Recap

Sorry about the lack of blosting. Been, busy...

The whole fam was in town, and by whole fam, I mean my sister Kellie and her two kids, and Heather and her potential husband, my potential brother-in-law. I guess it's more future than potential... I don't consider it official unless I see it happen, and the chances of that happening aren't good. As I mentioned, the whole busy thing.

I will be very glad to be done with school, and if I'm smart, I'll never go back. It's not the worst thing in the world, it's just there are a hundred other places I'd rather, be, a thousand things I'd rather be doing. I don't like to expend effort when I don't care, and that's what school is. I can be really motivated if I'm all in, but I see no reason for school. I'm actually making my final paper for my English class on how going to college isn't the best idea in the world, which makes me a little bit of a hypocrite, but that's nothing new. Also, that paper will more than likely never be finished, because before we finished it, the professor went ahead and told us what we're doing next, which just happens to be fiction.

These have nothing to do with this blost. I made Ben take these because we haven't had pictures in awhile, and I though the blog needed some color. I intended to get to what we did today on here, and I might do a part two of the recap.

No constraints other than it has to deal with fear. Taft doesn't care how long it is, whether it's really fiction or nonfiction, or a mix of both. And see, that I can, and will write, with gusto. But all the other papers we've had to write... I'm not hear to persuade anyone on anything. I don't want to illustrate a point, or compare or contrast a damn thing. I really don't want tell someone the causes and effects of a certain problem. I think that's all the papers we've done. Anyways, I'm here to tell a story. That's my purpose, I do that, and then I can die, happily. But I have no reason to write anything else. Mostly because I don't care about any of these other things.

But now of course, he told us about that last project, so I won't finish my paper that is actually critical to me passing English 101H because I'm doing the next paper that may or may not have any effect on my grade. And that's just the thing. Grades. They're so arbitrary, and it's just so depressing to see how much stock everyone else puts in them. It's not important. Passing isn't even that important. The money I wasted on these classes, even less important. None of that stuff matters unless you make it matter, and I can't find a reason to even try anymore.

Also, my film class. He just gave us another paper to do, that isn't due for two weeks. Just write a scene for a movie, or I guess television would work too, in the proper screenplay format. It has to be two pages, and deal with teenagers, but other than that, no restrictions. That I can do. That I want to do. My old neighbor, Korry, just finished or is about to graduate from Full Sale down in Florida, and I think he wants to be a director, and he's promised me a movie. Now's as good a time as any to start preparing for that. And Korry, he's someone who has benefited from College, and I'm glad he did. That's the issue I'm having with that paper, because my premise is go to school if you want to, but don't if you don't want to. It's very true, but not very conducive to writing a six page paper, especially when I'm writing important things.

I guess that film scene isn't preventing me from doing another assignment in film, but it is do in two weeks, and he's pretty lax on the whole turning things in on time thing, which is wonderful, but Rather than doing that one later, I'm putting off my whole semesters worth of Spanish homework, which is just tedious plug and chug. A whopping 714 pages of tedious plug and chug to be exact, which is due the end of this month, and we've had all semester to do, and I started yesterday. The part that gets me is how little this is helping me with Spanish.

Spanish is another one of those classes that remind of why I never wanted to go to school. Ironically, it's the class I'm doing the best in. My professor, who's name I don't even know, (my fault, admittedly, not his) isn't really a teacher, in that he doesn't really teach, or do any of the things that a teacher is supposed to do. He comes to class, but as far as teaching goes, we basically read the textbook out loud for an hour twice a week. Every once in awhile, for grammar, he shows us a PowerPoint he didn't make. And the tests, those that we have, are generic multiple choice tests he got from the book. When he's too lazy to grade the tests, he has a blog, where ten questions are listed, and students are to comment the answers at their leisure, because he let the class decide when it's due, because he runs his classroom as a Democracy.

