The Humpty Dance” was in my head all day yesterday. I don’t know why, I don’t know how. I haven’t heard them in years, but here they are playing in my head. These out of date, lame, piss-poor compositions.

Maybe there are others out there who face this curse on a somewhat regular basis. It would certainly ease my mind knowing this.

Who knows what tomorrow brings. But if you hear me humming a vaguely familiar tune, only to find that when you recognize it, it’s the dumbest song you haven’t heard in a long time. Know that it’s not my fault.

OK the Sangria’s halfway done…I’ve just filled remainder of the glass with Red Bull. Sangria and Red Bull…yes, I think I’m on to something here. Better try one more before testing this in the real world.

Automotive Tracheotomy

2005-09-18T20:04:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry...call me ignorant, or completely oblivious to the current trends in this God forsaken world...but what in the holy fuck is the purpose of those big fat mufflers on cars? You know, those obnoxious noise makers that make the car sound like the Seven Dwarfs sodomizing Mother Goose? I don't get it. Remember when you were young and you took a baseball card and clipped it onto the fork that holds the wheel of your bike? The card would flutter against the spokes as you rode, making your bike hum like a Harley (of course it took a little imagination and a wicked Cocoa Puff high). It was the cool thing to do. But now it's been taken to a new level...a new level that can be easily summed up in two words: FUCKING RETARDED!!! I don't typically make it a point to use the word "retarded" in my every day slander, but when I see these morons whizzing by in their 4-cylinder go-carts, my natural instinct sends a rush of, "YOU FUCKING RETARDS!" racing through my head. PC? Not quite, but it is what it is...and it is fucking retarded.

Anyway, as far as I understood, the muffler acts as a device who's sole intent is to reduce the noise coming though the exhaust from the engine. It essentially "MUFFLES" the obnoxious sound. But somewhere down the line, some jackass thought it would be clever to say screw the muffler! My little souped up lawn mower needs to sound more like a muscle car!!

And of course by "muscle car" he was clearly stating his desire for his vehicle to sound like a 3 foot long bumblebee in heat...caught in a barbed wire fence...with a rusty prong up it's hole (let your imagination decide which hole). What the hell are these bastards thinking?

I saw the most amusing example of this act of lunacy today. I was driving down I-4, when I saw an old, beat up, rusty, piece of shit 1987 Honda Civic hatchback approaching in my rear view mirror. I mean, this thing looked like a toaster. It wasn't one of Honda's shining moments. So anyway, I see this jalopy approaching in my side mirror when I hear a faint buzzing sound. It's was a high pitched whine that made me believe I hit something and was dragging it mercilessly across the asphalt at 70 mph. And as it drew near, it became louder and louder. And then I recognized it. It's that dumb ass giant muffler! As this trash can on wheels passed....with it's dingy, faded, chipped and rusted gold paint...one thing stood out like a sore thumb. It was the brilliant shine of a brand new, enormous, anti-muffler (as I now call them). This poor son of a bitch couldn't afford even a fraction of a decent automobile, but forked over the cash to MAKE HIS CAR SOUND LIKE SHIT. That's right, it;s not enough that you're driving a piece of shit, but let's spend my own money to MAKE IT SOUND LIKE SHIT! Brilliant my friend....absolutely brilliant.

I really have no true point or funny story here. I just needed to take a moment to vent the frustration I have for sheer imbeciles. We're simply becoming a dumber and dumber nation.

They pay money to make their cars sound like ass. Do you get it? I sure as hell don't

Boyce

Technological Lobotomy

2005-09-16T20:02:00.000-04:00

When I was first introduced to "myspace", it was by a good friend of mine who eventually coaxed me into giving it a shot. The concept was very foreign to me, so I checked it out, created what was a barren shell of a home page, and off we went. As I checked it from time to time I was absolutely amazed how many people were actually on this strange little highway. And in the passing weeks...probably months by now...it just seems to grow and grow and grow. People's sites slowly evolve into more elaborate concepts of their own free imaginations. The layout and content are a reflection; a representation of you - the individual. Of course you ultimately dictate how much will be known of you. After all, we're not going to bear our hearts and souls to the general public and the world on a little blog site. At least.....not yet.

