"Oh man. It itches."
----------------
Now playing: Belly - Super-Connected
via FoxyTunes
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
In which I don't use the term "handi-capable."
Here's something that's kind of cool, if you like inspirational sports stories.
The smallest of Indiana's 317 football-playing high schools is the Indiana School for the Deaf. With only 97 students in grades 9-12, including 55 boys (according to the IHSAA's most recent numbers), Indiana Deaf typically faces an uphill battle on the field of play.
Indiana Deaf usually schedules a mix of deaf schools from other states and smaller, independent high schools from both inside and outside of Indiana that sometimes need a game to fill out their schedule, and have tasted little gridiron success in the past, mustering no better than a handful of 4-6 seasons over the last 12 years. While they typically acquitted themselves well against other deaf schools, wins against other "hearing" high schools (for lack of a better term) have been few and far between (going 8-44 against those schools since 1995).
Until this season.
The Deaf Hoosiers find themselves in rarefied air these days, having built a 9-2 record this season. They avenged one of their two regular-season losses this evening, destroying Indianapolis Lutheran by 33 points.
Next Friday, they play Class A's #9 Indianapolis Ritter, which is the second-largest school in Class A. A win would bring the Deaf Hoosiers their first sectional championship (consider that, before this season, they had exactly one postseason win in their history).
----------------
Now playing: Arson Garden - Drink a Drink of You
via FoxyTunes
The smallest of Indiana's 317 football-playing high schools is the Indiana School for the Deaf. With only 97 students in grades 9-12, including 55 boys (according to the IHSAA's most recent numbers), Indiana Deaf typically faces an uphill battle on the field of play.
Indiana Deaf usually schedules a mix of deaf schools from other states and smaller, independent high schools from both inside and outside of Indiana that sometimes need a game to fill out their schedule, and have tasted little gridiron success in the past, mustering no better than a handful of 4-6 seasons over the last 12 years. While they typically acquitted themselves well against other deaf schools, wins against other "hearing" high schools (for lack of a better term) have been few and far between (going 8-44 against those schools since 1995).
Until this season.
The Deaf Hoosiers find themselves in rarefied air these days, having built a 9-2 record this season. They avenged one of their two regular-season losses this evening, destroying Indianapolis Lutheran by 33 points.
Next Friday, they play Class A's #9 Indianapolis Ritter, which is the second-largest school in Class A. A win would bring the Deaf Hoosiers their first sectional championship (consider that, before this season, they had exactly one postseason win in their history).
----------------
Now playing: Arson Garden - Drink a Drink of You
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Flying is the second biggest thrill known to man, and landing is the first.
In a classic case of making things out in my head to be much bigger than they need to be, I am going to San Diego in a couple of weeks and already dreading it.
It's not the being away from my family that's eating at me. I'm not thrilled about being away from them, but I'm going to make the best of it and have a good time, and enjoy my "alone time." I've already decided this much.
It's not that I'm going to be out of my routine - cause I love my routines and love things to be "just so" - but you can't spell "routine" without "rut." And sometimes I feel myself slipping into that in my day-to-day, so charbroiled southern California might be a nice remedy.
It's just that ... well, as cosmopolitan and urbane and worldly as I am (ha), I've never flown. And not only that, but the red-eye back is going to involve two different layovers, which means three takeoffs and landings.
It'll be fine, right?
----------------
Now playing: Grant Lee Buffalo - Stars N' Stripes
via FoxyTunes
It's not the being away from my family that's eating at me. I'm not thrilled about being away from them, but I'm going to make the best of it and have a good time, and enjoy my "alone time." I've already decided this much.
It's not that I'm going to be out of my routine - cause I love my routines and love things to be "just so" - but you can't spell "routine" without "rut." And sometimes I feel myself slipping into that in my day-to-day, so charbroiled southern California might be a nice remedy.
It's just that ... well, as cosmopolitan and urbane and worldly as I am (ha), I've never flown. And not only that, but the red-eye back is going to involve two different layovers, which means three takeoffs and landings.
It'll be fine, right?
----------------
Now playing: Grant Lee Buffalo - Stars N' Stripes
via FoxyTunes
So, I see where the Rubik's Cube, that iconic puzzle toy of the early '80s, is making a bit of a comeback.
In its heyday, my solution for the Rubik's Cube involved peeling off the stickers and repositioning them.
Cause I was gifted.