Last Wednesday, I was in a hurry to get home because Kellie had just gotten there, so I almost skipped Spanish, but I went, and that was a mistake. We were having a test, on of the in class generic scantron ones. Fortunately, he said that as soon as you were done you could go. I was one of the first done, so I hand in my test and head for the door. He stops me, and tells me to pull up a chair because "we have to make a key". So I ended up being there longer than I would during a normal class, and in that time, of the forty questions, I managed to eliminate ten of them because the multiple choice could have multiple answers. Seriously, one of the most poorly constructed tests I have ever seen. Then, because despite the fact that he's a terrible teacher, he's a pretty cool guy, and given the rest of the class, I'd rather talk to him, so we talked for awhile, and at first, it seems that he wasn't that different from me, until it came to my attitude for school. He was surprised, saying something like "What I see doesn't match what you are." I guess that's true. Deception is my oldest game, and a game I play well. That's something I've gotten a lot at FCC. I still project the guy I was pretending to be in high school I guess, before I let the mask fall off and revealed how little I care about things that I don't see as having any point. Then I thought, no, I really am a lot like this guy. He's a teacher who tries very hard to look like he's a good teacher, when in fact, he lets the book teach his students a whole language. He gets his awful PowerPoints, which have no more information than the book, from someone else, his tests are from the book, tests in which I can eliminate a quarter of the questions because there are multiple answers, his other tests when he's too lazy to grade scantrons are done on a blog, graded by his student aides. The only difference between me and him, I'm not trying to be someone I'm not.

I'm also putting off my math homework due Monday morning. Online classes were a good idea in theory, and I'm sure for someone else, they work fine, but for someone like me, who doesn't self motivate for things like that, terrible, terrible idea. I've done exactly half of the homework assignment, leaving my grade at just under 50%. If I do this weeks, it may or may not raise my grade to a D, passing. I'd do the math, but you know, then I'd be doing math. Apparently I'm good at math, which is the funny part. I tested great back in elementary school, and somehow, got a 4 on the Calc I AP test. Now I'm failing precalc, and I only have the grade I do now because the online homework quizzes tell you the answers after you get it wrong, and if you retry the questions enough times, it starts to repeat the same numbers. I'm just kind of hoping that I get like a C on the final, and then I can get a credit, which I'm pretty certain I will never attempt to use.

I guess the point I'm making is once, I let people convince me that eventually, I would grow up and be ready for school. Either I'm never going to grow up, or I already have, and realized that I was right all along, even if for the wrong reasons. I kind of want to be a motivational speaker. Go around to high schools and tell the kids that if they don't want to go to school, they shouldn't, and even if they do, with access to the internet and a hunger for education, you can learn more than you ever could in a college, and save yourself so much money. The problem is, society is convinced that college makes you a better person, and as much as I'd like to, I can't change that. Not with my unfinished six page essay, and definitely not with my stories.

Real Men Of Genius

Today we salute you, Mr. Real Men Of Genius Ad Writer.

I was driving home from work when I heard this:

I've heard them before, but I though that I needed to salute the saluters of these great American heroes. So I checked online, and turns out, there are over a hundred of these.

Here are some of my favorites:

These men, all of them, the ones in the jingles, the guys writing these, the dude doing it, the guy in the background (Especially the guy in the background. He sells it.), they are all men deserving of respect and appreciation.

I'm pretty sure that if I ever have to a get a real job, this would be it. Advertising has reached the point where I often times won't buy products because the commercials are terrible. I guess that point is moot, because, I don't buy Bud Light, but I appreciate the work they do.

"The Monkey House" Part II: Cake, King, and Matthew Burke

So, I talked about the Monkey House, and said that that isn't it. The house itself is more the classic haunted house. Rundown falling apart old house, near the ocean, a place kids go on dares.

One of the other big influences was actual Stephen King's "Salem's Lot". The book was pretty good, for a vampire book. I enjoyed it a lot more before they really revealed the vampires, and the characters just knew there was something going on at a house much like this one, the Marston House.

An apology, about the song. It's happened before, where it only plays the thrity second clip, and you have to go to the sight to listen, and more likely than not, sign up. Not that I;m against signing up for Imeem, it's a pretty awesome site, and I'm not complaining about the service. But since Ben pointed out the first few times it has happened, I always check. So when I saw it yesterday, I tried to see if there was another version of the song, but of course, there wasn't. I briefly considered using a different song, but I wanted to use that one, not only because it was fitting, but because I was listening to a lot of Cake when I first discovered "The Monkey House". Not the actual house, but the story.

Music plays a big part in what I do, and most of my stories have a general theme, or even a soundtrack. Most songs actually have a specific seen. That song, "Palm of Your Hand", is huge, for both the story itself, and the protagonist. But I'm getting ahead of myself, I'll get back to him.

