Be one of the first to view the latest short from the likes of Wayne Richardson, Charlie McMasters, Skeet Muffinz and introducing: Johnny.
5 years after the loss of their pal, 2 friends decide to try their hand in resurrecting him via unspecified mysticism - employing the services of a mysterious individual.
Will it work? Can their pal return to his jovial form??
Enjoy:
Monday, November 9, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Available Talent: Ronny Roulstif
The talent was far from scarce, but I suppose that’s completely subjective. The talent was available, depending on your individual evaluation of it – what you’re willing to gauge the levels at, what you find acceptable and where that bar of acceptability is placed.
Ronny possessed an ability to code that would and did impress even the most pretentious of peers. Well, maybe not the MOST pretentious, those dicks are so tunneled in their vision that there’s no room to wiggle, establish something that might be grey in their spectrum of black/white. What Ronny did not possess was the ability to not be hopelessly and disgustingly addicted to porn – which earns him the “liability” sticker of risk. Anything in-house was long ago established as a big “no-go” as it’s impossible to keep Ronny and his skills completely utilized to the point that he won’t have time, the opportunity to let his mind take a step into it’s comfortable landscape of smut.
You’d think that an edgy start-up would be a decent candidate to pot his roots. Wrong. Aside from the actual sites that provide Ronny’s sugar, there aren’t any that boast that edge. “Find him a gig actually at one of these sites,” was once suggested. “Thanks, you fuck, I hadn’t thought about that,” was the response. Truth be had, the scale of their programming would be a waste of Ronny’s talents and certainly not command the $$ that we both know he’s capable of. Besides, rumor has it the guys who do Ronny’s job at these places aren’t compensated in salary alone – credits to the site, access to photo shoots, guest passes to the grimy holes they sought.
I’m not ready to lessen the weight of my check to find Ronny a place like that, a place he’d be happy.
Ronny possessed an ability to code that would and did impress even the most pretentious of peers. Well, maybe not the MOST pretentious, those dicks are so tunneled in their vision that there’s no room to wiggle, establish something that might be grey in their spectrum of black/white. What Ronny did not possess was the ability to not be hopelessly and disgustingly addicted to porn – which earns him the “liability” sticker of risk. Anything in-house was long ago established as a big “no-go” as it’s impossible to keep Ronny and his skills completely utilized to the point that he won’t have time, the opportunity to let his mind take a step into it’s comfortable landscape of smut.
You’d think that an edgy start-up would be a decent candidate to pot his roots. Wrong. Aside from the actual sites that provide Ronny’s sugar, there aren’t any that boast that edge. “Find him a gig actually at one of these sites,” was once suggested. “Thanks, you fuck, I hadn’t thought about that,” was the response. Truth be had, the scale of their programming would be a waste of Ronny’s talents and certainly not command the $$ that we both know he’s capable of. Besides, rumor has it the guys who do Ronny’s job at these places aren’t compensated in salary alone – credits to the site, access to photo shoots, guest passes to the grimy holes they sought.
I’m not ready to lessen the weight of my check to find Ronny a place like that, a place he’d be happy.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
NEW STORY: The Skeem
Catching, not fishing will feed your family. Casting and casting with no scaly fruit on the end of your pole, that’s fishing.
Was it the season? Bad luck? Poor hardware or the shitty boat? All Pimo knew was that his basket, at the end of the day contained no more than a few mussels pried from the dock, a starfish or two for his daughters amusement and maybe something that had gone belly up, mostly still intact, not putrid enough to not eat.
Day in and day out this was the bounty Pimo could muster – certainly not enough to feed the 3 hungry mouths awaiting his return each and every time he returned home, the sun all but gone from its daily home above them. If it weren’t for the garden that gifted enough tubers, they’d been cut in half, their family, before last winter.
They’d say they were hungry, because the truth of starvation was obvious enough. No need to hear it.
It’s not as if the other families of Komdaur were much better off – most others didn’t even have the taters.
A white fish, too small and maybe just too foul, 3 potatoes (spiced with grass and quakie bark) and what they hoped was a clump of kelp that could actually stick to their bones. A better than average meal – at least enough to make it to sunlight before the waking pangs took their first stab.
Time to go. Time to start the day that would turn out to be much, much different than those before it.
Rowing the rickety, half patched boat, to yet another “hopefully filled with SOME good” spot Pimo decided it was time for rest, thanks to the lack of food converted to energy. And so he rested. Rested long enough and deep enough to to experience the light storm that had positioned him in a bay of which he was not previously aware of.
He would’ve been a bit more concerned, a bit more worried about this new location if it weren’t for the glory, the awe inspiring sight that laid before hime.
Standing on the shore, dressed all black stood a man no larger and no older but certain more fortunate stood casting line after fruitful line. Each cast glimmered at the end with a fish as large as those in Pimo’s childhood.
Rubbing his eyes, filled with disbelief, he watched this man pull no more than 10 large fish in the span of 10 minutes.
Cast, fish. Cast, fish.
Catching eyes, the shore fishing messiah waved in Pimo – as if he wished to speak.
Upon the shore Pimo treated the man as if he were a God – Poseidon himself.
“Mister, that’s the most fish I’ve seen in the last 5 years, maybe more.”
“My family, they could eat off your daily catch for weeks. For months.”