----------------
Now playing: Grant Lee Buffalo - Wish You Well
via FoxyTunes
In its heyday, my solution for the Rubik's Cube involved peeling off the stickers and repositioning them.
Cause I was gifted.
----------------
Now playing: Grant Lee Buffalo - Wish You Well
via FoxyTunes
I made a very important life decision the other day.
I decided that "Be All End All" is my favorite Anthrax song. Followed closely by "Belly of the Beast."
Also: fucking Red Sox.
----------------
Now playing: Morcheeba - Get Along
via FoxyTunes
I decided that "Be All End All" is my favorite Anthrax song. Followed closely by "Belly of the Beast."
Also: fucking Red Sox.
----------------
Now playing: Morcheeba - Get Along
via FoxyTunes
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
FTA: Bramble Tamble Poetry Slamble, pp. 13-17
I had lost the notebook, but found it again the other day. Here are more selections from the "Love's Going To Live Somewhere Else For Awhile, OK?" collection, c. 1998. (And here is a link to the remainder of the collection.)
Incidentally: these poems now mean even less to me, the writer, than they do to you, the reader. Still, thank you for reading them, for looking at this snapshot of my psyche from 10 years ago and laughing at my psyche's long hair, peach-fuzz mustache and Camaro.
****
He doesn't get high anymore.
He just is.
How sad is that?
****
I talked to my dad the other day.
It's been about 9 months, I guess.
He didn't recognize my voice, so
we hung up without really talking.
*****
His story doesn't begin or end here.
Rather it's a collection of pieces scattered
across cities, under the blackjack table,
in the seat cushions of various taverns.
(Note: And *that* is how you subconsciously plagiarize a late-80s Tennis magazine story about Bjorn Borg's ill-fated, star-crossed comeback. If that wasn't verbatim, it was damn close.)
*****
Settling in for a nice round of
menáge-á-moi - I couldn't get your
face out of my head.
*****
I keep opening the cabinet next to me,
almost obsessively,
as if I were expecting a random portal
to appear and whisk me away
*****
9-9-98 - 3:30 am
I.
Feeling like a total and complete amateur
II.
I know in my heart that I won't be forgotten
It's just that the things I'll be remembered for
aren't the ones I'd prefer
III.
I'm sorry for fucking things up and
making you believe things that I, too, believed
IV.
I wish I still held the magic over you that
you still do over me, but I have a hard
enough time turning water into ice - wine
is out of the question.
V.
What I wouldn't give for another crisis to take
my mind off this one
What I wouldn't give to put it all behind us now
VI.
I feel like I've died and gone to hell ...
****
Fuck You, Thornton Wilder
This town is like a pair of bikini briefs that are two sizes too small.
*****
I miss Lisa.
She'd get high with me and think I was Rosie the Robot.
*****
Prom.
*****
In the 18 minutes since I last looked at the clock,
I have:
*****
They've Got The Bomb Now
I think we'd look good together
You know me - I'm the dork in the glasses
Holding a couple of beers
And you're the gorgeous one with the sunglasses on your head
Nonchalant, like you couldn't give a shit about Pakistan
----------------
Now playing: Sloan - If It Feels Good Do It
via FoxyTunes
Incidentally: these poems now mean even less to me, the writer, than they do to you, the reader. Still, thank you for reading them, for looking at this snapshot of my psyche from 10 years ago and laughing at my psyche's long hair, peach-fuzz mustache and Camaro.
****
He doesn't get high anymore.
He just is.
How sad is that?
****
I talked to my dad the other day.
It's been about 9 months, I guess.
He didn't recognize my voice, so
we hung up without really talking.
*****
His story doesn't begin or end here.
Rather it's a collection of pieces scattered
across cities, under the blackjack table,
in the seat cushions of various taverns.
(Note: And *that* is how you subconsciously plagiarize a late-80s Tennis magazine story about Bjorn Borg's ill-fated, star-crossed comeback. If that wasn't verbatim, it was damn close.)
*****
Settling in for a nice round of
menáge-á-moi - I couldn't get your
face out of my head.
*****
I keep opening the cabinet next to me,
almost obsessively,
as if I were expecting a random portal
to appear and whisk me away
*****
9-9-98 - 3:30 am
I.
Feeling like a total and complete amateur
II.
I know in my heart that I won't be forgotten
It's just that the things I'll be remembered for
aren't the ones I'd prefer
III.
I'm sorry for fucking things up and
making you believe things that I, too, believed
IV.