The story itself stems from mainly the feeling of that house, combined with my fixation with both water and other worlds and dimensions. The house is actually a portal of sorts, or really, it houses the door, a stained glass window that looks into the She'ar, a world between worlds, a wasteland that separates one dimension from every other.

The She'ar, and all other dimensions, and what can generally be termed as existence, and the Kaleidoscope, they aren't so important to this story. "The Monkey House" is basically an introduction to this concept, a stepping stone for more important stories.

Anyways, the basic premise is, as a boy visiting his cousins in South Carolina, on a dare, he goes into the house and upstairs, where he finds a stained glass window of a great red, four eyed snake wrapped around a sword. That part right there, I hadn't realized until now what the stained glass window was of, but of course, it makes sense now. I'm going to have to reign this post in soon, as I just got really excited. I have much work to do.

Anyways, I was talking about Cake, and mentioned the protagonist. Matthew Burke, who annoys me now because Matthew is the name of another character from another story. They might have at one point been the same character, though they're quote different now, but anyways, it's too late to change their names now. they are who they are, and so far as I know, they never meet.

That aside, Matthew is, well, I don't really like him. He is a good portion of the problem I had with my parents back in high school. Most if not all my characters suffer, and there is a part of me that idolizes that. What they gain from that experience, I want that, and for a time, I hated my life because it didn't suck. I dragged a lot of Matthews problems into my real life, and well, even now, having got past that, I can't help but say that it was wonderful. To hate that much, to be that bitter, I'm getting chills now.

I've managed to separate myself from Matthew a lot. As I said, I don't really like him all that much. Later, he redeems himself a little, but never one of my favorites, Mattie Burke.

Anyways, while in that house, he finds that window. The window is broken, and he can't help but to touch it, impaling his right hand on the broken shard. A small sliver is embedded in his hand.

The shard lays dormant in his hand for eleven years, while his life goes to hell in New Jersey. Finally, with nothing left, but only an instinctual impulse to go back to South Carolina, one of his last memories before his mother died. He hitchhikes down to that small town near the coast, full of southern hospitality, hicks, and of course, the Monkey House.

Close proximity to the rest of the window awakens the portal, allowing beings from the She'ar to come through the window, and also, giving Matthew strange powers through the shard embedded in his hand.

The portals power in Matthew's world is linked to air pressure, and as the air pressure drops as it does before a storm. beings for which I have no name for are able to pass through the window, but in this world, they need a form to inhabit. They generally possess animals living around the Monkey House, more powerful beings being able to dominate larger and larger animals. This possession also mutilates the host, it's body unable to contain the being possessing it. The first thing Matthew encounters as he's drawn to the Monkey House is a giant frog. Matthew of course kills it, and then, while trying to figure out what is going on and his place in all of it and the power flowing through the palm of his hand, he sets up guard around the house, stopping whatever comes out of the house. He eventually figures out the air pressure thing, and that adds the deadline of hurricane season.

As I said earlier, the music of Cake was a big inspiration. Of course, there is "Palm of Your Hand", having to do both with Matthew eventually having to destroy the house, as well as the shard stuck in the palm of his hand. Another one, the accompanying track for this blost, "Frank Sinatra" was big. Also, "Guitar Man" had a lot to do with a character introduced later, as well as a little with Matthew. "No Phone", as phone booths later have a lot to do with things.

I'll continue to blost about this. I haven't revisited this story and awhile, and it's doing me some good. I'll probably break it up a bit, hit you with some other going on first, not that I ever have any.

"The Monkey House" Part I: The Original Monkey House

Probably the least of the "Core Stories," I will introduce "The Monkey House".

First, a little background. My sisters know what I'm talking about already, probably better than I do. Well, definitely better than I do, as what I remember is probably mostly my own imagination at this point.

To the point, somewhere in North Carolina, near a river, where at one point, some relatives who I haven't the faintest clue how they are related to me other than the fact that they are on my mother's side, there was at some point in the past, though may or may not still be there, a house.

Yes people, a house, which my sisters and various relatives who I can't even remember what they look like, called the Monkey House. I have no idea why, but to call it anything else now just doesn't seem fitting. It wasn't even that we believed there were monkeys living there, or at least I didn't, and I'm more unaware of the story than I thought. That explanation is too simple, and quite frankly, lame, for me to except, so Kell and H, if it is, keep it to yourselves.