Still yet to address the man named Pimo, he turned, revealing a hand void of fingers and an eye as cloudy as a sky holding a winter storm.
“We’re starving – my wife, my daughters. How are you doing it?”
Turning and speaking in a voice so faint it was nearly drowned by the water lapping against the rocks, the man said:
The sun, the sky, the water they are one and speak to each other through my lure – The Skeem.
“You mean to tell me this lure, this Skeem is what attracts these fish.”
He nodded, yet to express anything but the ice that oozed from his glare.
“I must have this lure, the Skeem. Whatever can I do to use it? If only for awhile.”
You do not want it. I assure you, fisherman.
His eye cloud seemed to now bleed with red, with blood.
You can not be responsible for the power.
“Please sir! We are hungry – near starvation!”
This is not for you – you do not understand.
“1 week. That is all I need for it to provide for months. Please sir, save me – save my family.”
I will give you these fish, this catch of 10 if you are to leave me be and return to your village.
“That is a generous offer but it is the lure I am interested in. 1 week. Tis all I need. Those ten will be 50 if not more. I beg of your sir – one week and I will return it to you.
The man relented, both eyes now the color of a rising sun … You are persistent fisherman and for that I will allow your usage of The Skeem for not a week but a stretch of 4 days and only if you are able to follow these rules.
Beside himself and the prospect of full, thriving bellies Pimo accepted with a vibrant “YES, ANYTHING!” before the rules were laid.
You are brave and dedicated to your family, I certainly hope that following directions is also a characteristic you possess, fisherman.
Hands out, ready for the lure, stood Pimo and the man spoke again:
You may catch as many fish as you might, but they are not to be consumed by anyone other than YOUR family of four.
Pimo nods, his anticipation heightening.
Also you may only use The Skeem under the cast of the sun. The night time is not the time for the Skeem.
“No one fishes at night, not in these parts”
And finally, you may never allow anyone to see you use this lure. Never see The Skeem.
His eyes now transformed again, this time with murky streaks the color of milk swimming across from one side to the next. This went unnoticed, again, due to Pimo’s mounting excitement.
Do you agree to these terms, this 4 day lease that begins now and ends 4 days from this moment?
“How will I find you?”
You’ll be found by me, the man said rubbing the area that used to house his fingers.
“I agree, now please and thank you but may I have the lure?”
Removing it from the line the man, whose eyes were now black (no pupil, no retna – just black) handed over The Skeem – nothing more than a smooth ball, a tiny orb – one that changed the colors (including the swimming milk) he would’ve seen in the mans eyes if not for the excitement of saving his family.
“There are no hooks, no barb.”
None are needed.
As Pimo looked once again and back at the man – there was no man – just the lapping of the water.
///
Tired and enthused but again sleepy, a tad slumbery, Pimo laid on the bank and when he awoke, his boat was at his dock, his fist clenching what he know knew as The Skeem.
Well rested and possessing a vigor not seen since his youth, Pimo quickly attached The Skeem to then end of this line and cast, straight from the dock, into the barren waters that had tortured him, his family, his village for what had seemed a life time.
The Skeem hits water, his pole bowing in a high arch immediately. After a quick reel Pimo was face to face with a fish large enough to feed his family for the next 3 nights.
Curious and greedy he cast again and again with the same bountiful results.
Returning home too proud, too exicted, Pimo dropped 5 large, delicious fish on the table without a word.
Astonished, startled and without question his wife wept as she began prepapring what was the largest feast their family could have ever imagined.
That night Pimo slept. He slept well and dreamed only of the Skeem – and at the crack of dawn, the night was gone, he was back at it.
The second day The Skeem produced enough fish that Pimo and family could eat and preserve for the winter, if not longer.
The other fishermen, first dumbfounded quickly turned jealous, quickly turned foul.
Give us your secret were the depands.
I can not Pimo repeated time and time again. Eventually returning home to feast once more.
Day 3 Pimo found it more difficult to hide from the otheres – but they were waiting for him when he returned.
Give us a share, we hunger as well!
I can not – I am sorry but I can not.
They’re voices more demanding, their patience – fueled by hunger – had grown thin.
Again a feast for Pimo and family, their stockpile growing.
The fourth day, chocked full of more fish, was more peaceful. The villagers who had been awaiting him the previous days were nowhere to be seen. He enjoyed a quiet walk home, smiling, lugging the days catch.
The smile faded quickly at the sight of what seemed to be the entire village mobbed around his house.
His daughters, they screamed.
GIVE US THE FISH the mob demanded.
I can not. Please, leave my family and I alone.
Feed us or we will kill your family, stated the leader, a man named Benduk – Pimo’s friend since birth.
But not ‘fore we rape ‘em chimed someone from the heart of the mob – as if speaking this atrocity for all of them.
Screams again – Pimo hoped his family had not heard the man.
I can not he persisted. For there is not enough fish to feed you all – the entire village. Please, he pleaded, my family.
Catch more then, you fool.
I can not. Besides, the sun it is setting.
Lucky for you the moon shines bright tonight, Benduk point to the sky.
I can not … It’s not permitted.
His family, tears streaming did not know why he had sacrificed them – like this, for fish.
The youngest one – she’s first … the mob spoke together.
Ripped fromt eh grips of her mother the mob began to disrobe the girl of no more than 7.
If it were possible, the screams would’ve grown louder but as they stood, were as loud as the little girl could belt. The dug into Pimo’s heart.