I wish I still held the magic over you that
you still do over me, but I have a hard
enough time turning water into ice - wine
is out of the question.
V.
What I wouldn't give for another crisis to take
my mind off this one
What I wouldn't give to put it all behind us now
VI.
I feel like I've died and gone to hell ...
****
Fuck You, Thornton Wilder
This town is like a pair of bikini briefs that are two sizes too small.
*****
I miss Lisa.
She'd get high with me and think I was Rosie the Robot.
*****
Prom.
*****
In the 18 minutes since I last looked at the clock,
I have:
*****
They've Got The Bomb Now
I think we'd look good together
You know me - I'm the dork in the glasses
Holding a couple of beers
And you're the gorgeous one with the sunglasses on your head
Nonchalant, like you couldn't give a shit about Pakistan
----------------
Now playing: Sloan - If It Feels Good Do It
via FoxyTunes
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Some nights, I end my day with a couple of hours of Scrabble online (scrabulous.com). Last night was one of those nights, but this post isn’t about Scrabble. Rather, remember back about one post ago when I said that I didn’t feel like discussing, debating or defending much of anything anymore?
So, I’m playing Scrabble last night, minding my own business, working to find a place to use “sonatas” (and, ultimately, failing), when someone in the lobby makes mention of Canada’s Thanksgiving, which I guess is today. No biggie, happy Thanksgiving to my Canadian friends and all that. Warm fuzzies abounded for a moment, and made me look forward to the American Thanksgiving in November.
Until, that is, some woman chimes in, “Thanksgiving symbolizes our ancestors’ mass slaughter of cultures.”
Sigh.
That pressed just the right buttons on my psyche. Fully aware of what I was stepping into, I replied, “I thought that Thanksgiving symbolized, you know, the giving of thanks.”
Oh no. It symbolizes the white man’s oppression and slaughter of other cultures that they deemed inferior. We need to think about this and not celebrate that holiday, because we’re all in this together, white, black, red, yellow. According to her, anyway. Me – trying to live day-to-day, paycheck-to-paycheck – it doesn’t warm my cockles any to think that we’re all trying to make it on this big blue ball floating in space. I have bigger fish to fry than “I’d Like To Buy The World A Coke.”
(Hey, check it out. I said “cockles” and “big blue ball” in the same sentence without meaning it dirty.)
“Oh geez,” I said. “Off your high horse. I never should have opened my mouth.”
“Sad atitude,” (sic) she said. “I wrote a book about it seven years ago. It was a best-seller.”
Yeah, I bet it was a real page-turner. I love me some light summer reading. (Although, if she can’t spell “attitude,” it surprises me that she was still able to poop out a book. She must have had a very forgiving editor, or is a fucking liar - what are the odds?)
(This would have been the perfect time to whip out the old Bob Knight quote about journalists. “Most of us learn to write in the 2nd grade and then move on to bigger and better things.” I love that.)
Then some other dude asked her where she lived, and she said that while she lived in St. Pete, FL now, she just moved back from Spain, and prior to that, she lived in Paris. And then came the topper:
“I like to live in a country for about 6-12 months. You know, really absorb the culture.”
I had dropped out of the conversation, because I don’t take part in stupid dumbass debates with some numbnutted animal-humping liberal halfwit who feels our dead relatives’ pain – as I said in my previous post, it’s just a bunch of wasted breath. But this was too delicious.
“*sniff*,” I wrote mockingly. “I like to move about every 6-12 months to hide from creditors and annoy the neighbors. You know, really absorb the trailer park.”
I think she had already gone to bed by that point, but my comment garnered giggles from other folks in the room, including the Canadian folks who were equally offended by her dumbassery.
But my God, that’s just ridiculous. I guess it’s a matter of priorities, though. Some normal, sane people like to take the time to celebrate holidays with their families and enjoy the turkey and watch some football and enjoy one another’s company to an extent. And other functionally retarded people feel survivor’s remorse for things that happened 500 years ago. Doesn’t make you a deeper, more thoughtful person if you feel that way. In fact, it makes you pretty shallow, cause dead people don’t give a shit if you feel their pain.
So, I’m playing Scrabble last night, minding my own business, working to find a place to use “sonatas” (and, ultimately, failing), when someone in the lobby makes mention of Canada’s Thanksgiving, which I guess is today. No biggie, happy Thanksgiving to my Canadian friends and all that. Warm fuzzies abounded for a moment, and made me look forward to the American Thanksgiving in November.