The interesting thing about "myspace" is how it's drawn people closer to each other. People know more about each other now than they would have if the site never existed. For me personally I've found people I haven't spoke to in years, I've reconnected with friends I've just been to busy to see, I've had many laughs at the sick and demented humor of the people I know, and I've been able to share in the hilarity of my daughter's brilliant wit. Amazing results for such a simplex technological concept. A concept I admittedly know jack shit about, but come on...how hard can it be?

And as I sit back and watch this evolve with the speed and ferocity of your every day gossip, I can't help but wonder...is this the next step in our de-evolution? Or as the late Dr. Hunter S. Thompson once said, "...the downward spiral of dumbness in America." It's evidently known by anyone with a pulse that the amenities in our every day existence have made things easier and easier for us. We no longer labor in fields or work our children in horrible factories and sweatshops, paying them sinful wages and working them 12 hours a day, 7 days a week. We leave that to the kids in China and India (coming soon...Afghanistan and Iraq). The point is, we are becoming more and more dependant on technology and machinery to aid in the tasks we once worked for. And as generations pass and our bodies move less and less, requiring minimal effort for physical tasks, we essentially become the bitches of technology. It's a raw and simplistic illustration, but effectively conveys my point nonetheless.

So as our physical dependence on this thing...this "Skynet-esque" technology (that was a stretch on word usage, I know), we are left with the one thing that separates us from all species on Earth. The one thing the machines don't have...our minds (our opposable thumbs help our cause in the animal world, so props to them). As long as we have our minds, we can create more advanced technology to continue to make our lives seemingly easier.

I must ask...Where does it end?

When is enough, enough? Would it kill us to chill the hell out for a year or two..hundred...to stop and appreciate how far we've come? Every week a new technology appears that betters the one that was introduced only weeks before. The fucking IPod is the size of a credit card now, and it's as thin as the skin on that weasel in the White House (would I be me if I didn't bash the little fucker in a blog...or every day conversation?). WHY?? Are we fucking shrinking? Is there something we don't know about, but are secretly preparing for? Is Lily Tomlin making an incredible shrinking comeback? Our cars get bigger and meaner and our technology smaller and faster. And there's no way to have "the latest thing". By the time you tear open the package another one 3 times as fast is ready to be launched.

"Step aside son...that gigabyte shit's for the birds. And that flat "Razor" cell phone of yours mind as well be a fucking rotary phone!"

It's happening...and it's coming fast. Right now as I type I will be publishing my thoughts to the world. People I know, love, and don't even know exist are free to indulge themselves as they wish. And if you listen closely you will hear the next step in this evolution...or this de-evolution. It's silence. Only the pitter patter of keys and whatever background noise you have lurking within your walls. We are connected by something most of us know nothing about. We are communicating more openly and more freely across this "highway" or whatever trendy phrase they will soon use to hock it. We "talk" through programs, entering and sending codes and information, back and forth. All the while losing the human element.

Pick up the phone. Call someone. Get the hell off your computer, go into the other room and talk to someone you love or just tolerate. And if you're alone, talk to yourself. You know you do it anyway. Which leads me to me....why am I here? Well, everyone's asleep but me. No one to talk to.

I know.......I'll go talk to God. We used to have some good chats.

Boyce

What's in my head right now...

2005-09-05T20:01:00.000-04:00

Guam.......who needs it?

Sangria - You Dirty, Evil Bitch

2005-09-04T20:00:00.000-04:00

There are few things in this world more ruthless and heinous than a Sangria hangover - particularly at 7:45 in the morning as I type this. I was getting together with "the boys" last night to watch some college football and made the much needed trip to the local liquor store. I picked up the usual: beer, booze, wine, moonshine...and out of the corner of my eye, I spy a shelf with giant jugs on it. I glance at the jugs and see that they are filled with Sangria; courtesy of our dear Spaniard friends Carlos and Rossi. "Sangria!" I thought to myself. I hadn't had that in years! What the hell, at $7 a gallon, it was sure to be a cost effective buzz. I heave the 10 lb. jug off the shelf and the night is ready to begin.

I get home and forego the usual beer that is typically shared in testosterone-laden gatherings and whip out the old trusty plastic cup. The kind of cup you get from a gas station for filling up your tank. It usually has the picture of a local sports figure on it, but by now it's so chipped and faded it looks like a map of the Bikini Islands. We all have them...the cup you've had since college and just can't seem to get rid of because it's capacity far exceeds any glass on the shelf, or any pitcher for that matter. It's a behemoth...it's perfect.

