Friday, December 21, 2007

Christmas Sucks.

Christmas is LAME. LAME in all CAPS. I know that people love them some X-Mas, but I feel like it’s a bunch of stupid traditions and capitalism meant to boost 4th quarter sales numbers for the US economy.

Call me the Grinch or Scrooge. I’m all that times 40 this year.

Yes Christmas, that magic time where people-

-Max out their credit cards

-Buy other people they don’t like trinkets just so they can be social and not look like assholes, even though 99% of people are just that, dumb assholes

-Get stressed out because they don’t get their Year End Bonus (which just happened to me. I now feel like Clark Fucking Griswald, my boss just gave me a gift card and said, “Oh yeah, I forgot to give you a bonus check.” What the hell am I supposed to say to that? “Go get your check book?” I’m screwed. Maybe I can buy Christmas gifts with the Bloomingdales gift card he gave me.)

-Pretend to like their family members.

I know that I’m supposed to feel like there is some sort of spirit inside me, making me want to be with my family and spread cheer throughout the countryside by spending crazy amounts of cash. Sorry, that’s not me, not now. My Motto- Life’s a bitch and then you die. Not exactly Rudolph and Frosty material.

I don’t want to spend every last penny from my tiny bank account and the last thousand on my credit limit for everyone presents. I’m fucking broke bitches! You guys are rich, buy yourself something cool. Don’t make me feel cheap because I don’t have enough cash to buy you something. Yet, in keeping with tradition, I need to spend my rent money to buy a shit load of gifts so that I wake up after New Years broke and thinking I need to pull a bank job so I don’t evicted. But don’t complain J- IT’S TRADITION!

And even if I buy a gift for someone, if I don’t spend at least a hundred bucks, the gift is most likely going to be something they don’t like or won’t use. Shit, most people’s gifts get used once the day of Christmas and then tossed aside and eventually tossed out.

And shouldn’t there be equality for what you’re gifting and receiving? If I give a kick ass expensive gift that I put a ton of thought into (for example the one I gave to my boss, fucking crap) you need to make sure you come correct on my gift bitches. I’m broke and I’m busting my ass to spend a buttfuck ton of money so that you won’t throw out my gift and you give me a gift card! WTF!?!?!?! This fucking gifting thing is redick. Fo reala!

And it’s not the gifting/broke thing that bugs me the most. It’s the supposed HOLIDAY part.

You have to spend time with your family for the holiday, even if that means you must drive or fly (in post 9/11 holiday airport hell) to the ends of the Earth to see them. That sounds like a nice relaxing start and end to anyone’s holiday.

I’ll be driving to Phoenix (instead of dealing with those lines) Sunday morning for my lovely holiday with my lovely family.

Is this what I really want to do with my time off? Hell no. I’d rather stay at home and panhandle for spare change to supplement my piteous income, but I don’t have a choice. I just really want a day to hang out in my apartment by myself, write and play guitar. Is that too much to ask? It should be my holiday right?

See in there lies the problem. If this is really supposed to be a ‘holiday’ or ‘vacation’, where is the rest and relaxation? Where is the stress free environment? Where’s the fun?

I need a serious battery recharge, and I really need to get some writing done. Too bad people don’t pay me for this blog, hahahahaha, like that would ever happen.

Until they get their shit straight with the sell-out commercial, rush around and feel stress, count me out.

PS- I think this will be the last post for a little while with Christmas coming up. I might sneak one in at ‘home’ for my ‘restful vacation’ of last minute shopping, annoying family members and driving in shitty traffic. Hooray!

Thursday, December 20, 2007

In Limbo

Kevin awoke with a pain in his head. A pain that he couldn’t shake. His entire field of vision was clouded, his eyes felt like burning coals inside that box he called his face.

He licked the palm of his hand and held it up to his left ear. His ears had been ringing for days, a constant dull tone that muffled even the sounds of his own body writhing on the floor. He wished to hear a sign of something outside or around him but it was futile. He hadn’t heard a peep of the tiniest sound from anyone or anything but himself.

