Through it All and Back Again
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Wednesday, June 28, 2006
This is a list of some really good rock guitar solos.
I will not do a "top whatever-number" list because I would probably change my mind sooner or later, and I have not heard every guitar solo ever. Also, this gives anyone who wants to offer some words about great guitar solos a chance to do so without having to argue about which song should be booted from the list. There are many reasons for making this list of great guitar solos, but the single most important one is this: I . . . am . . . bored.
So, here are a few of my favorite rock 'n' roll guitar solos (in no order other than coming to my mind):
Aerosmith (and if you know me, you knew they'd be first): Crying
The solo starts at the end of a harmonica solo with a lick that rocks you right to your soul and then Perry plays behind Tyler's vocals after rocking it out while the drummer "falls off the ladder" as they say. Aerosmith is just a band that fills you up right, know what i mean? It was hard to decide on just one from Joe Perry, but that one lick never fails to hit me just right. The problem is the radio always fades the song out as the harmonica ends, and that pisses me off.
Guns 'n' Roses: November Rain.
Again, this was tough to call. Slash always rocks, but in this song, he plays two rockin' solos. So you can pick either one.
For that matter, dang near any solo Joe Perry or Slash ever played. Those guys are sick.
Boston: Foreplay
Don't know the guitarist's name, but that solo is good.
Queen: Bohemian Rhapsody
I realize that most of that solo being so great is the fact that it is probably exactly how Freddy Mercury told Brian May how to play it, but it all goes so smoothly from the one style into the other, sounds really good and is really hard. Props.
Every guitar solo on Weezer's "Green Album."
Okay, there is not a single impressive solo on the entire album, and that is part of the genius. Each and every song on that album follows the same structure. 1)verse 2)chorus 3)verse 4)chorus 5)guitar solo that is simply the melody from the verses 6)chorus 7)finish (and most of the time, the finish is simply a chord. Every song is the same. It probably took Rivers Cuomo all of ten minutes to write the entire album! But they needed some poppy crap like that to get recognized again. They had been on hiatus for years and a lot of people didn't like "Pinkerton." Man, how much can I ramble about Weezer before it just gets monotonous?
Are you seriously still reading this?
Led Zepplin: The Ocean
It's totally more than just the guitar solo here. It's the band solo. The entire band plays off of each other so well that it makes a sound powerful enough to turn goat piss into gasoline, to quote a favorite movie of mine.
Allman Brothers: Jessica
I shouldn't have to defend that. This is, as popularity goes, the greatest pure jam song of all time. It's smooth, melodic, impressive and it keeps on going when you think it's about to end and you're sitting there going "NO NO NO, DON'T STOP PLAYING NOW! THIS SONG IS TOO AWESOME TO END!!!!" Cool. (I also get a bit of delight each time I hear that slight mistake from the piano player. Not because I'm glad he messed up, but because it proves that they're humans playing that music.)
That'll do. Thanks for reading this much if you did. I appreciate it.
Friday, March 17, 2006
3:44PM
Some stories are meant to be shared.
Perhaps this is one.
It's long, but read it.
On Super Bowl Sunday this year, I found myself with no one to watch the game with (reasons ranged from "I don't care about football" to "I'm just gonna stay in with the wife"). Well, if I was going to watch the game alone, then I was gonna watch it at a bar. I drove downtown right around kickoff, so I had to find a relatively empty bar, or else there was no way I would have a decent seat to see the game. Rum Runners in Wilmington was just that, so I popped in, sat down and ordered a Newcastle. Two seats down from me, an older gentleman motioned to the bartender that he would buy it for me. Confused, but not looking a gift-horse in the mouth, I looked at him, nodded, and said "'preciate it." He nodded back and continued with his drink.
Well, I soon noticed that this guy was buying everybody's drinks. As soon as anyone ordered, he was right there to pick up the tab. No joke. He was paying cash and hooking up the bartenders (the special was everything behind the bar: $2, and like I said, the bar was pretty empty, but it still adds up). Moments later, the bartender announces to everyone that this is Mr. Bill Cavenaugh, and he played Raphael in the "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" movies. Cool, but I was somehow skeptical.
So Raphael was also at the bar by himself, and eventually, he decided that I was going to be his best friend for the night. He takes the stool next to me and starts telling me all about life in L.A. and what a big star he was. Things that I learned: Everyone in L.A. is cool. People in Wilmington are Assholes. Apparently he didn't pick up that I, too, was from Wilmington, but I let that slide.