I fill that bad boy to the top and take a sip...."Ahhhh". That hits the spot. It's an interesting blend of processed fruit juice and cheap wine. Fruity yet tangy. It tingles the palate and sends an array of sensations through your mouth all the way down to your tummy. If I didn't know any better I'd think I was drinking Juicy Juice, or Hi-C. Better keep this away from the kid, lest she mistake it for one of her sugary concoctions. Saturday morning cartoons would be an entirely new experience when you’re trashed at 10:00 in the morning. But I digress...

The night proceeds, the games forge on...we're barbecuing, eating, laughing; a good time is had by all. I'm refilling my cup like I refill my SUV, every 30 minutes (or 30 miles in the case of the Durango). I've got what is seemingly a light buzz going, but pay little attention to it amidst the night's festivities. The process continues...I'm thirsty, I refill the cup, it's refreshing, it's gone. Damn I'm thirsty again...you see where I'm going here.

The games wrap up and no one knows who won or lost. No one cares for that matter. It's not necessarily about the games as much as it is about the camaraderie. A few last laughs are had and the boys depart. I shut the door behind them. I turn to walk into the living room. Good God I am so fucking drunk. When did this happen? It hit me like a two-by-four, square across the head. A sudden surge of intoxication that is unique only to this brand of alcohol. It is sneaky and evasive. It almost stores itself in the crevices of your head and waits for the perfect moment to pounce on you. And my moment was now.

The details of the remainder of my night are hazy at best. But I know one thing for sure...I hit the bed early and I hit it hard. I somehow managed to set my alarm for the dreaded 6:00 morning hour. I was rudely awoken by the indescribably painful sound of 50 Cent blaring from my alarm clock at that cruel hour of the morning. And being that 50 Cent is painful to listen to WITHOUT a severe hangover at 6am made it all the worse. I thought the roof had collapsed and landed directly on my head. The reverb in my brain lingered for 10 minutes after I shut it off. As I reluctantly arose from my drunken slumber I felt dizziness that I had not felt since I was a reckless boy in college. Back when drinking Red Dog and 151 was the cool thing to do. Life was short and we lived hard. Looking back, I was a complete dumbass.

They say the human body is comprised of 90% water. Not my body. Not on this morning. My head was a veritable desert, and my sight a vicious mixture of blurry double vision. I cursed the day before it had begun. I needed water and I needed it fast. I somehow managed to crawl to the refrigerator, I pried open the door...we're out of water. Fuck. As I glanced down in deep and traumatic sorrow, I saw them. The two bastards who were responsible for the hell I was deeply immersed in. Smiling down on me...almost mockingly. I cursed their names and the names of their children. I cursed the long line of descendants that would surely follow them as "their kind" tend to breed like rabbits.

And as I lay there on my kitchen floor, I gathered what little energy I had. And in a dry, coarse and scratchy voice, I shouted to the heavens, "FUCK YOU CARLOS, AND FUCK YOU TOO ROSSI!! DAMN YOU BOTH TO HELL" The jug was empty. A gallon of their toxic juice was infesting my body. This would surely be my last encounter with Sangria.

And I say, Good riddance.

Lunch Time at the Apollo

2005-09-02T19:58:00.000-04:00

For whatever reason, I am not among the general population of individuals who enjoy meaningless conversation. And as you read this, I know what you're thinking…who is?! Now I'm not talking about the typical mindless conversation. When a friend shares a story about what his or her pet did, and how cute the damn thing is. And not the kind where a new parent flaunts pictures of their baby's first day of existence.
You know, the pictures that are taken mere minutes after the baby is born. The kid's face is beet-red, it still has traces of vaginal sauce on it's face. Eyes slanted like you'd just given birth to a Korean. Disgusting, right? Damn right it is. But yet the parent STILL brags like it's the most beautiful sight ever seen. I don't care who you are. Whether it's your kid or not. Ugly is ugly. And when a kid is first born, fresh out of the womb …the little fucker's ugly. That's all there is to it. If they had only waited 36 hours to take their stinkin' picture, you'd be looking at a whole different kid. And a whole HELL of a different picture. In just 36 hours the kids turns from an alien life form, to a somewhat cute kid.