When his sight returned to him, as if it was a gift given to him for a short time, he crawled on his belly to the only thing he could look at in the darkness. A shaft of light, no bigger than a pencil, lay on the floor before him. The sharp cutting aches pierced his spine as he slowly moved, inch by inch, minute by minute, until he laid to rest with his face cast in the dull light.

While he lay there, he hoped that the light would bring some warmth to his body, which had been uncontrollably shivering, but it wasn’t in the cards. Kevin wondered where the illumination was coming from, why it was there and what he did to deserve such company. He wondered a lot that day (or was it days?) that he lay in the alabaster glow of his only friend left, a sliver of artificial sodium light.

Mostly he wondered how he ended up in here, this trap, this cage, this prison. He knew that he had bigger plans and even bigger dreams for his life than slowly dying in room where the ceiling was only two feet from the floor. But yet there he was, lying there in that strange place, confused.

Kevin tried to speak, but his words choked out into an incomprehensible slur of grunts and sighs. He reached up for his throat, his larynx was a mutilated mess; cartilage and sinew bent in odd shapes beneath his weak skin. But it’s just the same, there wasn’t anyone there to hear him, nor would anyone want to hear what he had to say.

Besides, everyone else was there with him, even if they didn’t know it.

He always wondered what the meaning of life was and more specifically what the meaning of his life was, but now none of that mattered. He figured he didn’t have much longer.

He slowly turned his body and more importantly his head to try to peer into the source of the light. He finally aligned himself right under the shaft, his left eye blinded by the dull light that seemed intense in comparison to the oily blackness in Kevin’s cage. He thought he might be able to see outside, to the world that he once knew, once took for granted, but could see nothing but the burning rays in his left eye and the dark in his right.

So he closed both eyes and stopping searching, stopped trying. It would all be done soon, he hoped. It would all come crashing down, running into him, sucking the air from his lungs.

He remembered a vacant night from his past. It was a hot summer day, just after dusk. He had been sprinting through the meadows, chasing after lightning bugs and catching them in an old jam jar. Suddenly in the distance, a bolt of lightning struck a large oak tree, cracking it in half and starting it on fire. Kevin stood there awestruck, accidentally releasing his captive prey from their glass cage. From his perspective, the green dots of the bugs danced in front of that orange fire playfully. He smiled, a sight he would never forget.

And with that, it was all gone.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Michigan Time Warp

Going to Michigan is like going back in time.

Michigan is locked in its past, its traditions, its old fashioned ways. Everything seems like America, but in the late 80’s. Not that there isn’t all the modern trappings of American society; there are strip malls, computers, Starbucks on every corner etc. But the people and rules are from the past.

People are… wait for it… friendly. You see someone on the street, they say hello to you. I know you’re asking yourself, “What? How? And you don’t know these people at all before hand?” Yeah, I’m surprised also. I sat down at the bar at my sister’s work and had a two hour conversation with a bunch of people who didn’t know me from anyone else. And it was like we were old friends catching up, trading war stories and drinking beers. This brings up another topic all together…

People in Michigan drink… a lot. And often. And by themselves. Its not uncommon to go to the bar by yourself and have a couple dozen drinks.

Its totally cool to have an adult drink, whenever, wherever. If you’re about to jump on the road, sit down and have a beer. Even if its 9:30 AM. You’re having a bad morning? Pound a shot with me.

The funny thing is, I kind of like this brazen form of alcoholic debauchery. It leads to happy people who are very out-going. What’s wrong with that? I mean besides the chance of car accidents, drunken fist fights and swollen livers.

When I was at the bar the first night back, someone light up a cigarette… in the bar! I was confounded and confused. I nearly smacked the cig out of her hand when I realized, of course, she could light up wherever, its Michigan. There are no smoking bans, light that bitch up. You’re sitting at church, let’s have a smoke (although I don’t know if any one actually does this, but I wouldn’t be surprised…)

I’m not a smoker but I like the old school nature of being able to smoke where ever. It seems like movie set in a seedy place. It makes things seem edgy.