To save his family he would violate not one but all the rules the man had laid before him and his usage of The Skeem.
As the screams, the tears continued Pimo relented with a shout loud enough to stop the crowd – nary a hair harmed on his daughter.
I will feed you. I will feed all of you the largest feast your stomachs can imagine.
The very recently murderous mob cheered and they all made their way to the water, led by the light of the moon.
Standing by the shore, his family and the villagers behind him Pimo attached The Skeem – now blacker than black mating with black – to his pole and cast into the moon reflective water.
The Skeem sank below the surface as everyone including Pimo waited with bated breath.
First the water turned color – that of a pale orange, then pink.
Next the surface popped one bubble then another before breaking into a full blown boil.
Jaws dropped from all those who were witness – not a whisper was spoken as the water rose from the floor of the bay revealing all that lived beneath – spitting out a heavy rainfall of every fish imaginable.
The celebration was deafening, smiles, dancing and fires to cook the miracle catch!
All was right in the world, each person aside from Pimo and his family the happiest they may have ever been.
Pimo waited, not knowing, nor prepared for the events that followed.
They’d seen The Skeem, and under the shine of the moon to boot – what happened when they dined?
Fish off the fire now lived on the plates of the wide eyed villagers.
As if in unison they dug in – some with large bites, others with small.
In unison their faces grew with massive satisfaction.
Lasting but a few moments, all was right before again, in unison the first gush of blood exploded from their ears. No pain, just blood – followed by more flowing from their mouths.
Shocked faces, bewildered looks streaked with red lasted but awhile as each face slowly felt its skin slip from the skull it was normally stretched across.
Now the screams arrived and they certainly didn’t stop as each and every villager who had tasted the fish felt their own body and watched those of the others turn inside out – shortly thereafter their eyes dropped like stones to the ground.
Shocked Pimo rushed for his family. Clutching them he turned his attention to the horror in time to see each and every set of the villager’s eyes roll from where they landed, rapidly across the beach, piling at waters edge. The circled, enclosed around the smooth orb that had returned to the sand. Glowing red The Skeem liquefied each jelly filled ball and absorbed each drop – slowly taking on the color of the milk streaks Pimo failed to witness in the man’s eyes some 4 nights ago.
The same man that then emerged from the treeline, at that very moment.
“I’m SO SORRY,” Pimo cried with all his might.
No. Not yet you aren’t.
The man held his fingered hand to the sky, giving a brief command that activated The Skeem, as it took course to return to him.
Skeem in his good hand, the man’s once fingerless stub took the shape of a single, long, glistening blade – one that he used to punch holes (holes that made the sound you would imagine would come from stabbing a fresh watermelon, Pimo thought later), one after the other, where their eyes had formerly lived. First his wife, then his daughters.
Pimo cried with pain, with grief as the bodies of his family folded to the ground.
Now, fisherman, you are sorry.
Was it the season? Bad luck? Poor hardware or the shitty boat? All Pimo knew was that his basket, at the end of the day contained no more than a few mussels pried from the dock, a starfish or two for his daughters amusement and maybe something that had gone belly up, mostly still intact, not putrid enough to not eat.
Day in and day out this was the bounty Pimo could muster – certainly not enough to feed the 3 hungry mouths awaiting his return each and every time he returned home, the sun all but gone from its daily home above them. If it weren’t for the garden that gifted enough tubers, they’d been cut in half, their family, before last winter.
They’d say they were hungry, because the truth of starvation was obvious enough. No need to hear it.
It’s not as if the other families of Komdaur were much better off – most others didn’t even have the taters.
A white fish, too small and maybe just too foul, 3 potatoes (spiced with grass and quakie bark) and what they hoped was a clump of kelp that could actually stick to their bones. A better than average meal – at least enough to make it to sunlight before the waking pangs took their first stab.
Time to go. Time to start the day that would turn out to be much, much different than those before it.
Rowing the rickety, half patched boat, to yet another “hopefully filled with SOME good” spot Pimo decided it was time for rest, thanks to the lack of food converted to energy. And so he rested. Rested long enough and deep enough to to experience the light storm that had positioned him in a bay of which he was not previously aware of.
He would’ve been a bit more concerned, a bit more worried about this new location if it weren’t for the glory, the awe inspiring sight that laid before hime.
Standing on the shore, dressed all black stood a man no larger and no older but certain more fortunate stood casting line after fruitful line. Each cast glimmered at the end with a fish as large as those in Pimo’s childhood.
Rubbing his eyes, filled with disbelief, he watched this man pull no more than 10 large fish in the span of 10 minutes.
Cast, fish. Cast, fish.
Catching eyes, the shore fishing messiah waved in Pimo – as if he wished to speak.
Upon the shore Pimo treated the man as if he were a God – Poseidon himself.
“Mister, that’s the most fish I’ve seen in the last 5 years, maybe more.”
“My family, they could eat off your daily catch for weeks. For months.”
Still yet to address the man named Pimo, he turned, revealing a hand void of fingers and an eye as cloudy as a sky holding a winter storm.
“We’re starving – my wife, my daughters. How are you doing it?”
Turning and speaking in a voice so faint it was nearly drowned by the water lapping against the rocks, the man said:
The sun, the sky, the water they are one and speak to each other through my lure – The Skeem.