But this is merely a means of illustrating my point. That point being: why the hell do people have to make conversation for the sake of making conversation? Particularly when they are cashiers? Have you ever encountered that cashier at a Target or the cafeteria in your work place, or a music store? The guy who has decided that this was his career, and his only goal in life was to excel at this mindless task?
I feel bad for these people, but they are in the unfortunate position of being in a place where they are the finish line to a long and arduous marathon of capitalism. People have spent hours upon hours wandering up and down the isles of the store like cattle. Filling their baskets with products that your establishment hocks. And when their journey has commenced, and their lists have been fully checked off, it is you - the cashier - who seals the deal. Our needs have been placed in a wheeled basket, and you ensure our needs are ultimately met. For it is you whom we hand over our hard earned money. If you are pleasant and quietly engaging, you end the journey on a positive note. And your establishment wins the battle of consumerism in your local community.

But unfortunately, I encounter quite the opposite.

There are those who thrive to do a good job, but they're so socially challenged, that they become obnoxious. We've all encountered them. There was a guy at the cafeteria where I worked. I'd buy lunch there every day, and for a long time it was the same, reliable people who you came to know. They did their job humbly, and never gave you attitude. Some were quiet and didn't say a thing. But they did their thing quick, and you never had an issue.

Then there were those who did a good job and were a bit more social and engaging. They possessed strong service skills and went the extra mile to remember your name or who you were. It made you feel important. Like there was a quality about you that stood out in their minds and allowed them to remember you. Or perhaps they were just observant enough to read your name-tag. Either way...they were my favorites. I would then take the time to remember their names. And each day it would be, "Hi Kris!" And I would graciously reply, "Hey Herve! What's up?" It would be the simplest, 'how ya doin' that would make your time there a little better. Short, sweet, and movin' on.

But then….there's the dreaded new guy. We had this guy recently at work. Every time you'd be next in line at the cash register, you'd be the sole member of the audience for his shitty one-man comedy routine. Every time he told you how much you owed, he'd tell you as if the cost had no decimal point. So if your lunch totaled $4.17, he'd say, "That'll be four-hundred-seventeen dollars." Genius…pure comedic genius. He was a short rotund guy with a weasely little moustache and 5 chins. I felt bad for the guy because I could tell that his quirky personality rooted from a very desperate lack of social existence. I would have continued to feel bad for the guy had he not been so completely fucking obnoxious. Each and every person in line, "That's Two hundred and fifty-five dollars." Most people would forcibly crack a pathetic half-assed pity chuckle just to get their change and get the hell out of there. But not me. You see, my tolerance at that time of day was short - very short. I work my ass off and the fact that I am even eating lunch is a miracle in itself. So I want to get my shit, get it without a hassle, and get the fuck out. So when I see this guy, person after person, day after day, say the same old bullshit, it begins to irritate me. So I'm 3rd in line and I hear his routine once again. Trying to be the cool, social guy who people will love…but failing miserably at it. So I'm next in line, and I am BEGGING him to pull that shit again so I can tell him what I think of it. I'm ready for his monotonous crap. Go ahead, say it again! I dare you! I double-fucking-dog dare ya!!

He rings up my order…Caesar Salad wrap, Fig Newtons. He punches my order on the touch screen, hitting the obscenely large buttons with the exact words of what I ordered. The simplest task a human being can encounter. And my total pops up on the screen…$3.85. And I wait for it….he looks up at me, and I begin to cringe in anticipation of those heinous words that are about to pour from his crooked jaw. He glances up with through those bottle-cap glasses and says, "That'll be Three Eighty-five."

Shocked, I nearly dropped my tray in disbelief. Had I been the beginning of the end? Had the "I think I'm the wittiest guy on Earth" finally resigned to his fate of being un-fucking-funny? I began to grin as I was waiting for my debit card to process the charge...the "Three Eighty-Five" that I owed this fine gentleman. And as we waited, he looked up at me. The void in time was clearly too much for him to handle. He had to have an audience, and he felt the spotlight fading. So he turns to me and he says, "So…working hard? (long pause) or hardly working?" The look on his face was as if he cracked the most brilliant one-liner on the planet. That son of a bitch just spouted out the most despicable cliché ever created by a half-wit. I looked down on him in complete disgust. Over top of those Hubble-thick glasses, straight into the pupils of his beady little eyes.

And then I smacked him. Hard! It was the best free lunch I've ever had.