These three things are status quo in Ann Arbor Michigan. It makes me think of that show “Mad Men” which is set in the 1950’s, where all the characters smoke at work, drink high balls in their offices and are hell of lot nicer to random folks.

Michigan should change their tourist slogan from “Find your true north” to “Find a good old days flashback”.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Deja Vu

The steel grey clouds overhead framed in the ominous storm below as I ran from my sister’s apartment through the freshly fallen snow.

Something overwhelmed my senses. Smell, sight, sound and temperature combined into a pattern that hadn’t experienced in years.

Déjà vu.

There in Technicolor Dolby Surround Sound and then gone in a flash of nothingness.

Places that I only remember in distant memories appear in front of my very eyes and then fade from my vision. Hazy memories dot the horizon but I can’t reach them. People that are long gone seem to be there but then are blown away by a strong gust of December wind.

The problem with Déjà vu is that you can’t place why you feel like this has happened before. You search your insides to find a clue but there is none. It always feels like to me that I ‘dreamt’ what is happening before my very eyes, like I have some sort of special talent or gift to see into the future when I fall asleep. But this one was different.

My Déjà vu was wasn’t Déjà vu at all, but a similar feeling inside. But instead of it being a mystery to me, I know exactly where it came from. It happened to me before in a completely different way; in a different place, time and circumstances.

We sat outside that night by a fire. I wondered why we weren’t inside, considering the weather. Wind pranced through blustery snow and white trees, darting the few remaining leaves from their bonds and emancipating them into flight. I stared at one leaf as it hung in the air for what felt like an eternity. My over-active imagination wondered if it was built by some squirrels, the Wright Brothers of the squirrel world.

He was drinking a beer. So was I sort of, the bottle was killing my hands from the cold so I put mine in the snow at my feet and didn’t really touch it. I was kind of upset that I was out there in the first place. Couldn’t we drink beer in the house by the portable space heater? I figured I would give it five minutes and then go in.

After three minutes, we started the conversation that saved my life.

What was exactly said, I’ll never be able now put into words. We just talked. About everything you possibly imagine. I wish that I would’ve taped the conversation because when it was done, it passed just as quickly as my déjà vu.

It was getting late. He stood up and smiled at me, his gray stubble smirk. He turned and walked away, his dark silhouette casting a shadow for a mile through the old cedar trees and the acrobatic flight paths of snow.

That moment; the wet smell in the air, the cold on my breath, the sound of the hollow wind were clearly the same. But moreover, something appeared just past my line of sight. There stood a ghost in the darkness, an apparition, a figment.

And with that, it was gone.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

My Rental Car got Keyed

I walked out to my rental car this morning to find that someone keyed it. Fuck me.

First off, who the fuck keys random cars? It wasn’t that I was parked poorly or did anything to deserve it. Shit, if it was one of my enemies, I could understand why they did it. But my enemies don’t know I have a rental car and that I haven’t been parking in my garage.

Second, what does keying someone’s car do for the person who does the keying? Does it make you feel big? Strong? Like you’ve accomplished something?

Third, don’t they realize that it’s fucking expensive to do such a thing to a rental car? It’s not like I can just live with the scrape, like I would do on my normal car. I have to turn it into the rental car company, who already told me I would have to pay the $500 deductible for the repairs. $500!??? For a scratch!?????

It sucks that I’ve had to have the rental car this long, for the repairs to my regular car have taken a fucking week already. I was supposed to turn this car in a long time ago, but they kept taking their sweet ass time. Now because I’ve had to keep the car, I waited one day to long to turn it back in.

Now, I have to try to return my rental car, pay a small fortune for a scratch, get my car and then race to the airport to make my flight to Michigan. I hope I don’t miss my flight.