So Raphael had been scheduled to do an autograph signing at Rum Runners the night before, but his agent (who was apparently in his limo which was being parked and would be here any minute) screwed that up and he ended up signing autographs at Camp Lejeune. I can see how easily those two locations can be mixed up. One is a bar in downtown Wilmington, and the other is the largest marine base in the south. The marines were offering him 20 bucks to fight him, and he would tell them that he would not waste his time for less than a grand. People from L.A. are just that personable, I suppose.
I also learned that he is currently working on a movie with Tom Cruise, set to come out in April. Now, for those of you who don't know, if a movie is still being shot in early February, it will not come out in April. Raphael was either mistaken or lying, and I was going to go with lying. I wondered how I could possibly doubt such a big star. I mean, after all, he was the high roller of Rum Runners. About twenty minutes later, he told a couple that he was working on a movie with Jackie Chan and Wesley Snipes. Damn, why haven't those two been paired up yet, I thought. It seems like a natural fit to me.
So Raphael was beginning to try my patience. I didn't care about anything that he had to say, and he apparently didn't care about the game, which was, at the time, the single most important thing in the world to me. He had overheard the bartender say that Jackie Chan "wasn't shit," and promptly called him over to tell him that he was offended. He told me what an asshole the bartender was, called him back, shook his hand, made sure they were still cool ("of course" the bartender said), then turned to me and said, "he's still an asshole."
"You're gonna shake his hand and then call him an asshole?" I asked.
"Well, he's an asshole," came the reply. People in L.A. are so much better than the people here. Each time another bar patron refused to let him buy their drinks (presumably because he was creepy), he would ask them if they knew who the fuck he was.
No. They didn't. You're Raphael. You're not a star. You're not in a movie with Tom Cruise. You're not in a movie with Wesley Snipes and Jackie Chan. You cannot "buy and sell that guy's ass." What's more, you don't get a stunt man, like you say. If you played Raphael, then buddy, you are a stunt man. You probably weren't signing autographs yesterday, and, in all likelihood, you're probably not Raphael, but some stupid girl let you sign her boob anyway. Please just let me watch this game.
Meanwhile, his agent and that limo hadn't shown up for about an hour now to take him back to the Hilton. He kept checking his watch, though. Wonder what the hold up was...?
So Raphael asks me if I have ever thought about being involved with movies. Of course. Everyone has. He asks me how old I am and tells me that I could pass for much younger without the beard. I agreed. It's true. He asks me if I could perform a roundhouse kick with proper training. I could. Shoot, anyone could if they were taught. He then asked me if I would be interested in auditioning for a martial arts movie, and told me that I looked age-appropriate for the role. He told me that if I showed up to have some pictures taken for the director, then whether or not I was cast, he would give me two thousand dollars cash, tonight. But he was flying back to L.A. the next morning (he didn't remember what time - that's his agent's job), so it had to be tonight. . . .Right.
He mentioned a studio in Ogden (there's no studio in Ogden). He also offered the two grand in cash right after I noticed him open up and look into his empty wallet. He wrote his number down on a napkin (I guess big stars don't have business cards these days), and told me that he didn't believe that I was going to show up. "this guy must be a friggin' psychic," I thought. I told him he was a confident mother-fucker, to which he got in my face and replied, "I'm confident, but I ain't no mother-fucker." Explanations that this was not meant to be an insult were hopeless, I let it go, and told him that I would call.
I looked at the number: area code 910. Wilmington. Not L.A. I asked him if this was his agent's number. It was his personal number. He lives in L.A. with a wilmington phone number. Man, this guy's a baller. He finally tells me what I would be doing for this audition.
I would be getting pictures taken. I would have to shave my beard. I would have to be wearing spandex on my lower body, and no shirt. I would have to shave my chest and stomach. ("then," I thought, "I would get my ass knocked out and raped." I kept that thought to myself). I told him I would call after the game.
I asked him where I would be going. Travelodge on Market Street. Travelodge?!? Raphael is staying at the Hilton and auditioning young-looking 25-year-olds for a martial arts movie at the Travelodge?!? Limos don't go to the Travelodge. People with agents don't stay at the travelodge, and this guy was not staying at the Hilton.
He left at half time. There was no limo to pick him up.