The Hero Within

2005-08-26T19:58:00.000-04:00

Back in November of 2004 a very dear friend of mine had the great fortune of meeting one of his heroes...Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, who passed away on February 20, 2005. You may know him from his most popular work, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". Dr. Thompson was an innovative author whose eccentric style was dubbed "gonzo journalism", and he revolutionized modern journalism.

After his meeting with the Good Doc, my dear friend wrote in detail of his experience, and closed his email with these words:

"Try to find your heroes and meet them. I highly recommend it."

The manner in which he spoke of his ventures in meeting Dr. Thompson were nothing short of inspiring, and I felt driven to take the advice he had given. So when I had finished reading of his quest, I shut off my computer, eager to begin MY journey. A journey I too could write about in hopes of inspiring others. I sat down, grabbed a pen and paper and began to devise my plan.

Step ..1: Decide which hero to meet.

Many hours were spent trying to determine who this would be. Many wasted, cumbersome, hopeless hours. Until I came to the inevitable conclusion...I have no heroes. No one has inspired me enough to be driven to follow in their footsteps. No one sparks a fire within me and draws me to them.

I have no heroes.

Then it all began to make sense to me. Why I've never had a clear vision of what I truly want to do in this life. Why my "purpose" has been so diluted and vague. Why I struggle to understand my path and my existence. It is simply because I have never had anyone to look up to. Not a single influence in my existence that made my inner voice say, "THAT'S who I want to be when I grow up!" Who I am is what I have created within my own self. I am the product of my own defense mechanisms, my own fears, my own struggles, my own strength, my own perseverance, and my own determination. I am not like my father (or maybe I am, but will never know) and not entirely like my mother. My influences were minimal, and in order for me to make it through each day I was dependant on myself to ensure I survived.

So in my moment of reflection on who or what drives me, inspires me, and motivates me, I came to this conclusion: They are mountains I have conquered and the demons I have crushed that have lead me to where I am today, and have driven me to be the man I am right now. My heroes are the ones who didn't stick around, the people who never gave a damn, the people who were too self-involved to take an active part in a young man's life. For as shameful and meaningless as their existence may be, their negligence and abuse helped to create a man who is confident, successful, and kind. A man who now possesses a deeper appreciation for the things you have to fight for in life. Nothing is for free, and nothing is easy. But the person you become in overcoming your own personal struggles will ultimately determine the path of your existence.

To my dear friend Mr. Martens...Thank you for helping me to find the hero within.

The Great Eviction

2005-08-20T19:55:00.000-04:00

Imagine if you will...the United States government decides that the state of Florida is now Puerto Rican territory and all Americans must leave the state within 60 days. For some of us this would be a blessing in disguise, but for the millions and millions of others, it would be a nightmare. For those who have established deep roots, lives, families, careers in this state...it is their home, their birth-right.

Sorry, but it's Puerto Rico now. This land belongs to them. We're sick of fighting them for it. They want it? They've got it.

The deadline approaches. Americans are forced to leave the homes they have spent lifetimes - even generations - building. Everything they have worked for. Slaved for. Is gone. And for those who refuse to leave, a visit from the United States Army is in store. Those who go with a fight, get a fight. Mothers, children, grandparents...dragged from their homes kicking, wailing, screaming....fighting with the same might and will it took to establish the land that is now being taken out from under them.

Can you imagine such an atrocity occurring in our country? Think about it. Think about your families. Think about the people who have given their blood and sweat to forge some semblance of a life on this flat, sandy land of ours. Sorry, but it's no longer yours. Those pesky Puerto Ricans are pissing us off - bombing our buses and cafes. They are a feisty bunch those Ricans. We bomb them back with missile attacks from our helicopters and tanks. But with every counter-strike, they bomb some more. Willing to sacrifice their lives for their cause. And now we have half the world pleading with us to come to a compromise. "Find peace" they scream. Years upon years...millennia upon millennia...the battles wage without resolve.

And finally one side cracks.... take it. Take the land you claim to be yours. Just stop the bombing. Stop the insanity.

As I write these meaningless words, this very situation is occurring. Thousands upon thousands is Israelis' are being forced from their homes, their businesses, and their synagogues. Land they once called home now belongs to the Palestinians. The government of Israel has conceded and has sent Israeli troops - THEIR OWN TROOPS - to FORCIBLY remove Israeli citizens from their land. And here we sit...in the comfort of our homes with our freedom, our liberty...eating our doughnuts and our cheese steaks. Gluttonous, spoiled, and ignorant.