I hate you car key scratcher person, whoever you are.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Top Ten Holiday gift ideas for people you don’t really want to spend money on.

It happens every year. You have someone, be it a relative or friend or coworker, who you have to buy a gift for whatever reason (mainly that they bought you one so you have to return the favor) even though you really don’t want to spend money on them. We’ve all been there. With our economy in a total shitcoffin, every penny you spend this Holiday counts.

That’s why I’m here with a list of cheap gifts to get these people who don’t want to buy a gift for.

10- Macaroni Art- You take macaroni and other assorted pastas and glue them onto a piece of paper or a paper towel roll and BOOM, instant art! You can put a special greeting of your liking or you could even do a self portrait. Talk about classy.

9- A Slinky- What walks down stairs, need no motor repairs and makes you look like a genius gift giver? A Slinky, that’s what!

8-A costume of yourself- Take clothes from your closet and put together a quintessential ‘you’ outfit. If you always wear plaid, put in a plaid shirt. If you were Birkenstocks, throw your old ones in a box. Give it to them and present it as a ‘you’ disguise.

7- Old Magazine Subscription- Take all the magazines that you saved from the last year. Deliver one to your person every week when the date on the old magazine states you should. Voila, instant old magazine subscription. (on second thought, this might take a lot of work. I’d say just give them all to them, tell them to sort out the dates)

6- Paper Mache Mask- Take strips of newspaper and glue them together into the form of a mask. Paint it with White out or whatever you got at the house. This is a great gift for someone who’s really really ugly.

5-A Candle- I was once told that you can always get someone a candle. Why? I’m not sure but fuck it, buy ‘em a candle, its cheap.

4-A picture frame with your picture- Get a good photo of yourself, maybe the one from Glamour Shots when you were 14, and frame that bitch up. And don’t waste money on an expensive frame, buy that shit from Goodwill.

3-Old Books- Take some books off the shelf at your house that you hate or never read and wrap them up. Easy, removes clutter from your house and you look intellectual.

2-Fast Food Condiments- Take all the catsup, mustard, BBQ and hot sauce packets from your fridge and junk drawer and arrange them in a basket. Make it look nice, like a cornucopia of condiments.

1-A Poem- Write a really abstract, silly poem and say that you wrote it for the person. Something about monkeys, sun beams, shoeshine and butterflies would work.

I hope that this helps you find a cheap gift. If it didn’t well, then you need to re-read the article again. I’m not writing another 10 gifts, I refuse!

Monday, December 10, 2007

Medical Marijuana

I did the unbelievable this weekend. I got a medical marijuana card. Yes, that card, the golden ticket for pot heads. My life just got a little bit better.

I’ve had bad back problems lately after my accident. It’s been tough because the pain medication makes me moody. That’s when this idea came into my head.

Why not get a license to smoke and eat weed for pain?

I assumed that this process would be tough and that I would be turned down afterwards. It was easier than I thought.

I went into this private ‘clinic’, which was nothing more than a couple of rooms in a small building. I filled out a quick form, answered some really easy questions from the doctor, who signed some papers and I was out the door.

That’s it, I had a one year permit to purchase weed at stores, possess it, and smoke it out. As I was walking down the street, laughing at my good luck, I look up and someone was encouraging me to go into a weed store (one of many in the West Hollywood area). It was like I was in Amsterdam, but it was one block away from my house.

Inside the weed store, it was exactly like Amsterdam, I could purchase any weed, type or flavor. Plus I could buy weed butter, food, candies, oils, plants, seeds etc. Plus, they have cheap weed, expensive weed, weed that will make you sleep, weed that makes you awake… anything you could imagine.

I purchased some bubblegum kush and some 9 times hash fudge. This stuff is 9 times as strong as your normal hash fudge. Man, that might have been an underestimate…

I ate this stuff, a tiny piece and smoked a blunt before trying to go to watch the Mayweather/ Hatton fight. It became apparent quite quickly that I wouldn’t be able to operate heavy machinery.