“You mean to tell me this lure, this Skeem is what attracts these fish.”
He nodded, yet to express anything but the ice that oozed from his glare.
“I must have this lure, the Skeem. Whatever can I do to use it? If only for awhile.”
You do not want it. I assure you, fisherman.
His eye cloud seemed to now bleed with red, with blood.
You can not be responsible for the power.
“Please sir! We are hungry – near starvation!”
This is not for you – you do not understand.
“1 week. That is all I need for it to provide for months. Please sir, save me – save my family.”
I will give you these fish, this catch of 10 if you are to leave me be and return to your village.
“That is a generous offer but it is the lure I am interested in. 1 week. Tis all I need. Those ten will be 50 if not more. I beg of your sir – one week and I will return it to you.
The man relented, both eyes now the color of a rising sun … You are persistent fisherman and for that I will allow your usage of The Skeem for not a week but a stretch of 4 days and only if you are able to follow these rules.
Beside himself and the prospect of full, thriving bellies Pimo accepted with a vibrant “YES, ANYTHING!” before the rules were laid.
You are brave and dedicated to your family, I certainly hope that following directions is also a characteristic you possess, fisherman.
Hands out, ready for the lure, stood Pimo and the man spoke again:
You may catch as many fish as you might, but they are not to be consumed by anyone other than YOUR family of four.
Pimo nods, his anticipation heightening.
Also you may only use The Skeem under the cast of the sun. The night time is not the time for the Skeem.
“No one fishes at night, not in these parts”
And finally, you may never allow anyone to see you use this lure. Never see The Skeem.
His eyes now transformed again, this time with murky streaks the color of milk swimming across from one side to the next. This went unnoticed, again, due to Pimo’s mounting excitement.
Do you agree to these terms, this 4 day lease that begins now and ends 4 days from this moment?
“How will I find you?”
You’ll be found by me, the man said rubbing the area that used to house his fingers.
“I agree, now please and thank you but may I have the lure?”
Removing it from the line the man, whose eyes were now black (no pupil, no retna – just black) handed over The Skeem – nothing more than a smooth ball, a tiny orb – one that changed the colors (including the swimming milk) he would’ve seen in the mans eyes if not for the excitement of saving his family.
“There are no hooks, no barb.”
None are needed.
As Pimo looked once again and back at the man – there was no man – just the lapping of the water.
///
Tired and enthused but again sleepy, a tad slumbery, Pimo laid on the bank and when he awoke, his boat was at his dock, his fist clenching what he know knew as The Skeem.
Well rested and possessing a vigor not seen since his youth, Pimo quickly attached The Skeem to then end of this line and cast, straight from the dock, into the barren waters that had tortured him, his family, his village for what had seemed a life time.
The Skeem hits water, his pole bowing in a high arch immediately. After a quick reel Pimo was face to face with a fish large enough to feed his family for the next 3 nights.
Curious and greedy he cast again and again with the same bountiful results.
Returning home too proud, too exicted, Pimo dropped 5 large, delicious fish on the table without a word.
Astonished, startled and without question his wife wept as she began prepapring what was the largest feast their family could have ever imagined.
That night Pimo slept. He slept well and dreamed only of the Skeem – and at the crack of dawn, the night was gone, he was back at it.
The second day The Skeem produced enough fish that Pimo and family could eat and preserve for the winter, if not longer.
The other fishermen, first dumbfounded quickly turned jealous, quickly turned foul.
Give us your secret were the depands.
I can not Pimo repeated time and time again. Eventually returning home to feast once more.
Day 3 Pimo found it more difficult to hide from the otheres – but they were waiting for him when he returned.
Give us a share, we hunger as well!
I can not – I am sorry but I can not.
They’re voices more demanding, their patience – fueled by hunger – had grown thin.
Again a feast for Pimo and family, their stockpile growing.
The fourth day, chocked full of more fish, was more peaceful. The villagers who had been awaiting him the previous days were nowhere to be seen. He enjoyed a quiet walk home, smiling, lugging the days catch.
The smile faded quickly at the sight of what seemed to be the entire village mobbed around his house.
His daughters, they screamed.
GIVE US THE FISH the mob demanded.
I can not. Please, leave my family and I alone.
Feed us or we will kill your family, stated the leader, a man named Benduk – Pimo’s friend since birth.
But not ‘fore we rape ‘em chimed someone from the heart of the mob – as if speaking this atrocity for all of them.
Screams again – Pimo hoped his family had not heard the man.
I can not he persisted. For there is not enough fish to feed you all – the entire village. Please, he pleaded, my family.
Catch more then, you fool.
I can not. Besides, the sun it is setting.
Lucky for you the moon shines bright tonight, Benduk point to the sky.
I can not … It’s not permitted.
His family, tears streaming did not know why he had sacrificed them – like this, for fish.
The youngest one – she’s first … the mob spoke together.
Ripped fromt eh grips of her mother the mob began to disrobe the girl of no more than 7.
If it were possible, the screams would’ve grown louder but as they stood, were as loud as the little girl could belt. The dug into Pimo’s heart.
To save his family he would violate not one but all the rules the man had laid before him and his usage of The Skeem.
As the screams, the tears continued Pimo relented with a shout loud enough to stop the crowd – nary a hair harmed on his daughter.
I will feed you. I will feed all of you the largest feast your stomachs can imagine.