It wasn't really a haunted house either, but that is pretty close. Creepy yes, but haunted, no, and I don't think I ever believed it was. The house itself, well the picture I imagine now, I see a skeleton of a house, with a front put on to make it seem like a real building from a distance. But from the sides, you can clearly see that there are no walls, just the framework. Inside, the floor is covered with dead leaves, but they don't smell. They should smell, a hint of that fall air smell covered by a rank scent of death from years and years of leaves left to rot. There really aren't any rooms. There is what might have once been a bathroom, but now, there is just a toilet, standing alone, by itself. It's surprisingly clean and white, and without lifting the lid, I know there is a dead frog inside, though for whatever reason, be it just freshly dead or preserved by some foul means, it hasn't begun to decay.

There is an elevator. Really, it is just a square section of floor hooked to a wall that raises and lowers. It has no walls or ceilings, and it is clear of the leaves, as though this is the only part of the house someone bothers to clean. Very well might be. The controls, you can see them from the semicircle window on the front door, are very simple; a red arrow for up, a yellow arrow for down. They are dull now, but I know they have lights in them, and for that matter, the whole elevator has electricity running to it.

The elevator goes up to the second floor. It's the only way up, now that all that remains of what must have been a beautiful spiral staircase is the rotting remains of the first three and a half steps. The second floor, well, you can't really call it a floor, because it is just a series of crisscrossed beams. Considering the condition of the house, you wouldn't think they'd hold, but they're sturdy. Why else would the elevator still have power.

This is probably nothing like the house we actually saw. It doesn't particularly matter though, as I will likely never see it again. I'm pretty sure my relatives don't live there anymore, and the house was probably destroyed in a hurricane. And more importantly, it doesn't matter because this isn't the Monkey House I'm writing about.

No, this bizarre structure may have a place in another story, but not this time. I took the name, because as I said, I don't know why it has that name, but it fits. Also, the feeling. That feeling I remember when I saw that house. That's what it's all about.

Anyways, it's late, and this is going to be a lot longer than I originally thought, but here is the tip of the iceberg, just one of the many inspirations that is going into "The Monkey House". I'll try to finish tomorrow, or at least continue. At some point, Ben might have some pictures and stories from Chicago, but it's unlikely, since he's; A. Ben, 2. he forgot his camera, and D. he's worthless when it comes to actually posting.

(I am pretty sure I will not have any stories or pictures from Chicago, but here are some more reasonable reasons for that: I am 700 miles from Chicago, I have never been to Chicago, and I have no plans in the near future to be in Chicago.) ~Ben

Funny The Way It Is

I heard the new Dave Matthews Band song on the radio, and immediately had to come home and download it for Jo. She loves her Dave. Pretty good song though; the new album comes out June 2.

Still though, Dave Matthews reminds of traveling with Jo. She's pretty belligerent when she doesn't get her way, and for awhile even Giz wouldn't give me back the CD changer, and of course, the three CDs in there at the time were all DMB, and Pittsburgh radio is pretty terrible, so I rocked mostly Dave for a couple of months. It got old, but I can imagine worse things.

That 200 miles of road between my old apartment and my parents' house holds a lot of memories for me. Asides from when I'm running, I do a lot of great thinking while driving. Especially once I'm on the highway, set the cruise control, and just sit back and dream, focusing only enough attention on the world around me to keep me alive.

There was meant to be a point to this blost, but it's gone. For someone who only wants to tell his stories to the world, I'm rather selfish with them. I think I had started writing this because the Dave Matthews song had me thinking about Graham again, and I'd really love to tell his story. I've told a few people a little bit, but I need get over this possessiveness. It's not like it's mine.

So, I'm going to start by giving a gist of the core stories. These are the ones that I've seen play out thousands of times, the ones that are the most important to me, and to each other. I'm going to do it over the blog, onto the internet, for my whopping eight followers, and whoever else happens upon my blog. It ain't much, but it's a start.

Of course, having decided this, I need a run to clear my thoughts, so I will postpone this, but I will hopefully start tonight after my run, provided I don't go straight to bed. I'm tired.

Until then, look forward to it in anticipation.

A Walk In The Park

So people hate me.

Not true, old people, kids, and most dogs like me just fine. Just, gay dudes and chics want nothing to do with me. Not that I want anything to do with gay dudes. Not that there's anything wrong with that, either.