I was faced, everything was moving too slow, or was it too fast? Whichever it was, I was fucked up like I hadn’t been since I was in Amsterdam. I ‘over medicated’ as my new doctor had termed it.

It didn’t help that as I was over medicated that a crazy homeless person accosted us at McDonald’s, accusing Dayn of being Jesus. That a pretty heavy think to lay on someone who ate this fudge hash, especially to someone who can’t stop laughing. But after hearing this crazy person yell at us for 20 minutes, I was ready to escape. Thank God he left before I died of laughter. Man, I laughed like hadn’t laughed in months, maybe years.

The whole night was a blur of laughter, I don’t remember most of it or the fight for that matter.

After Saturday night, I felt still high when I woke up the next morning. I guess I was pretty dang high…

Thanks to my completely legal weed card, I can do that. Hopefully I don’t over medicate too often, I think I almost ate and smoked myself retarded.

Friday, December 7, 2007

Writer's block

I didn’t post a blog yesterday because I had writers block. Shit, its not even writers block but I like absolutely no idea what to right about.

You see I have my mind wrapped around two things right now, “The life of Hunter S. Thompson” book and my script “Terrence versus the Army of Robots.” Whenever I sit down to right, those are the only two topics that come to mind. That and Bob Dylan…

Here is a list of things that I thought about writing, but couldn’t figure out how to get more than four sentences about it.

-I Am Legend- I saw a preview of it today and it was… okay I guess. It wasn’t bad at all, in fact, it was good but different. I thought it would be more entertaining than it was, it was actually kind of depressing. If you’re looking for a movie to think about the end of the world and being alone, this is the one for you.

-Classic rock- I’ve been listening to a bunch of classic rock lately. What do I have to say about that? I’m not sure.

-Tag, my short movie- I’m really ready to be done with everything on this but I have to go back and do another edit with some different sound mix. I really don’t want to, because I’m just burned out of it but I have to.

-I’m going back to Michigan on Wednesday for my sister’s gradation. Should be fun. And very cold.

-My tattoo itches today.

-I’m going to watch the Mayweather/Hatton fight on Saturday. I hope Hatton kicks the shit out of him.

-I think I’m going to check out Juno this weekend, looks like it’s a good flick.

-The Lions play the Cowboys this weekend. Looks like another loss for the football club from Detroit.

All of those things aren’t really full blog worthy. Maybe after the weekend, I’ll have more to write about.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007


Just when my interest in sports was fading, my Tigers pull me back in.

My whole life has been filled with the Detroit Tigers. Shit just last week I got a big ass tattoo of the old English D Tigers logo. Some of my first memories were of going to Tigers Stadium to watch the World Series winning 1984 Tigers. After that, when the Tigers had Cecil Fielder, I would watch games on the couch with my dad every summer when I was visiting him in Michigan. Later when I was in college, I would go to the bar to watch the terrible Tigers who couldn’t win if they tried, and I’m pretty sure they didn’t try. But I still loved them, I would draft a terrible fantasy baseball team every year because I would draft a ton of Tigers.

Now, it’s like the Tigers are a fantasy team.

Thank God Mike Illitch gave the GM job to Dave Drombroski and the manager job to Jim Leyland. They changed the organization from a punchline for a dumb joke on Leno to a powerhouse.

Four years ago, the Tigers flat out sucked. Then suddenly, we were aggressive about signing players, Pudge Rodriguez decided to come here. Everything changed after that, including the players that the Tigers already had in their system. Young guys who lost 20 games in our record setting sucky season looked like studs. Maybe they wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Poof, Two years later when the Tigers made the World Series when no thought they would. Shit, I was a little shocked but totally happy and content with the change. They were respectable again, and in fact, they were good, if not great.

But this last year, they were hit with a ton of injuries and played like shit down the stretch. Maybe they would be a one hit wonder.