My older brother called me back (I had called him to tell him about Raphael earlier in the night). No, Raphael was not played by a man named Bill Cavenaugh. This guy was a psycho. How exciting. I didn't call, and, amazingly, I am not disappointed at not getting that 2 grand, which didn't exist.
I called the bartender over. I told him what the guy had just offered me. The bartender closed his eyes, shook his head and said two words: "Fucking Sundays." I will not go back to that rum runners on a sunday.
Epilogue: I told this story to a coworker. She said he sounded like a child molester. I go to thinking and went to the SBI web site to the sex offender page. Sure enough. "Indecent liberties with a minor." He got 2 years. He served two months. He had been out of jail since November, and he thought I was pretty. I'll take the compliment. He lives on Market Street. His address is, you guessed it, right next to the travelodge.
This story, ladies and gents, I honestly could not make up.
Happy St. Patty's Day.
Monday, February 27, 2006
4:33PM
In his time, psychologist Carl Gustav Jung wrote volumes and spoke countless times about his research into the unconscious of the human mind. He found that throughout the history of man, there have been “visions” that seem to follow archetypal patterns, and the similarities between the visions of people from completely unrelated religions and eras was something that he decided could not be ignored. The psyche, he asserts, is very real, and it is the goal of the human mind to gain the knowledge that lies in the “collective unconscious.” It is through the afore-mentioned visions that the mind attempts to enlighten the individual. What appear to simply be dreams may be one’s mind trying to achieve transcendence or individuation; meaning the truths about yourself and about enlightenment that are ever-present in the unconscious break through into consciousness, thereby giving the recipient wholeness and individuality.
Studying this guy, you learn cool phrases like participation mystique, privatio boni, and ideas like deipnon and thysia.
Current mood: Carl Jung did drugs
Friday, February 24, 2006
From the depths of the Earth, an idea starts in the form of a tiny heat particle. As the pressure builds, the potential energy for that idea becomes so incredible that if that energy were to ever be released, thousands upon thousands would be crushed by the onslaught that fell over the earth like a bum falling on a bologna sandwich, only much more passionate. . . and rude.
Meanwhile, a little girl waits.
The slightest hiccup of the earth could disturb this idea, which, for the sake of the earth, should remain dormant forever. But the idea is there, and hiccups, like unnatural burning sensations and B.O., just happen. So the idea waits, bides its time, builds energy, plays solitaire, watches reruns of Perfect Strangers, thinks about Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud and wonders if either one of them had the right idea and, if so, how the human race should adapt (except Freud's views have long been written off as incorrect in this day and age, even in the field of psychology, where Jung is still given weight by some sects, although his theories don't sit well with many). So it's not like the idea doesn't have anything to do, it's just getting a little bit antsy in its pantsy.
Meanwhile, a little girl waits.
But the idea grows stronger. And each moment the idea is stronger than it was in the moment before, meaning that each moment the idea is the strongest that it has ever been. Like right now, the idea is the strongest it has ever been, and right now, the idea is the strongest that it has ever been, and right now, the idea is the strongest that it has ever been. THE EARTH MUST NOT HICCUP LEST WE ALL BE CONSUMED BY THIS PSYCHOLOGICALLY WELL-READ IDEA!!!!!!!
Daniel Buck must not graduate.
It has never been so clear to me.
I may be crazy, but it just might be a lunatic you're looking for.
You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.
And if the shoe fits, make sure there are two of them, unless of course, you have a peg-leg.
Holy crap. Am I really going to allow this schlock to be my first livejournal post in years?
It sure does look that way.
Go Panthers.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
11:52PM
Ladies and gentlemen, I, Captain Jack Sparrow, have officially completed all of the classes I need to graduate from NC State University. It's a strange feeling. I couldn't wait to graduate, and even for my last exam, I was relieved when it was over.
Then I walked outside.
I looked at all the buildings that I would never go in again (or at least have any reason to). I walked all over the campus. It was very bittersweet. I started thinking about everything I've done here at State.
At NC State, I've taken many classes, I've slain many dragons, I've championed all that represents goodness. I've had sex with tons of women (and by "tons" I mean Buck's mom is really big, and I had sex with her).
(a lot)
But now that is all behind me. I love NC State and everything that I was associated with while being a student there, and it will remain in my heart, just like the alma mater says. For now, though, I must continue to stamp out evil in all its forms (the most severe form being the Dallas Cowboys). The hero's life doesn't take vacations.