So, after a delightful meal at China Panda, we went to Baker Park. We walked around the park, and it's funny, because I was under the impression that city people are less friendly than country folk, but everybody and their brother was talking to us.

Then, we decided to go for a run around the park, and after stopping after only a mile or so for a shameful walk (like most sequels, "Orange Chicken II; Chillin' In The Back Of The Throat And Awkwardly Mingling With Citrus Mint Gum" was terrible), we resumed our walk.

At some point, a couple of girls said hi to us. We of course ignored this. There was a second hi when we didn't immediately respond. After a third, I figured they wouldn't stop until they got a response, so I returned a hello. They were quick to inform me that they were talking to my friend, presumably Ben.

It was kind of a slap in the face. I mean, Ben? Low Blow. Fortunately, they weren't particularly good looking either, so it wasn't the worst thing in the world, and some jogging dude, presumably gay, said hello, presumably to Ben.

Needless to say, I'm never talking to strangers again. Chances are if I did, even if I was alone, I'd get a "We were talking to that squirrel." Oh come on! The Squirrel!

Too Rich For My Blood

So, I decided to see if it wasn't too late for me to sign up for at least the Frederick Half Marathon. Turns out I can, but it is a whopping $65. Yeah the marathon itself is $80, so by my logic, half of that is $40, still too much. I can't wrap my head around it. I'm supposed to spend that kind of money, to put myself through that, when I can do it for free, not surrounded by hundreds of other people, all running, and tired, and sweaty.

I can see myself maybe paying for a marathon, to say I did it. But who brags about a half marathon? Hell, I've run fourteen miles before on the C&O Canal, and it's not something I go around bragging about (not anymore at least; the chics are not impressed by this fact, for some reason). So I will not be partaking in the Frederick Marathon, or half Marathon. The "Fun Run" was only $10, but since it didn't specify what the "Fun Run" was, I decided to forgo said "Fun Run", and I figure I'll get more exercise running around, cheering Kell on.

Still, $65 dollars doesn't seem unreasonable, but then again, my distaste for spending money is why I have the stockpile I have now. I actually got in the habit of not picking up my pay checks from work until I actually needed rent money, so I would let them build up for at least a month or more before going in and picking up a pile of my checks. However, I was unaware that at the store I'm at now, if you don't pick up your checks after three days, they mail them out. A convenient policy, when your address is correct. Mine, of course, is not, nor has it ever been, apparently.

Fortunately, I'm still running on cash moneys from Christmas, because my great grandmother Gigi gives more more cash a week than I can spend in a month. There are a bunch of things I want, but don't really need, like a guitar which I would like to play, and a camera which would take pictures for this blog, but eh, I don't need them.

But anyways, I figured out I had five paychecks, and these are two week paychecks, that had been mailed out to some wrong address, so I went to HR and and explained that I needed close to three thousand dollars of my own money, because I didn't need it enough to make sure I had it back in January, and because I'm an idiot.

So, I have that coming to me, which will be nice. I will not be taking it to my regular bank, Suntrust, because after my last experience there. I had an old check from my electric company from when they overcharged me, made out to Taylor Michael, and two paychecks from work, made out to Douglas Michael. The clerk looked them over, and then told me I had to sign the two checks made out to Douglas as Douglas. I started to, because I'm pretty compliant, and then stopped because I have no idea how to write the letter D in cursive. I wanted to ask her if they made people who's signature is illegible write it out, but then didn't feel like a confrontation, so I just wrote a D, put some squiggles on it, and finished the rest of my first name to the best of my ability, and handed them over. I've made a note to never take checks addressed to both of my alter egos again, but that's inconvenient. I don't need that. What I need is a new bank, and to pick up my money when I get it.

The Blog Trifecta

Here it is folks. The Blog Trifecta. A union of sorts, of three separate blogs, or the authors of three separate blogs, joining together, to still produce three separate blogs. However, there will now be an intermingling of authors.

Two fellow Bloggers, and friends from school, Rusty and Justin, will now be guest authoring for Remaking Memories, and at some point, we may be blogging on theirs.

So, look forward to some variety, and check out their blogs. We may even accept other guest authors. Applications can be left as comments at any time. Sadly, I don't really have anything else.

Also, this song is from Flight of the Conchords, and they are wonderful. If you aren't familiar, do yourself a favor, and familiarize yourself, ASAP as possible.