Now, the Tigers are the most active and down right ruthless team in the off season. Today’s announcement of the biggest trade in Tigers history makes this team just downright nasty…

I would be happy getting Dontrelle Willis, who had a crappy year last year but I think just needed a change of scenery. But to get one of the greatest young hitters out there in Miguel Cabrera is not fair. Its like we are catching up to the Yankees and Red Sox out there, playing with Monopoly money and making huge pick ups.

In order to get Dontrelle and Miguel, the Tigers did have to give up two of our best prospects. But what if those guys don’t pan out? We gave a hand full of unknowns for a young proven commodity who is getting in the best shape of his career and guy who is only two seasons removed from winning 22 games.

I like those chances.

Not to mention that the Tigers went out and got Edgar Renteria and Jacque Jones and resigned everybody that was worth resigning. As the article posted above notes, the Tigers have added 4 All Stars in 14 months with giving up a player that has spent a full season in the bigs.

Thank you Tigers. You made sports interesting to me again.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Ron and the Rain

Ron waited for the first drops of rain, patiently sitting by the cracked back window. Larry ‘Snowman’ Oklahoma, the weatherman on the channel seven news, said there was a 99 percent chance of precipitation. Ron knew what that meant. He paid close attention in his 2nd grade science class last year, studied the barometer, found out about weather patterns. 99 percent precipitation meant it was going to rain.

During his waiting, Ron thumbed through his favorite comic book, “The Terrible”. The Terrible was probably a little too mature and edgy for Ron to be reading, but he didn’t care. He was the first kid he knew that got into more ‘adult’ graphic novels and not regular comics, which he deemed, “for little kids.” He took a lot of pride in his fine taste for their explicit violence and near pornographic sex scenes. He would trace the half naked ladies with a thin piece of notebook paper and a number two pencil, always a number two, and he would pass them off as his own creations to the few classmates he actually spoke to. They thought he was an artist. He felt like a fraud, but that didn’t stop him from presenting all the kids his new piece every Monday morning on the playground by the monkey bars.

The Terrible smashed open the skull of yet another street punk just as a burst of disconcerting thunder sounded from the sky, creating a strange cacophony that startled Ron. During his waiting, he got so caught up in the Terrible’s adventures that he forgot the reason he was by the window in the first place.

A single drop of rain hit the window. Then another. The two drops raced down the windowpane and ran into each other, forming a large globule that hung for a moment and then eventually fell to the window sill.

Ron jumped up of his favorite worn down chair and ran to the back door. He was ready for the rain, the plastic and rubber of his galoshes and raincoat rubbed together, creating an annoying squeaking sound. He pushed up the sliding glass door and peered outside; it was now sprinkling all over the small wood deck and garden that his step mom kept in order.

The smell of fresh water, earth and wood permeated Ron’s senses. It was time.

Next to the back gate stood a generic BMX bike. It wasn’t a name brand like all the other kids on the block who had Dynos, Haros and Mongooses. Ron always openly spoke hatred to his bike. He told it and anyone who would listen how ‘stupid and plain’ it was; like the bike was a conscience entity that needed to be reminded of its blandness and that this mockery might institute a change. But as much as he hated it, he loved it as well. He spent every free moment of the past year on the bike. Not out of pure necessity either, it was more than a mode of transportation; it was his release, his conduit for adventure, his best friend.

Ron hopped on his bike and didn’t bother to shut the back gate; he had more important things to do. As he peddled away from his house, another crack of thunder snapped through the air. The rain drops took cue from the clap and doubled in intensity, up from a drizzle to what Ron would tell his friends is, “the Seattle Standard”. Ron hadn’t been to Seattle but he heard that it rained everyday there from his much older step sister, who went to Seattle for college. Every time when she would visit, she remark on the “the Seattle Standard” and how the rain was different there, better. She held an elitist attitude about rain and the quality and quantity of it in her new hometown, but Ron never understand why she felt that way. But he adopted the phrase, “the Seattle Standard” because it made it sound like he was well traveled. He came up with a plan in his head that if in the event a kid was to ask if he had been to Seattle, he would lie and say he spent the weekend. However, no one asked him so he never had to lie.