C'est la vie.
Current mood:  accomplished
Saturday, May 8, 2004
Phillip Rivers was selected by the New York Giants with the 4th overall pick in the NFL draft. He and two additional draft pucks were then traded to the San Diego Chargers for the number one pick, Eli Manning, who is the little brother of the best quarterback in the NFL last season.
Rivers is going to compete for the starting job against last season's starter, the solid Drew Brees, and the veteran survivor (not a reality tv reference) Doug Flutie. He is playing for the coaching staff that coached his team in the Senior Bowl this year (where Rivers took MVP honors), which bodes well for his chances.
Should he win the starting job, he will have one of the best running backs in the league to give the ball to in Ladanian Tomlinson, but he'll have a below average group of receivers to throw the ball to. You just can't expect much from the worst team in the league last year.
Anyway, I'm still pulling for the Panthers, who will play the Chargers this coming season. Should Rivers be the Chargers' quarterback at that time, I'm sorry, but I hope he gets sacked a lot.
I'll pull for him in every OTHER game.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
3:14PM
Man, I'm frickin' overwhelmed with life right now. Not only am I trying to graduate, work at Red Lobster, get ready for Wolfgang's final concert (and all those in between), save the world from evil, and get over a nasty cold that doesn't seem to want to go away, but I also have to deal with the blasted hookers that keep showing up in my bed asking for money for a priviledge in which I have not endulged with them. That's a hassle. I don't know where they come from, or how they got my address, but I would love to make them just go away. I think they're in cahoots with the telemarketers. I just wonder why they don't go into Buck's room and ask him to have sex and give them money.
Speaking of Buck, his mom needs to stop calling me. It's getting annoying. She just can't understand: I . . . WAS . . . DRUNK!!!!
Speaking of drunk, there was a small impromptu party at my house on saturday night. I think that kept the hookers at bay for once. I also think I figured out the meaning of life while I was drunk. It was told to me by what appeared to be an angel, and I wrote it down on a piece of magical stationary whose designs actually danced around. The only problem is that I needed to use a magical pen to write on the magical stationary, so it didn't even show up.
Then I lost the stationary. So it didn't much matter.
But I did know the meaning of life for a short time. I don't remember exactly, but it had something to do with Karl Marx. Or maybe it was Brittney Spears. Hard to remember.
The angel told me to tell everybody "what's up."
Friday, April 2, 2004
The San Diego Chargers have the first pick in the NFL draft (April 24th). Why should you care about this? There is a good chance that the Chargers select a quarterback with that first pick (I think they'd be stupid, though. They have Drew Brees. He's good. What the Hell?).
They have been visiting and watching workouts with QBs such as Eli Manning, Ben Roethlisberger and . . .
. . . Philip Rivers.
That's right. It's a long shot, but Philip Rivers just might be the first player selected in the NFL draft. How 'bout that shite?
From espn.com:
ASHBURN, Va. -- The return of Joe Gibbs did not start on Friday afternoon when he stepped onto the practice field for the first time in 13 years -- or with his announcement that the quarterback competition between Mark Brunell and Patrick Ramsey would be "very competitive," or with his first post-practice session with the Washington press corps.
No, it started on Thursday night, when the team gathered to meet the new "old" boss here at the Redskins practice facility. It was after dinner and the room was filled with laughter and conversation as old friends gathered after a long offseason, when the organization tried to purge the disappointment of a 5-11 season and the stain of the Steve Spurrier era, which lasted all of two seasons.
Joe Gibbs looks over the field during the first day of a three-day minicamp.
Then, Gibbs appeared in the doorway.
"And there was total silence," said veteran offensive lineman Chris Samuels. "Coach Gibbs walked into the room, and nobody said a word."
Said one coach who has never been with Gibbs before, "I couldn't believe it. It was like the president of the United States walked into the room. Everybody just sat up in their chair. He just commanded instant respect."
And he didn't have to flash it, either. Gibbs didn't wear one of his three Super Bowl rings. He didn't raise his voice, or lay down the law.
"He didn't have to," said running back Clinton Portis. "We understand who he is."
Ladies and gentlemen reading in the world of livejournal, Joe Gibbs is the greatest coach the Washington Redskins have ever had, and he's back to return the program to greatness. Football season is only 5 months away. I need to start getting ready.
Current mood:  excited Current music: The Who - "Meet the new Boss" (is that the correct title?)