Ben's Birthday

And I'm missing it.

Probably having a better day than him too. Birthdays generally aren't that great. I'm looking forward to twenty five, when my insurance goes down, but I could skip the rest of them and wouldn't mind at all. I don't even know the exact date of mine off the top of my head.

Anywho, I'm in North Carolina right now, visiting my mother's side of the fam for Easter. Good food, better weather, southern hospitality, and tennis, cards, gardening, shopping, and looking forward to a good run later.

Mostly though, I s'pose since I'm missing Ben's birthday, I should do somethng for him when I get back. as awesome as we are, it doesn't really get boring being just the two of us, but still, going somewhere or just hanging out with other people would be nice.

Also, I found out today that I will be taking another trip to Maine next month, so that's awesome. I've been back in Maryland too long, and the wanderlust is getting out of hand. It's nice, being down south now, and heading up north next month. At some point, I should try getting off the east coast.

Anyways, Happy Birthday Ben. I didn't get you anything.

The End Of An Error

The Grand Am is no more. I would like to inform you that I piloted it directly into a brick wall and leaped valiantly from the flaming wreckage, but alas that would be a lie. I merely sold it. I sold it for some mad cash moniez.

Previously mentioned mad cash moniez.

This is what my wallet always looks like.

Now my previous statement should leave you thinking I hated my first car. I suppose I did, too. But I suppose I loved it at the same time. It was aggravating, but it was exhilarating. A worthless piece of junk, but a pretty nice car. It was also a massive drain of time and money, but so is any hobby.

If I had to do it again I would leave this car sitting on the car lot for some other poor fool to deal with. There are any number of better cars I could have had for the same money. The list of problems I had with this car in the two years I had it is longer than it should have been for a lifetime.

The electrics were faulty and the battery used to drain itself every few days.

The stereo would not work, so I had to wire my own stereo system throughout the car.

The transmission would not shift properly due to faulty wiring at the computer side of the intake air temperature sensor.

I had to buy a new body control module at one point, and I don't even remember why.

There was no dipstick on the transmission fluid because GM decided a "sealed system" was a good idea. Let's just say it was not.

I had to change the transmission fluid at one point, which involved dropping the entire transmission pan, while it was full, ~7 liters of fluid.

The original exhaust would not come off without a saw.

The new exhaust manifold ended up being a three day project, it should have taken one.

There was an unexplainable clicking noise in the cabin every time the car started which would eventually go away.

Even when I was not driving the car I paid more in insurance than my father does for his AMG.

And even now after the car is out of my hands the check engine light is on, one or both O2 sensors are crap, or no longer communicating with the computer.

Cheaper to insure than an '03 Grand Am.

The back of the exhaust manifold.

Engine bay, front exhaust manifold.

The problem now is you all know why I hated my car, but why I loved it is not quantifiable. Maybe in part it is because it was the first car I bought for myself. Maybe it is the blood and sweat I put into it, or the permenant scars I received from it. But more than that it was just fun. It was fun to drive, it was fun to look at, to work on, to talk about. Every one of those oh so aggravating problems was a project for me to figure out and fix. I've always liked cars, but I have learned more from owning an awful, and fully typical, example of GM "engineering" than I ever did from reading about the best cars in the world.

In short: I am glad it's gone, but I'm not upset that it was here. So, a fond and yet resentful farewell to the GranDizzle.

Memory Chains

A whole lot of memories today, flooding back, a tidal wave of nostalgia.

For starters, they have closed the road between Ben's house and mine. It's inconvenient, as he lives in the middle of nowhere, and the detour is ridiculous. So I had vowed to just not go over to his house until it was over and done with. That would have been doable, but of course, when he sold his car, he needed me to pick him up in town.

We hung out at my place doing our typical stupid stuff, this time involving me getting us both covered in rotten pumpkin, but SSDD, right?

Anyways, when I finally took him home, I refrained from dropping him off at the closed off intersection and making him walk the rest of the way in the crazy April snow showers we were experiencing off and on all day.

The detour took us by my old neighborhood, and while that is usually enough to trigger memories, nothing. The important ones were further down the road. The rest of the detour took us down a road I almost never took. Though I did have a very vivid memory of two of the times I took it.