Sploosh! Ron’s dull silver bike landed in a puddle at the base of the first jump on his run. Ron had spent the better part of the last summer building a few dirt ramps in the vacant dirt field next to his house. His multiple bike runs through this field during his short tenure in the neighborhood smothered the plant life, mostly weeds and tall wheat like grass, into a muddy faux bike track.

During the second month of summer break, the other kids noticed the track and started riding it themselves. Eventually, they took inspiration from Ron’s heavy shoveling and built upon the track, leading different paths to parts of the neighborhood; to other kids backyards, to the elementary school, to the Foodco. Shopping center.

The other kids also built their own ramps, but all of them paled in comparision to Ron’s ‘Evil Knievel’ ramps. Ron’s father showed him a video of Evil Knievel the year before, told him how exciting his jump over the Snake River was to him when he was a Ron’s age. Ron paid close attention to the set up and execution of his jumps; how his ramps arched and his landing area was clear and straight.

This has a profound affect on Ron and his plans for the summer. Ron had always rode his bike through town and around the field, but now he was motivated to build ramps inspired by the design of Mr. Knievel. Ron made sure to analyze the angle of the jump and the drop off to the landing area. Additionally, he made sure that he had enough peddling space before the jump to get to full speed to take the jump, maximizing the vault.

While many kids made their jumps capable of being rode from either side of the path, back or forth, with a little jump occurring in middle of the run, Ron’s jumps were one way roads with a large drop. Other kids would complain that it limited the track to a certain direction that it had to be rode, but Ron didn’t care. He would tell them, “I want big jumps, not some kindergarten crap.”

One day in August; three kids tried to adjust Ron’s fifth ramp, his favorite one and the largest on the track. The ramp rested in between an outcropping of oak trees and dying bushes, making it the most scenic part of the almost completely barren lot. He scrutinized the details of this particular ramp. He wanted the incline to match the precise grade, curvature and take off point of the ramp at Snake River; only in a smaller scale. After spending 10 hours every day shoveling dirt for three straight weeks, it was complete. He stepped back from it and beheld his triumph of his work. It was his masterpiece. But like every masterpiece, it came at a price. The cost of his work was his hand’s health, which still bare the calusses of the shovel handle rubbing splinters into his fingers to this day.

He wasn’t about to let his hard work go to waste. Luckily Ron saw what the kids were fixing to do from the second floor his step mom’s townhouse. He grabbed his bike, came at them with a full head of steam and jumped the ramp higher than he ever had before, just barely clearing the back of Paulie Winston as he kneeled down to dig. Ron came to a stop and the kids exchanged a look. No words needed to be said, the other kids knew exactly how Ron felt. They knew that they were wronging him. The embarrassed kids picked up their shovels and moved 20 yards away to build a tiny hill to expand their growing ‘kindergarten crap’ track.

The rain took a turn for the worse, or for the better, depending on your opinion of rain. Either way, a deluge of water pounded Ron and his trusty best friend/worst enemy as he rounded a corner and accelerated into his fifth jump. He was determined to jump higher and longer than that fateful day in August, if the weather would allow it. He jammed on the pedals and rocked the bike back and forth, his body weight shifting with each push down of his legs. The rain pelted his eyes as the wind blew the drops ‘slightly side like’, just like William Wallace described in Ron’s favorite movie, ‘Braveheart’.

As Ron peddled, he wondered if this was going to be the last time he would have the chance to enjoy this ramp. He was almost sure that it would be. Tomorrow he would be boarding a plane to move Georgia to live with his mom, his real mom. His family knew that it was best for him to have a more settled down living arrangement, whatever that meant. Ron was sick of everyone making decisions for him, he just wanted to stay right where he was and do whatever he wanted to do.