The very recently murderous mob cheered and they all made their way to the water, led by the light of the moon.
Standing by the shore, his family and the villagers behind him Pimo attached The Skeem – now blacker than black mating with black – to his pole and cast into the moon reflective water.
The Skeem sank below the surface as everyone including Pimo waited with bated breath.
First the water turned color – that of a pale orange, then pink.
Next the surface popped one bubble then another before breaking into a full blown boil.
Jaws dropped from all those who were witness – not a whisper was spoken as the water rose from the floor of the bay revealing all that lived beneath – spitting out a heavy rainfall of every fish imaginable.
The celebration was deafening, smiles, dancing and fires to cook the miracle catch!
All was right in the world, each person aside from Pimo and his family the happiest they may have ever been.
Pimo waited, not knowing, nor prepared for the events that followed.
They’d seen The Skeem, and under the shine of the moon to boot – what happened when they dined?
Fish off the fire now lived on the plates of the wide eyed villagers.
As if in unison they dug in – some with large bites, others with small.
In unison their faces grew with massive satisfaction.
Lasting but a few moments, all was right before again, in unison the first gush of blood exploded from their ears. No pain, just blood – followed by more flowing from their mouths.
Shocked faces, bewildered looks streaked with red lasted but awhile as each face slowly felt its skin slip from the skull it was normally stretched across.
Now the screams arrived and they certainly didn’t stop as each and every villager who had tasted the fish felt their own body and watched those of the others turn inside out – shortly thereafter their eyes dropped like stones to the ground.
Shocked Pimo rushed for his family. Clutching them he turned his attention to the horror in time to see each and every set of the villager’s eyes roll from where they landed, rapidly across the beach, piling at waters edge. The circled, enclosed around the smooth orb that had returned to the sand. Glowing red The Skeem liquefied each jelly filled ball and absorbed each drop – slowly taking on the color of the milk streaks Pimo failed to witness in the man’s eyes some 4 nights ago.
The same man that then emerged from the treeline, at that very moment.
“I’m SO SORRY,” Pimo cried with all his might.
No. Not yet you aren’t.
The man held his fingered hand to the sky, giving a brief command that activated The Skeem, as it took course to return to him.
Skeem in his good hand, the man’s once fingerless stub took the shape of a single, long, glistening blade – one that he used to punch holes (holes that made the sound you would imagine would come from stabbing a fresh watermelon, Pimo thought later), one after the other, where their eyes had formerly lived. First his wife, then his daughters.
Pimo cried with pain, with grief as the bodies of his family folded to the ground.
Now, fisherman, you are sorry.
Dusty little bitch, ain't she?
Just went back and looked at a handful of previous blog posts and realized that at least two of them were based shared the following theme: "oh hey, i haven't been blogging for awhile, let's get this thing started, again, and start writing! Yeah! Go Team!".
Yes, the last post on this blog was a good 5 months ago. Yes, a far amount of shit has transpired in both my life and the world since then. Should I recap? Discuss news worthy instances that have happened in that time span? No. Hellll, no.
I do believe it's important, however, to point out that Tom Brady now wears a hat (presumably just the beginning of this wardrobe) displaying his very own logo, the "TB" brand. Is this a man, an individual that NEEDS to capitalize on his cool, his essence, his pure and simple being?
Super Bowl rings, MVP award, Supermodel wife, child on the way, child with a prettier more than talented former girlfriend and an apparent charisma that despite all of these facts ... if he weren't a Patriot, he'd be likable.
Do I need to sport TB gear? No, my money is not the target. Does anyone need to sport TB gear? Those looking to draw a connection to their favorite Pat? Yes, send buckets n' buckets of these to NE, build that brand, continue placing brick after brick in the structure(s) that will stand for the Brady Legacy.
The money is nice, but the official construction of building a name that will last is g-g-g-old.
Get after it, Tom Brady.
Yes, the last post on this blog was a good 5 months ago. Yes, a far amount of shit has transpired in both my life and the world since then. Should I recap? Discuss news worthy instances that have happened in that time span? No. Hellll, no.
I do believe it's important, however, to point out that Tom Brady now wears a hat (presumably just the beginning of this wardrobe) displaying his very own logo, the "TB" brand. Is this a man, an individual that NEEDS to capitalize on his cool, his essence, his pure and simple being?
Super Bowl rings, MVP award, Supermodel wife, child on the way, child with a prettier more than talented former girlfriend and an apparent charisma that despite all of these facts ... if he weren't a Patriot, he'd be likable.
Do I need to sport TB gear? No, my money is not the target. Does anyone need to sport TB gear? Those looking to draw a connection to their favorite Pat? Yes, send buckets n' buckets of these to NE, build that brand, continue placing brick after brick in the structure(s) that will stand for the Brady Legacy.
The money is nice, but the official construction of building a name that will last is g-g-g-old.
Get after it, Tom Brady.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Embarker. Journey.
Growing up I never pursued anything of the "arts" ... Partially because I thought that I was to only be interested in things like sports and video games, partially because I assigned people's (like my parents, my friends) expectations of me, as well as their resulting reactions to the things that I did.
I could have pursued whatever the fuck I wanted - however, I did not.
Time passed, as it will, and I realized that I had a desire to pursue some sort of drama, comedy, entertaining, etc.
I lived in LA for 2.5 years - Would've been a good opportunity. But oh well.