For those of you who have Direct TV or any other cable or satellite TV that allows you access to the BBC News or Israeli news, please watch it. You will be amazed. The news you hear on CNN, NBC, CBS, ABC, FOX, or any one of the dozens of slanted, blinded news stations who censor, edit, and shelter the facts from the US populace is absolute bullshit. You want to see the facts? Watch a foreign news channel. See the REAL news. Sure, CNN shows the evictions of those in the Gaza Strip. But you want to see what's REALLY happening? Watch the BBC News - see the acid attacks on Israeli troops by their own people. The people who are fighting and dying for the little bit of land they once called their own. It's shocking, it's horrifying...and it's happening RIGHT NOW.

Right now in the world, American Troops are forcibly removing Floridians from the state they have lived in for generations. It's happening...right now. Do you know about it? If so, do you know what's really happening? Or are you getting the "sugar coated" version?

You're on the internet right now if you're reading this...use it wisely. Find the truth. It's out there.

Is this thing on???

2005-08-18T19:17:00.000-04:00

Yes, it took me 10 minutes to figure out how the hell to post this thing they call "Blog"! Up until a few days ago, I had no idea what a blog was. Now I get it, but I still have no idea why the hell it's called a "BLOG". It sounds almost like something that lives under a bridge...like a troll, but slimy...and fat. A Blog. Yeah...

"The children knew not to go near the bridge in Oakwood Park. For under this bridge lived a troll. He wasn't an ordinary troll. No...this troll was unlike any other. He was a Blog. A fat, slimy, good for nothing Blog..."

The story continues...kids cross the bridge, Blog eats kids, town revolts, Blog puts up fight, riot ensues, Blog terrorizes city...then the nation...mass chaos engulfs country, army attacks, Blog laughs, Navy attacks, Blog naps, the Marines attack...Blog gets his ass kicked and is vaporized. You know, the usual story.

But I digress - my point being...what a stupid fucking name. Can I say "fuck" in Blog land? Is there a Blog etiquette that I need to be aware of, or is it a speak your mind free-for-all?

So my first topic of discussion in Blog land is this whole war-protesting thing. Remember back in the day when war protesters rioted, tipped over cars, and threw Molotov cocktails at the "fuzz". Granted, I wasn't alive then, but I know my history. I know that people gathered by the hundreds of thousands with a common message and a common purpose...peace. Now I'm no idiot - I know that a large part of this agenda was free love and drugs. But what ever.... more power to them. Regardless of their overt displays of open-mindedness, they displayed a passion for something they truly believed in. Peace.

And here we are...2005. Over 35 years later, and we are once again a country at war. And while this war has not suffered a fraction of the casualties of Vietnam, the numbers are still astounding. Over 2,000 American Soldiers have died so far. It's a war that has torn the nation in two. So critical is our foreign policy, and what do we do as a nation, yet we continue to spit in the face of the world with our arrogance and ignorance. And what do we do to show our displeasure for the hideous decisions of the buffoon who calls himself "The President"? We send a middle-aged woman with a lawn chair and a megaphone to march on the lawn of the NEIGHBOR of the President's summer home!!! That's IT people!! Her son died and she is pissed. As well she should be! Her son died fighting for his country. Here we are, 3 years into this war, and the only true symbol that has come out of this oil-driven fiasco is a mourning mother protesting a quarter of a mile from the President's ranch. No massive peace rallies at the Washington Monument. No Woodstock. No riots. No peace, love, and happiness.

No my friends, we've become too advanced for that. We're too greedy and angry as a people to maintain peace. Nature has caught up with us and creates diseases to prevent free love. And with all the bullshit that it all evolves into, what is there to be happy about??

Sure, it's not all that bad...but it's not looking good. So what do you do? Do you take a stand? Do you speak up? Do you fight for what you believe in? Or do you stand idly by and watch. Watch as civilization once again brings itself to a boil. Loaf on the sofa of life while Bush and Co. feed your mind with lies and propaganda.

I'm not "one of those people" filled with anger and conspiracy theories. I'm just a concerned citizen who sees things taking a turn for the worse. My only voice has been my writing. It's my only outlet, and I have something to say.

If you're not concerned...you're not paying attention.