Until, that is, some woman chimes in, “Thanksgiving symbolizes our ancestors’ mass slaughter of cultures.”
Sigh.
That pressed just the right buttons on my psyche. Fully aware of what I was stepping into, I replied, “I thought that Thanksgiving symbolized, you know, the giving of thanks.”
Oh no. It symbolizes the white man’s oppression and slaughter of other cultures that they deemed inferior. We need to think about this and not celebrate that holiday, because we’re all in this together, white, black, red, yellow. According to her, anyway. Me – trying to live day-to-day, paycheck-to-paycheck – it doesn’t warm my cockles any to think that we’re all trying to make it on this big blue ball floating in space. I have bigger fish to fry than “I’d Like To Buy The World A Coke.”
(Hey, check it out. I said “cockles” and “big blue ball” in the same sentence without meaning it dirty.)
“Oh geez,” I said. “Off your high horse. I never should have opened my mouth.”
“Sad atitude,” (sic) she said. “I wrote a book about it seven years ago. It was a best-seller.”
Yeah, I bet it was a real page-turner. I love me some light summer reading. (Although, if she can’t spell “attitude,” it surprises me that she was still able to poop out a book. She must have had a very forgiving editor, or is a fucking liar - what are the odds?)
(This would have been the perfect time to whip out the old Bob Knight quote about journalists. “Most of us learn to write in the 2nd grade and then move on to bigger and better things.” I love that.)
Then some other dude asked her where she lived, and she said that while she lived in St. Pete, FL now, she just moved back from Spain, and prior to that, she lived in Paris. And then came the topper:
“I like to live in a country for about 6-12 months. You know, really absorb the culture.”
I had dropped out of the conversation, because I don’t take part in stupid dumbass debates with some numbnutted animal-humping liberal halfwit who feels our dead relatives’ pain – as I said in my previous post, it’s just a bunch of wasted breath. But this was too delicious.
“*sniff*,” I wrote mockingly. “I like to move about every 6-12 months to hide from creditors and annoy the neighbors. You know, really absorb the trailer park.”
I think she had already gone to bed by that point, but my comment garnered giggles from other folks in the room, including the Canadian folks who were equally offended by her dumbassery.
But my God, that’s just ridiculous. I guess it’s a matter of priorities, though. Some normal, sane people like to take the time to celebrate holidays with their families and enjoy the turkey and watch some football and enjoy one another’s company to an extent. And other functionally retarded people feel survivor’s remorse for things that happened 500 years ago. Doesn’t make you a deeper, more thoughtful person if you feel that way. In fact, it makes you pretty shallow, cause dead people don’t give a shit if you feel their pain.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Dayton, Ohio - Birthplace of Flight, Home of Hive of Temptation
Went to Dayton over the weekend to visit the National Air Force Museum at Wright-Patterson AFB. Full trip report/travelogue forthcoming, with pics, but in the meantime, wanted to share this tale:
I was sitting by myself outside on the patio at a bar in Dayton when my redneck shitkickin' hard-partyin' brother-in-law came back outside to rejoin me. He had gone inside to continue hitting on a girl who had sat and talked to him earlier. Girl #1 had come and gone (and I love women – I admire and respect them and put them on a pedestal whenever I can, and I don't think you ought to beat on them, ever, but if there were ever a girl who needed a punch in the nose, it was her), but girl #2 – who was a friend of girl #1 - was still on the premises, and my redneck shitkickin' hard-partyin' brother-in-law started working it with her. It was quite a sight.
So he sat back down after an absence of about 10 minutes while I sat and watched the one-man band on the stage play a Jimmy Buffett cover and then a Lynyrd Skynyrd cover. Diverse, that guy was.
"Where the hell were *you* at?"
"Hmmm?" I asked.
"I needed you in there to back me up."
(pause)
"Hmmmm?"
"I found Brittany in there and asked her to come back out. She had a guy with her who said, 'That's my girl you're talking to.'"
"Hmmmm. How'd that go?"
"How the *fuck* do you think it went?" (He looked unscathed, actually, but I imagine he was hurting inside, as much as a redneck, shitkickin' hard partyer can hurt inside.)
"I bought you another beer while you were inside," I replied. I can never tell if he's kidding or not, so I'm not certain there was really a fight or a disagreement, but I like buying beer for people. Better still, I like it when people buy beer for me, which he did many times over the course of the night.