The first, conveniently enough, I was with our most recent follower, Rusty. We were at our friend Steven's, and for we either had to take his brother somewhere, or pick his brother up from somewhere. I don't remember the details, but I was always ferrying him, which was understandable, and his younger brother, for no reason I can think of, around before Rusty got his license. Anyways, this was after he came back from a summer in California with his makeover. His ponytail was gone, he had a goatee, a new pair of sunglasses and a closet full of Hawaiian shirts he was convinced he looked sexy as all get out in.

We were barreling down this back country road at about seventy five in the "Dragon Wagon", my first car. The dragon wagon is a story for another day, when I manage to find pictures of it, but, point being, we were flying down the road, Rusty was hanging mostly out of the passenger window, being navigator because my poor direction sense, and we were singing Bon Jovi's "Shot Through The Heart". I even remember arguing with his brother, Rydog, about the lyrics. Rusty and I were convinced that it was "Shot through the heart, and you're so lame", even though it is "and you're too blame". And I remember yelling at Rusty for directions, and him responding that he couldn't see the road signs. He refused to take off his sunglasses, because they made him look so cool.

As I was driving tonight down that same road, I could almost hear that song, and I could almost feel the Dragon Wagon's steering wheel cover under my fingers. It was a good memory, and it was real.

A couple hundred feet down the same road, I was struck by a memory even further back. It was the summer after eighth grade, and I had just discovered that I could easily bike to Ben's house. So I was over a couple times a week, and we would go biking on that same road. There was a little farm pond off the road we would go and stand at, much like we do now. I remembered another time, when I came over, and I helped him babysit his neighbors. The idea of Ben and I being in charge of children now frightens me. Us doing it almost six years ago is unimaginable. I do recall the kids weren't too young, and mostly Ben and I shot each other with nerf guns while the kids played outside.

I guess that was the real beginning of our friendship. I mean, he moved here in second grade, and even though we went to different elementary schools, I knew him and was friends with him through church, and then in middle school we had the same group of friends. But it was that summer (and the many years at PetLoft a few years later) that defined our friendship.

When I left Maryland a year and a half ago, Ben was one of my few friends who would still talk to me. I've changed a lot, but Ben was one of the only people who was there for me through everything. It was really good to remember why, as I drove him home on some ridiculous detour, still covered a little in rotten pumpkin, whining about how much he was inconveniencing me.

That pretty much sums us up though.

Great Parenting

Ben's witnessed this before, but tonight was my first time seeing it.

The best mother in the world.

Truly, this woman is the only person deserving of the title "World's Best Mom", and all the mugs and sweatshirts and paraphernalia that goes with it.

Ben and I were out for a run, and we had just finished up in my folks' neighborhood. I had gone ahead of Ben, so I missed it on the first lap or so, but when I met up with him, he told me if we stayed out for a bit, we should be able to see it. We were not disappointed.

At first, all I could see in the evening light was a van, driving ridiculously slow towards us, pretty much riding its brakes. Then, as it came closer, I saw why it was going to slow. Running beside the van was a girl, probably only in middle school, running along while her mother drove beside her in the van. Now, I couldn't hear what the mother was saying to the daughter, but any parent that is driving beside their kid as they force them to run is not shouting words of encouragement.

It got even better, as the van passed us, and we could see into the back seat, where an even younger boy was asleep in the back seat, and a baby was in the car seat.

Oh, also, it was pretty cold and windy, and it appeared that the girl was wearing jeans. She might have been wearing blue sweatpants that wore like jeans, but still, she wasn't decked out in proper running attire.

Having a father that made me run track as a kid, despite how much I hated it, I can sort of empathize with this poor girl. Fortunately, my father never hated his kids enough to drive along beside us and yell at us as he made us run, so I could get away with not running more often than not. I cannot imagine how much worse my relationship with my father would have been had he done this. All I can say is I hope I haven't gotten the hell out of dodge before this kid snaps.

We salute you, "World's Best Mom", and we hope your daughter puts you in your place somewhere down the line.

More Fun In The Wind

We felt bad that we really having done anything besides fly kites lately, and since Ben made our Monthly goal for April to "Be less lame", so we decided to do something else. And of course, after a brief debate over what we should do, my only idea being build a windsurfer, and Ben's only idea being "apple" and "butter". Since I had no idea what he wanted to do with either of those things, and I'm pretty lazy, we ended up just flying kites. And because of said laziness, we stepped it up a bit.

The epitome of laziness right there.