With these thoughts ever salient, he came to the muddy foundation of his master work- the fifth jump. His legs shook, partly from the cold, partly from his intense movement, part from something else that he wasn’t quite sure of. His back tire tore a hole in the mud, shooting a blast of sludge onto the leg of his best pair of jeans as well as the base of the gears. As he reached the precipice of the jump, the rusty chain on Ron’s worst enemy popped off the gear, as if some sort of payback for the years of being told it wasn’t good enough. Ron gave one last thrust down on his pedal… and immediately panicked.

Ron’s momentum propelled him off the ramp as he tried to gain a solid footing on the bike, to no avail. His right foot slipped off the pedal. The bike lifted up into his crotch and solar plexus as he flew off course, to the right of the path, into the largest oak tree in the bunch where Ron had once built a tree fort.

Boom! Ron and his bicycle slammed hard against the base of the tree. The impact knocked all the rain off of the tree branches above him, sending an avalanche of water down upon his body.

As the water hit him, it became apparent that something hurt; a lot. Ron took stock of himself, examining his body. There was no blood but something was different than his normal falls from his bike.

He touched his right leg and immediately pulled his hand back. “It has to be broken,” he thought. “If not broken, at least really badly screwed up.”

Ron laid on ground, staring at his masterpiece and then back his worst enemy, which was now bent out of shape; the handle bars were turned the wrong way and his left peddle was broken clean off.

Ron looked into the sky. The rain fell directly down onto his face; until you couldn’t decipher where the rain ended and the tears began.

Monday, December 3, 2007

Rebel Yell

I’ve had this feeling lately that I need to do something but I wasn’t sure what it is. It’s this burning sensation, and no it’s not an STD.

I need to rebel. And not rebel like getting a big ass tattoo like I did on Saturday night either.

I’m so sick of doing what I’m told. I’m sick of doing what’s expected of me. I’m sick of the responsibilities. I’m sick of society. I’m sick of my generation. I’m sick of the next generation of kids. I’m sick of America.

Everywhere I look, I see people who are completely brainwashed. What are they brainwashed by, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the media. Maybe it’s by their parent’s views. Maybe it’s by their own expectations of what people think they should be doing. Or maybe its what they think people think they should be doing. But whatever it is, they’re brainwashed just the same.

I feel like Holden Caulfield, surrounded by phonies. Hypocrites. Superficial narcissistic assholes. And just like Mr. Caulfield, I’m one of the phonies.

I’m exactly how people think I should be. I work a job, a REAL job, not some job to give me money so that I can work on my art, no no, I need a job where I dress nice and get a leg up. I feel like I need to settle down, I’m getting older so its time I get married and have kids. I shouldn’t dress this way or that, you’re nearly 30, 30 year old’s wear slacks and dress shirts all the time.

I should compromise my artistic voice to please the masses. I should make something not because it’s the story I want to tell, but because it’s going to make money. I should sell out.

Well, fuck that. I’m done.

Everything I used to like, I’m turned off by now. I used to love Hip Hop and electronic music, now I think its stupid. I loved scratching turntables and playing drum machines, now I don’t even want to be seen with that. I loved jeans, hoodies, ball caps, Nike Dunks. Now, I wish I could trade in all of it for a new wardrobe of all black 60’s mod clothes. I used to like video games, now I wish that I never wasted my time playing them. I used to love following sports, now I feel like its sucked my productivity into the toilet. I used to love the internet, now I wish it was never invented.

I want to go back to when things were simpler.

I’ve spent a lot of time reading and researching the 1960’s and 1970’s lately, and I wish I was born 30 years earlier. Back then, art was about art, not about commerce. I could be an experimental film maker and live comfortable in a big city. Now, if I wanted to do that, I would have to take a side job robbing people to be able to make movies.

But its more than that, the people of that age didn’t give a shit about status, money, their audience’s opinion, making it big, selling yourself etc.

It was just about living and being yourself. Some where, some time, some how, that got lost.

I want to find it again.