Here I am ... 26 years of age, living in Seattle and the time is right. I'm inside of an hour of showing up for the first of 8 (i believe) introduction to Improv classes.
Am I excited? You fucking betcha.
I shall try to document the whole thing. We know this wont happen.
I could have pursued whatever the fuck I wanted - however, I did not.
Time passed, as it will, and I realized that I had a desire to pursue some sort of drama, comedy, entertaining, etc.
I lived in LA for 2.5 years - Would've been a good opportunity. But oh well.
Here I am ... 26 years of age, living in Seattle and the time is right. I'm inside of an hour of showing up for the first of 8 (i believe) introduction to Improv classes.
Am I excited? You fucking betcha.
I shall try to document the whole thing. We know this wont happen.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Fuck April Fools Day.
It is not fun. Plain and simple. Not saying I fall victim often, but it happens.
Case-in-point:
http://www.thinkgeek.com/stuff/41/tauntaun.html
That's right, you can provide your child (or small adult, maybe korean, friend) with the opportunity to sleep inside their very own Tauntaun!
Or so I thought ...
Upon clicking thru, en route to actually purchasing the damn thing ... I find it is but a joke. Womp.
Naturally, I crafted the following email to the customer service team over at Think Geek:
Rat Bastards:
The wittier-than-usual product copy was the second clue I should've picked up on (#1: the product exuded cool in a way that definitely exceeds your MO)...
It wasn't until clicking thru, in hopes of buying, that I found out the TaunTaun sleeping bag was sham!
Congrats, jokesters. You broke my heart and failed to take my money.
Make this product - I'll buy it. Shit, the demand will far exceed the production (but probably not the license, eh?).
fucking hating april fools,
-n
Case-in-point:
http://www.thinkgeek.com/stuff/41/tauntaun.html
That's right, you can provide your child (or small adult, maybe korean, friend) with the opportunity to sleep inside their very own Tauntaun!
Or so I thought ...
Upon clicking thru, en route to actually purchasing the damn thing ... I find it is but a joke. Womp.
Naturally, I crafted the following email to the customer service team over at Think Geek:
Rat Bastards:
The wittier-than-usual product copy was the second clue I should've picked up on (#1: the product exuded cool in a way that definitely exceeds your MO)...
It wasn't until clicking thru, in hopes of buying, that I found out the TaunTaun sleeping bag was sham!
Congrats, jokesters. You broke my heart and failed to take my money.
Make this product - I'll buy it. Shit, the demand will far exceed the production (but probably not the license, eh?).
fucking hating april fools,
-n
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Deathbridge Rd.
Before I posted about the coffee, I wrote this story ... the first that i've written in a decent amount of time. here's to furthering my awakening.
Deathbridge Rd.
One would think that living on a windy stretch of asphalt named Deathbridge Rd. would lead to some excellent stories, some eerie shit. To think that would be wrong but presumptuous enough to not want to travel said road.
You live on Deathbridge Road?
Yes, yes I do.
Sounds dangerous. I’ll find someone to take you home.
There’s not even a bridge.
I’ve heard things…
There isn’t even a body of water – nothing to bridge.
Pauses…. No bridge.
When you live on Pumpkin Patch Ln. you have no problem finishing the bowl of punch, the rise krispie squares that your mom has put out.
When you call Oakmont Ave. home you don’t have to see that “I’m processing the name of your scary road” look that glasses over people when you ask them for a ride.
Growing up on ol’ Deathbridge Rd. has its frustrations. Who knew that the name of the road you live on would hinder your social development as a child. Less parties, fewer friends, more connotations that somehow lead people to believe your name might as well be Deathbridge Rd. Little Megan Deathbridge.
Maybe this is why “ironic” doesn’t jump to the forefront of your brain, rather “satisfaction” shines, lighting your insides forcing you to swallow your smile … when a chunk of the road inexplicably opened up and swallowed that school bus. Ironic satisfaction? Satisfying irony.
Tragedy. Awful. Horrific. Freak accident. Engineering blunder. God’s wrath. All words that were found in the headlines, on the ticker, out of Katie Couric’s mouth.
It was ruled a Level 7 Pebble Wash – the only one ever documented. The road had been built, by the county, in 1953 across an expanse of land to connect Highway 31 and Bartles Blvd. 3 winding miles that hosted 6 houses, 4 of which were occupied. Built like any other road, during that era it was a road not too unlike roads that are, somewhere, being built right now.
Clear some dirt, level the surface and lay some asphalt. No special instructions – the land had been assessed, surveyed and classified fit for a road. What the engineers didn’t find, what they couldn’t have found (without necessary equipment and millions to fund such a dig and geological study) was the fact that the 100 yard chunk of the road sat 300 feet atop a geological anomaly – a pit of limestone sand that over millions of years gradually ate the soil above and around it creating a pit that was deep enough to hide a 4 story building. A pit that gobbled what was left between it and the sky – Deathbridge Rd. with a lightening quick culmination of eons of isolated progress. A pit that became the final resting place of 23 children aged 7-14 and Carrie the busdriver.
The bodies were eventually recovered. The geologist did their multi-million dollar study. The cameras went away.
And Horton Bridge was built to connect the separate sides of Deathbridge Rd.
Deathbridge Rd.