Friday, March 26, 2004
So I've got this new job at Red Lobster. The managers that are usually there are pretty amusing. The service manager has a slight lisp and doesn't seem like he would do well with confrontations, which is why it caught me as funny when he said that in his position he has to know how to be firm with customers. Then there's Katarina. She's only funny because she's from somewhere in Eastern Europe and her accent makes me laugh when she has to tell somebody off. I must find a way to take these people seriously.
There are also six people who work in the kitchen named Jose, which I don't even need to comment on to make that funny.
Then there's my job. I'm the mystical director of fish purification. Yes, that's the mystical director of fish purification. Actually, it's mystical director of fish purification/bouncer. As MDFP, I have the responsibility of making magic potions and ridding the salmon, trout and tilapia (those are the fresh fish items, y'know, not frozen.) of evil spirits, diseases, and curses set upon the fish by that evil lady from "The Little Mermaid" (I bet you thought that movie was totally fiction. Not true, they were just a little off-base). It's actually a relatively easy job. Like any other item that's in a restaurant, the ingredients for the potion are ordered in bulk. The reason I have this job is because of the emotional intensity that I bring to the table.
Yeah, I'm a bouncer too. Anyone who wishes to enter must first answer me some questions three. Sometimes I ask a fouth, and if they give me shit, I motion to the sniper on the roof of the Olive Garden and that trouble maker is taken care of with relatively little mess and absolutely no commotion.
Yeah. New job is pretty cool.
Current mood:  peaceful Current music: Weezer: "Hit Me Baby One More Time" (seriously)
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Terrell Owens found a way to play for Philadelphia next season.
Crap.
Oh well. At least he's not a Raven next season. It feels good knowing they're gonna just keep going downhill.
Monday, March 8, 2004
. . . and he is a predicament that I can't help but laugh at. First, I'll tell you about this arrogant athelete, then I'll explain his situation, and then I'll laugh some more.
Check it out: Terrell Owens (or T.O. as he is often referred to by those who follow the NFL) has been to the last 4 pro-bowls (that's a football all-star game, but no more freebies), he gets 80-100 receptions for well over 1,000 yards each season, and plays for a team that vies for a play-off spot every year (San Francisco); usually, they're still playing football when January rolls around. Somehow, he's got a problem with all this. He would publicly berate his coach, his quarterback, and his owner to the media after games where he didn't think he got the ball thrown to him enough times, and is the cockiest player in the NFL (which means he beats out both Keyshawn Johnson and Warren Sapp for that award). He decided he was too good for one of the most successful franchises in Sport since the 1980's. That's a long time to keep on winning.
So T.O. had three years left on his contract with the 49ers, which he could have voided if his agent had sent the proper paperwork to the league office before a certain date. Well, his agent failed to do this, and T.O. and his agent blame the 49ers and the league. (Keep in mind that 49ers general manager Bill Walsh is considered by many the best ever.) So now the only way for T.O. not to play for San Francisco is to convince the organization to trade him. That was easy. He certainly was no longer wanted.
So he wants to play for Philadelphia, a team that has been to three straight NFC Championship games (and lost them all, to the Rams, Bucs, and Panthers, respectively), and has a young, pro-bowl quarterback (which T.O. also had in San Francisco). Well, instead the 49ers traded his ass to Baltimore. Baltimore would be best off punting on first down and trying to score with their defense. They have no quarterback worth mentioning, so wide-receivers don't get too much work. Also, their star running back just got arrested and could be doing a few years in a cage. This is probably the absolute last place T.O. would have wanted to go...
... and the 49ers sent him there.
awesome.
eat it Terrell Owens.
He and his agent are trying to argue the trade and pull some strings to make him a free agent, but everything that has happened is legit. Don't hold your breath. He is a superstar, and so you can't totally say that he's completely stuck. It can't be hard for him to get somebody to slip a thumb onto a scale, but right now, I'm just going to sit back and laugh at the man who was too good for his old team, so they sent him to the land of crappy quarterbacks and criminals named Lewis (Ray and Jamal, to be exact).
Now here's the irony of this post. If you cared at all about professional football, you would have already heard about all this crap. So if you made it this far down and this is news to you, I desparately appreciate your taking the time to read my post about something you don't care about.