"You must have been in pretty sad shape for *me* to come back you up," I added.
***
Which leads me to my bigger point, the ultimate point of this post:
When I recounted the above the following morning at breakfast, my other brother-in-law said, "I'm glad I didn't go out with you guys. That hive of temptation is something I prefer to avoid." (He's a bit of a Jesus freak.)
I looked down at my bacon and thought, "'Hive of temptation?' What the fucking fuck, man? I mean, we're at a friggin' buffet – isn't gluttony one of your seven deadlies? 'Hive of temptation.' Fuck. That bar I was at has nothing on the Golden Corral. Look around you!
"'Hive of temptation.' Christ."
***
In the car on the way back home, this conversation happened:
Wife: "Hey, I saw that you and my brother-in-law were wearing the same shorts today!"
Me: "Yeah, they were selling them 2-for-1 at the Hive of Temptation, so I picked him up a pair."
Wife: "… …"
(Because she doesn't like it when I make fun. Especially of people, regardless of whether they are not related by blood, as my Jesus freak brother-in-law isn't.)
Me: "'Hive of temptation.' Pfffft. What the fuck was *that*? It was just 15 beers. The Bible doesn't say anything about beer or peeing in a public parking lot at 1 in the morning."
Wife: "… …"
Me: "Is that next to the Den of Iniquity?"
Wife: "… …"
(Because I'm still poking fun, and she doesn't like it when I poke fun at anything God-related, not understanding that I'm not poking fun at God - because wouldn't that be pretty fucking retarded?
(I mean, she got pissed when I poked fun at that Josh Turner song about "Me and God." ["Like two peas in a pod, me and God – cause He's the omnipotent creator of the universe and all that inhabit it, and I'm a country and western singer with kind of a bitchin' baritone but no songs to back it up."] And she got even more pissed when I made fun of Josh Turner's follow-up to "Me and God," a song about a girl called "Firecracker" or something like that. ["Me and God, we like to throw firecrackers at girls."]
(Anyway, the ellipses above represent the steam pouring out of her ears.)
Listen. I believe. And this post is the only time you'll ever hear me reference my faith in this or any other forum, but I've never been accused of being a man of faith. And it's just as well; once you start proclaiming your Jesus love, then you open yourself up to derision from small-minded individuals who think there's no way that there is something bigger than us out there, debate from the same folks who are insistent that a God of love would never send someone to hell, and I just don’t the time or energy or, frankly, the interest to put up with any of it.
And not only that, but once you tip your hand, you open yourself up to being called a hypocrite. And who the fuck needs that? It all makes me tired, so I keep quiet about it anymore. Does that make me wrong? Yeah, probably.
Really - faith is a very personal private thing, between you and your chosen Savior, who is the only one who knows if you believe or not. All of the shouting from the rooftops doesn't make it so! And whether you do or you don't believe, that's fine with me; I'm not going to judge, but that semicolon back there is the end of the conversation as far as that is concerned. I don't want to discuss it or debate it or defend it.
(In fact, I don't want to discuss, debate or defend much of *anything* anymore, which is sad, I guess – is it that the passion is gone at 32, or is that I've finally become convinced that you're not going to change my mind any easier than I'm going to change yours and it's ultimately a bunch of wasted breath? I dunno.)
Anyway, my wife said, "Be nice."
"Fuck," I said.
(And then as if on cue, we drove past the 62-foot Jesus.)
----------------
Now playing: Guided by Voices - The Best of Jill Hives
via FoxyTunes
I was sitting by myself outside on the patio at a bar in Dayton when my redneck shitkickin' hard-partyin' brother-in-law came back outside to rejoin me. He had gone inside to continue hitting on a girl who had sat and talked to him earlier. Girl #1 had come and gone (and I love women – I admire and respect them and put them on a pedestal whenever I can, and I don't think you ought to beat on them, ever, but if there were ever a girl who needed a punch in the nose, it was her), but girl #2 – who was a friend of girl #1 - was still on the premises, and my redneck shitkickin' hard-partyin' brother-in-law started working it with her. It was quite a sight.
So he sat back down after an absence of about 10 minutes while I sat and watched the one-man band on the stage play a Jimmy Buffett cover and then a Lynyrd Skynyrd cover. Diverse, that guy was.
"Where the hell were *you* at?"
"Hmmm?" I asked.
"I needed you in there to back me up."
(pause)
"Hmmmm?"