One would think that living on a windy stretch of asphalt named Deathbridge Rd. would lead to some excellent stories, some eerie shit. To think that would be wrong but presumptuous enough to not want to travel said road.
You live on Deathbridge Road?
Yes, yes I do.
Sounds dangerous. I’ll find someone to take you home.
There’s not even a bridge.
I’ve heard things…
There isn’t even a body of water – nothing to bridge.
Pauses…. No bridge.
When you live on Pumpkin Patch Ln. you have no problem finishing the bowl of punch, the rise krispie squares that your mom has put out.
When you call Oakmont Ave. home you don’t have to see that “I’m processing the name of your scary road” look that glasses over people when you ask them for a ride.
Growing up on ol’ Deathbridge Rd. has its frustrations. Who knew that the name of the road you live on would hinder your social development as a child. Less parties, fewer friends, more connotations that somehow lead people to believe your name might as well be Deathbridge Rd. Little Megan Deathbridge.
Maybe this is why “ironic” doesn’t jump to the forefront of your brain, rather “satisfaction” shines, lighting your insides forcing you to swallow your smile … when a chunk of the road inexplicably opened up and swallowed that school bus. Ironic satisfaction? Satisfying irony.
Tragedy. Awful. Horrific. Freak accident. Engineering blunder. God’s wrath. All words that were found in the headlines, on the ticker, out of Katie Couric’s mouth.
It was ruled a Level 7 Pebble Wash – the only one ever documented. The road had been built, by the county, in 1953 across an expanse of land to connect Highway 31 and Bartles Blvd. 3 winding miles that hosted 6 houses, 4 of which were occupied. Built like any other road, during that era it was a road not too unlike roads that are, somewhere, being built right now.
Clear some dirt, level the surface and lay some asphalt. No special instructions – the land had been assessed, surveyed and classified fit for a road. What the engineers didn’t find, what they couldn’t have found (without necessary equipment and millions to fund such a dig and geological study) was the fact that the 100 yard chunk of the road sat 300 feet atop a geological anomaly – a pit of limestone sand that over millions of years gradually ate the soil above and around it creating a pit that was deep enough to hide a 4 story building. A pit that gobbled what was left between it and the sky – Deathbridge Rd. with a lightening quick culmination of eons of isolated progress. A pit that became the final resting place of 23 children aged 7-14 and Carrie the busdriver.
The bodies were eventually recovered. The geologist did their multi-million dollar study. The cameras went away.
And Horton Bridge was built to connect the separate sides of Deathbridge Rd.
Fun with coffee.
When you stop drinking coffee on a regular basis, halting the dosing of caffeine your metabolism increases as you process legitimate energy.
When you then have an occasional cup of joe ... you are slapped around and shot up with some jittery fucking nerves.
Bouncing around, a hint of paranoia. Legitimately cracked out - but in a mostly manageable-outward facing way.
I'm sitting at the table littered with newspapers, an older man munching on putrid smelling, stale popcorn standing to read the sports page on the opposite side. Looking around I can't find a clock but feel that I am now in my second hour of writing for my car @ Les Schwab.
Have they even looked at my car? I ... don't think so. How much longer can this go? I'm over caffeinated and waiting. Fuck-oh-dear I hate waiting.
It's my turn, my car is now visible in the um ... tire working bay.
When you then have an occasional cup of joe ... you are slapped around and shot up with some jittery fucking nerves.
Bouncing around, a hint of paranoia. Legitimately cracked out - but in a mostly manageable-outward facing way.
I'm sitting at the table littered with newspapers, an older man munching on putrid smelling, stale popcorn standing to read the sports page on the opposite side. Looking around I can't find a clock but feel that I am now in my second hour of writing for my car @ Les Schwab.
Have they even looked at my car? I ... don't think so. How much longer can this go? I'm over caffeinated and waiting. Fuck-oh-dear I hate waiting.
It's my turn, my car is now visible in the um ... tire working bay.
Just another idiom?
You know that I enjoy, in terms of sayings, idioms?
"Dripping with Sunshine."
Perhaps it is because it is a state of mind, a moment of existence / being that I've perceived as oft-unattainable for myself.
My fascination may also be contributed to the fact that those deemed "dripping with sunshine," with the energy the emit, are undeniable. (Please keep in mind that "bubbly" is not a complementary trait to these warmth providers. There's something suspicious about bubbly. Dripping with sunshine on the other hand, is firmly rooted in genuine soil.) Despite your current disposition, the energy wafts off these people, licking and incluencing (maybe in just the slightest way) whatever the temperature of your shell, core or soul.
To me and my judgment one can reach this state / level for an amount of time no less than 48 hours and certainly never frequently maintain. Prolonged and frequent occurrences stab the integrity and genuiness that is the essence.
Do we need more people like this?
Naturally, duh, yes. In the current state of shit, we need as much as many as we can get.
Can this wonderful level be accessed by me?
On one hand, I'd like to say:" yes, of course. As long as you are able to meld compassion with legitimate and sound happiness ... sustaining and growing them together.
On the other hand - most would like to think they can achieve it only resulting in a nasty facade / veneer appreciated by no one. This is mainly attributed to the fact that you can't be happy for others until you're happy for yourself. Rare.
How about creating is synthetically?
Yes, but not for long and it's only in your head and those emulating your actions.