Go Panthers
Current mood:  amused
Friday, February 27, 2004
5:55PM
Holy crap, you won't believe what happened to me today. Not because it isn't true, mind you; it's just something so terribly unbelievable that you just might have to take a couple of shots after hearing. Here goes:
I was with my side-kick, Jose Canseco, just having a normal lunch at Wendy's, when a waiter came up to our table and asked us if we needed anything. At the time, it didn't even register to either me or Jose Canseco that we were at a fast food joint and a waiter came up to us. He was that smooth, I guess. Then the guy snapped his fingers and a violin player came to the table and started playing "Send in the Clowns." This, I thought, was wierd. Something was up. Jose Canseco quickly spoke up.
"Hey," he said, "we don't need a violin player. We're not gay, and this isn't a date. I'm his side-kick. We fight crime."
"Oh," replied the waiter, "side-kick. I get it." When he said side-kick, he did the little quotation marks with his fingers and winked at the violin player, who had just expertly modulated up a key and gone into "Turkey in the Straw." It was most impressive because I almost didn't even notice, but when my foot started tapping and I had the urge to let out a rebel yell, I just had to tip him.
Anyway, Jose Canseco was taking great offense to the fact that the waiter had just called us homosexuals, and was doing everything he could to keep his cool. "Listen," he demanded, "we fight crime, so we don't have to take this nonsense, so you should just -"
The waiter stopped him in mid-sentence with a quick back-handed slap.
"Dude, this happens to you every time you get called gay," I said. "You always get backhanded."
"I know who you are," the waiter said with a more evil tone. "Superfly and Jose Canseco. You are the most feared crime fighters since Batman and Robin, and they weren't even real." A slight pause . . . "Well, you were . . ."
Suddenly, the violin player busted open his instrument to reveal a sword hidden inside and came at me with eyes as red as yellow. The waiter pulled out a shotgun (I still have no idea where he was hiding that) and proclaimed that we had fought our last crime.
Well, Jose Canseco and I made short work of those two clowns, and then the president showed up to give us medals of valor. Then I finished my Big Bacon Classic. It was the best Big Bacon Classic I had ever had.
As it turns out, the waiter and violinist were goons sent by my arch-nemesis and New York crime boss, David Letterman. It was a pathetic attempt, really, and I'm not sure what to make of it. That can't be his best plan. He wants me to think that that was his attack, but I'm too smart for that. Letterman is out there, and he'll strike again soon. I can't say exactly how soon, but it's gonna happen. Jose Canseco and I just need to be on our guard and keep fighting crime. . . just like always.
Really, I can't make stuff like this up.
Current mood:  indescribable
It's time to review all the things that I said would happen this last football season, just to see how accurate I was.
First, I'll bring up the Panthers. I said that they would finish 10-6 and go to the playoffs, maybe even as NFC South champions. I also said that they would have big wins against the then-defending champs Buccaneers, and the offensive juggernaut Indianapolis Colts.
What actually happened? They finished 11-5, and champions of the NFC South with wins against both of the afore-mentioned teams (nobody thought they'd beat the colts, by the way). I was, however, pleasantly surprised by that whole Super Bowl appearance thing. They shouldn't do that again, though, because I'll have another heart attack.
I also said that the San Francisco 49ers would implode. Guess what? For all the talent on that team, they went 7-9 and had the most miserable and dysfunctional team members in the league. Thank you, Terrell Owens and Jeff Garcia for making me look so blasted smart.
Let's see, I also said that the Baltimore Ravens would be average. Score number 3 for me. They, at 9-7, were the best team in the worst division in the NFL and lost in the wild-card round of the playoffs.
I also said that the Kansas City Chiefs were going to go to the Super Bowl. That was incorrect, but they did finish the season with a record of 13-3, won their first nine games, and were pretty much the class of the NFL for most of the season. I said that they would put up huge offensive numbers and I was right about that, and the fact that Trent Green would have a ton of weapons to throw at.
So that's that. I have shown that I know more than the above-average football analyst. I'll tell you all about next season in a few months.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Saturday, February 21, 2004
9:11PM
"Maybe I should become a crack-head. At least then I'd have a purpose in life."
Current mood: wouldn't you like to know
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Holy shit. Go State.
Who beat #1?!?
word.
Saturday, February 14, 2004
Today, a special Valentine's Day post from a soul that's been missing from the world of live journal.