"I found Brittany in there and asked her to come back out. She had a guy with her who said, 'That's my girl you're talking to.'"
"Hmmmm. How'd that go?"
"How the *fuck* do you think it went?" (He looked unscathed, actually, but I imagine he was hurting inside, as much as a redneck, shitkickin' hard partyer can hurt inside.)
"I bought you another beer while you were inside," I replied. I can never tell if he's kidding or not, so I'm not certain there was really a fight or a disagreement, but I like buying beer for people. Better still, I like it when people buy beer for me, which he did many times over the course of the night.
"You must have been in pretty sad shape for *me* to come back you up," I added.
***
Which leads me to my bigger point, the ultimate point of this post:
When I recounted the above the following morning at breakfast, my other brother-in-law said, "I'm glad I didn't go out with you guys. That hive of temptation is something I prefer to avoid." (He's a bit of a Jesus freak.)
I looked down at my bacon and thought, "'Hive of temptation?' What the fucking fuck, man? I mean, we're at a friggin' buffet – isn't gluttony one of your seven deadlies? 'Hive of temptation.' Fuck. That bar I was at has nothing on the Golden Corral. Look around you!
"'Hive of temptation.' Christ."
***
In the car on the way back home, this conversation happened:
Wife: "Hey, I saw that you and my brother-in-law were wearing the same shorts today!"
Me: "Yeah, they were selling them 2-for-1 at the Hive of Temptation, so I picked him up a pair."
Wife: "… …"
(Because she doesn't like it when I make fun. Especially of people, regardless of whether they are not related by blood, as my Jesus freak brother-in-law isn't.)
Me: "'Hive of temptation.' Pfffft. What the fuck was *that*? It was just 15 beers. The Bible doesn't say anything about beer or peeing in a public parking lot at 1 in the morning."
Wife: "… …"
Me: "Is that next to the Den of Iniquity?"
Wife: "… …"
(Because I'm still poking fun, and she doesn't like it when I poke fun at anything God-related, not understanding that I'm not poking fun at God - because wouldn't that be pretty fucking retarded?
(I mean, she got pissed when I poked fun at that Josh Turner song about "Me and God." ["Like two peas in a pod, me and God – cause He's the omnipotent creator of the universe and all that inhabit it, and I'm a country and western singer with kind of a bitchin' baritone but no songs to back it up."] And she got even more pissed when I made fun of Josh Turner's follow-up to "Me and God," a song about a girl called "Firecracker" or something like that. ["Me and God, we like to throw firecrackers at girls."]
(Anyway, the ellipses above represent the steam pouring out of her ears.)
Listen. I believe. And this post is the only time you'll ever hear me reference my faith in this or any other forum, but I've never been accused of being a man of faith. And it's just as well; once you start proclaiming your Jesus love, then you open yourself up to derision from small-minded individuals who think there's no way that there is something bigger than us out there, debate from the same folks who are insistent that a God of love would never send someone to hell, and I just don’t the time or energy or, frankly, the interest to put up with any of it.
And not only that, but once you tip your hand, you open yourself up to being called a hypocrite. And who the fuck needs that? It all makes me tired, so I keep quiet about it anymore. Does that make me wrong? Yeah, probably.
Really - faith is a very personal private thing, between you and your chosen Savior, who is the only one who knows if you believe or not. All of the shouting from the rooftops doesn't make it so! And whether you do or you don't believe, that's fine with me; I'm not going to judge, but that semicolon back there is the end of the conversation as far as that is concerned. I don't want to discuss it or debate it or defend it.
(In fact, I don't want to discuss, debate or defend much of *anything* anymore, which is sad, I guess – is it that the passion is gone at 32, or is that I've finally become convinced that you're not going to change my mind any easier than I'm going to change yours and it's ultimately a bunch of wasted breath? I dunno.)
Anyway, my wife said, "Be nice."
"Fuck," I said.
(And then as if on cue, we drove past the 62-foot Jesus.)
----------------
Now playing: Guided by Voices - The Best of Jill Hives
via FoxyTunes
Monday, October 01, 2007
I wish this concerned me more than it does, but:
I have a 3-year-old who says "dammit" all the time now.
Chalk one up to bad parenting!
----------------
Now playing: Guided by Voices - Always Crush Me
via FoxyTunes
I have a 3-year-old who says "dammit" all the time now.
Chalk one up to bad parenting!
----------------
Now playing: Guided by Voices - Always Crush Me
via FoxyTunes
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