We had brought the chairs from the get go, but as it started to rain, I went back to get the umbrella. I'm pretty sure next time, we'll have a boom box, a cooler full of drinks, and maybe a grill.

The water is nice. Problem is, when our kites crash, we have to actually use the fishing rods for their intended purpose. And Kites are not easy or fun to reel through the water.


I had to go in and get Ben's at one point because his line broke. Once I was already wet, I saw no reason not to stand around in the water.

We actually had some kids come up and ask us whether we were fishing or flying kites. Obviously both. Then, one of the kids proceeded to argue with us about whether or not their were fish in the pond. Considering the pond was bone dry a week ago, the kid assumed there couldn't be fish in there. I may have to go buy some cheap goldfish to put in there to support our argument that there are indeed fish in that pond.

Just some more shots of our wonderful set up.

At one point (I think I was getting my kite off of a neighbors roof) Ben discovered that I wouldn't even need to build a sail for my windsurfer, the umbrella would be more than enough. So, we headed back up and I immediately attempted to use wind to propel myself along on a skateboard.

It is hard to stand on a skateboard while holding onto an umbrella that is being pulled in the direction of the wind.

I suppose the sidewalk didn't help, but I can't see anything in front of me because of the umbrella, so instead of trying it on the street, I capitalized on an idea I had earlier on how to make said windsurfer without tools. This is what I got.

So, I decided that duct taping a scooter to the skateboard, so that I would have a pivoting handle. Apart from the whole using duct tape, it wasn't a terrible idea.


About twenty seconds later. As I said, duct tape wasn't my best idea, but I'm too lazy to use tools. after all, it was only a prototype.


Twenty seconds later again, I had managed to flip the umbrella inside out.




Ben of course, was no help. Despite how much I look like I'm enjoying myself, this was quite frustrating, and I hate Ben. Useless tool.



And then, I finally manage to get it working, if only for about fifteen feet. Ben of course, fails to capture this on film. He has no problem pulling out his camera when my moment of success turned into painful defeat.

So, I can see that it can work. For starters, I need a new umbrella, I kind of destroyed that one. Preferably, one that is clear, so that I can see. Also, I will utilize tools to better fix something to the skateboard. It can happen, and it will. I promise you this.

Bad Karma

I believe I mentioned my getting a ticket for failure to stop at a stop sign the other day. Well, today was the court day, and I wasn't planning on going; my dad said I should, it's always worth fighting, but going to court, just seems, oh, I don't know. I'm guilty I did indeed fail to stop at that stop sign. Nor do I have an excuse. Something about trying to fight something like that, even a ticket as ridiculous as failure to stop at a stop sign, seems wrong to me.

But I didn't have class today, and I left work at around eleven, and it was only a few minutes from Gigi's so it wasn't out of the way or anything, so I went. Turns out I was wrong about the cop; he didn't show up, and I walked. The judge wasn't pleased by it either. For the most part, she was letting everyone off with a lighter sentence, but the few people like me with less than stellar records she had no mercy for. She warned everyone at the beginning that they could just go and pay the fine on their ticket, or, if they stayed, there was a chance the fine might go go up if she found you guilty. Had I not been boxed in by two fat guys, I would have left, but no one else did, and I didn't feel like making a scene, so I stayed, and was glad I did.

The judge called my name, and I went up. I was the first name on the roster for my cop, and I never even looked at him when he gave me my ticket, so I had no idea what he looked like. But I didn't hear anyone walking up behind me, and after a moment or two, the judge realized my cop hadn't showed up, nor did he have an excuse. Some other cop was sick, and so everyone who pleaded innocent for him had to postpone, and that was something I did not want to do. The judge told me it was my lucky day., there was no one to testify against me, no fine, no court fees, and no points. I win again.

Still though, there is karma for such things. I went out to my car, and what should be under my windshield wiper? A parking ticket of course. Apparently, I was parked in a loading zone. I don't know, I pulled into a space, saw a sign for court parking, but then I would have gotten back into traffic again and merged over two lanes to go left, and it just seemed like more of a hassle than it was worth, seeing as I was already parked in a parking spot.

I'm pretty sure things would have gotten ugly had I actually had to pay for my $90 ticket and gotten more points on my license, and then came out to find a $35 parking ticket, but all in all, I suppose if this is all the punishment I get for lucking out and bypassing the system, I suppose I'm lucky.