Pete was a midget. Well, actually, I suppose he still is a midget. That is, of course, unless they've developed a cure for being a midget, which would suck, because they're so funny with their little bodies and big heads. Anyway Pete is a midget, as he was at the time of this true story. He wanted nothing more than to impress all his midget friends at the club by taking a non-midget out to dinner on Valentine's Day back in 19whatevertheyearwas.
Up to this point, Pete had tried everything from platform shoes and stilts to make him look taller to sitting in a wheelchair and covering up his legs and putting bandages on the ends of his arms and saying he last his limbs in "the war." The first idea backfired because his tiny little T-rex arms were a dead giveaway, and the second because he was not very bright when it came to history, and he didn't know the name or location of a single war since the Greeks fought the Trojans (history is a subject not covered well in midget school, although he excelled at the important classes such as tricycle riding, tumbling, oompa-loompa training, and making funny faces while wearing a barrel). He knew about the Trojan war only because of a special midget re-enactment of the seige of Troy that left the audience in stitches.
But this plan was sure to work. He would meet a girl on-line, and make all the arrangements before the girl ever laid eyes over his head.
He went into a singles chatroom, and before long, he was using instant messenger to talk one-on-one with a girl named Stacey, who went by the screen name "honeysuckel." This particular screen name was so cute it made Pete want to vomit, so he knew he had found the one he wanted. Pete was quite the sweet-talker as it turns out, and made a date in no time. He told all his boys at the midget club and decided that they had to see it to believe it, so they all wore clown outfits and handed roses to the ladies that came into the restaurant at which Pete was to meet his sweet and greet her feet. Neat.
So the time comes. Pete was quite nervous, but wholly convinced that, just given a chance, he could charm the fair Stacey. When he arrived, Stacey was already at the table, and Pete walked confidently up to her.
"Honeysuckel?" He said. She turned to him, terrified, it seemed.
"Great," he thought. "She's completely embarrassed."
It was just then that Pete noticed that Stacey's legs were not touching the floor. His eyes grew wide. He looked up and saw that her hands almost didn't reach the table, and that her head was completely out of proportion in a humorous way. Stacey was a midget too!! Pete was furious. He had been lied to. Stacey, on the other hand, was confused and relieved all at the same time. Just as Pete was about to storm out of the restaurant out of sheer humiliation, their eyes met. His look softened. This was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and she was just trying to feel like a normal person, just like him.
"You understand me," he said.
"Oh, super-bad-ass-sweet-daddy-jones," she said (super-bad-ass-sweet-daddy-jones was Pete's AOL monicker) I don't think I've ever felt so happy."
"Come on," he replied. "Let's get out of this place we don't even want to be in and go bob for apples and kick our legs up in the air and put it on the internet."
So Pete and Stacey left, both now realizing that they were who they were and that they could be happy that way. For the rest of their days, they were together doing all the funny midget shenanigans that midgets do.
Current mood: not gay Current music: Strangers In The Night
Saturday, October 18, 2003
"Where have you been?"
"I've been on a journey."
"What, like to find something?"
"Yes. I needed to find myself."
"You needed to find yourself?"
"Yes."
"So how did that go?"
"Well, have you ever done yoga?"
"umm . . . no."
"Good. Because it's nothing like yoga."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Finding myself."
"So why did you bring up yoga?"
"I thought you'd understand."
"Okay, maybe we should start this conversation over."
"Dude, don't mess with my chi."
"Your 'chi?' Man, I think if you did 'find' yourself, you should lose it again."
"Lose myself? Like, in the music, the moment, I own it, I better-"
"Dude, stop that."
"You have no sense of humor."
"I suppose if I found myself I'd have one."
"Now that's just being mean."
"I'm going home."
Sunday, August 24, 2003
So I went to the pool today, tried a flying squirrel chair-dive again, finally managed to get the form right, and completely flipped onto my back, which gave a satisfying stinging sensation only usually acheived through yoga. I also had the swamp moster (Buck) apparently at my mercy until he used his tentacles (superior strength) to flip me around and send me to the deep realms of the sea (or pool).
Anyway, as I was leaving, I saw a frog. This frog was not moving, nor was he three-dimensional. Seriously. There was a flat frog next to the pool. It wasn't flat like someone had stomped on it, because it wasn't at all slattered and there were no little froggy insides leaking out. It looked like someone had taken an vaccuum to this guy's mouth and sucked everything right out of him . . .except for his skeleton, which I could see very well.
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