... Whereas "dripping" has a connotation of excessive, you must keep in mind that we're talking about some zen shit here. I'm no expert but in my definition it is something that is pure, concentrated and short lived in its most honest interpretation.
"Dripping with Sunshine."
Perhaps it is because it is a state of mind, a moment of existence / being that I've perceived as oft-unattainable for myself.
My fascination may also be contributed to the fact that those deemed "dripping with sunshine," with the energy the emit, are undeniable. (Please keep in mind that "bubbly" is not a complementary trait to these warmth providers. There's something suspicious about bubbly. Dripping with sunshine on the other hand, is firmly rooted in genuine soil.) Despite your current disposition, the energy wafts off these people, licking and incluencing (maybe in just the slightest way) whatever the temperature of your shell, core or soul.
To me and my judgment one can reach this state / level for an amount of time no less than 48 hours and certainly never frequently maintain. Prolonged and frequent occurrences stab the integrity and genuiness that is the essence.
Do we need more people like this?
Naturally, duh, yes. In the current state of shit, we need as much as many as we can get.
Can this wonderful level be accessed by me?
On one hand, I'd like to say:" yes, of course. As long as you are able to meld compassion with legitimate and sound happiness ... sustaining and growing them together.
On the other hand - most would like to think they can achieve it only resulting in a nasty facade / veneer appreciated by no one. This is mainly attributed to the fact that you can't be happy for others until you're happy for yourself. Rare.
How about creating is synthetically?
Yes, but not for long and it's only in your head and those emulating your actions.
... Whereas "dripping" has a connotation of excessive, you must keep in mind that we're talking about some zen shit here. I'm no expert but in my definition it is something that is pure, concentrated and short lived in its most honest interpretation.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Oh christ... save me from the Super Bowl.
I decided that instead of writing a post (seeing as how frequently I've been successful in that arena), I'd film one:
About the Super Bowl, of course. MEDIA WEEK, woot.
About the Super Bowl, of course. MEDIA WEEK, woot.
Monday, January 26, 2009
My pets, they love me.
Hitler had his dog, Blondi, who loved him. Dearly.
Dr. Claw had his maniacal furry companion, MAD cat.
Somewhere, at this very moment, there is a dog / cat eagerly waiting for their master to walk through the door, toss his keys in the tray (with that familiar clink-klank), reach down and give an affectionate pat on the head … after a long day of child-rapin’.
Whereas we would like to think that our pets are aware and appreciative of the people we are … they could care less if we were a selfless, compassionate veteran school teacher or someone that commits heinous crimes of the sickest nature. As long as they are fed, receive a steady diet of attention and are given a warm bed … your pet will love you back – the center of their world.
Of course, with deeper analysis you can draw the conclusion that pet owners who also happen to be deviants of humanity are far less likely / capable of providing their four legged pal with the items of care listed previously.
That doesn’t mean I’m any less disturbed by the image of a man who happens to enjoy the world of asphyxiophilia to the point that his property is littered with the bones of ill-fated playmates … sitting on his couch, engaged in a loving exchange of affection with his cat, Doodlebear. Pausing only to sip some tea.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Toot-toot goes the party favor you use to make noise whilst ringing in the new year (I think it's a cousin of the kazoo).
Look at this, y’all. It appears as if we have a new year on our hands. Whereas it is the 12th day of the year and most bloggers chose to write their “first post of the year” inside the 1-7 day range … I’m well aware that I’m not a blogger, rather just some guy who periodically (seems to be more on the sporadic side as of later) posts some words to a blogger account. Look at me, ma… I’m a writer.
Welcome to the year 2-thousand-and-nine, the voyage through the 21st century continues, surging on… Finding me at the start of my 26th trip around the sun.
2009, oh what do you have in store for us?
A new President? You betcha, he’s being sworn in soon (or so I hear). A homicide rate (per 100,000 people) that drops for the second year in a row? I sure hope so. The economy … well, it should rebound, but who fucking knows.
I’m hoping Miley Cyrus dies. I could go into the reasons as to why … but let’s just cut to the chase and leave it at that. She has no upper lip, btw.
Big things for you, big things for me … Please start calling your resolutions “goals” as you’ll stand a better chance of achieving them, than tossing them aside because that’s the fate of all previous resolutions.
I’m cold, when it comes to the blog … But here’s to setting a goal of thawing out. There’s no better way to do this than to bust into one of my favorite (and only consistent, yet absent – abducted by my own laziness) segment: Steez at the Movies.
Cheers to you.
Welcome to the year 2-thousand-and-nine, the voyage through the 21st century continues, surging on… Finding me at the start of my 26th trip around the sun.
2009, oh what do you have in store for us?
A new President? You betcha, he’s being sworn in soon (or so I hear). A homicide rate (per 100,000 people) that drops for the second year in a row? I sure hope so. The economy … well, it should rebound, but who fucking knows.
I’m hoping Miley Cyrus dies. I could go into the reasons as to why … but let’s just cut to the chase and leave it at that. She has no upper lip, btw.
Big things for you, big things for me … Please start calling your resolutions “goals” as you’ll stand a better chance of achieving them, than tossing them aside because that’s the fate of all previous resolutions.
I’m cold, when it comes to the blog … But here’s to setting a goal of thawing out. There’s no better way to do this than to bust into one of my favorite (and only consistent, yet absent – abducted by my own laziness) segment: Steez at the Movies.
Cheers to you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
