tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55042499886867216052024-03-05T15:58:50.944-08:00Jays Go ByeJays Go Be is the observations of the world around us, as seen by a Trini-American 20-something living in the DMV with a pension for women, food, life, and drink. Probably, in that order.Jayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06324939447517476216noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504249988686721605.post-10516640139150660592010-06-05T12:46:00.001-07:002010-06-05T12:46:29.658-07:00District Mine<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CJays%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CJays%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CJays%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">An honorable ode to youth and reckless irresponsibility has never been written or created with a full heart and open mind so it’s my intention to do so. They tell to stop and live slow; I challenge that with the assertion that that there is simply no time for rest or for sleep or for patience. There are few things more certain than the fact that I will rest when I’m dead and probably for a while after that. Advice is offered from elders based upon past experiences, but the fact remains that these experiences are from times far from the here and now. How can anyone who’s never bought a round of bourbon shots for their closest friends ever testify to the utility of a night of heavy drinking? How could someone who’s never felt dozens of firsts with dozens of girls ever speak on the absolutes of monogamy and marriage? How can anyone who has never felt true passion about something ever question the motives behind a punch thrown in defense of friendship or honor? Behaviors are a symptom of the indecision in the best way I can imagine. The predictability of the impulsiveness of the night is comforting to all rebelling against the inevitable. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We get ready and we go out. We get ready and we go out. We get ready and we go out. We trek into the District. Not because we’re drunks or whores or assholes but because we are everything and nothing. To label a person deep in exploration is to denigrate the entire period or endeavor to something that can be locked in a word and sealed away. There is pride to be found in a work in progress; a half baked cake or a partially constructed engine. To look at such a thing is to learn more about it in that moment than possible after completion. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">If to live is to walk, talk, taste, and feel all that life has to offer then to live is all I’ve ever wanted. It begins as a process or a plan. You assemble a group of friends and go where the night takes you. A better formula has never been put together. Everyone has an idea of what they believe their purpose is here on Earth. I actually have no idea. Like none at all, short of living. My understanding of the state of affairs up until this point is that I am obligated to live each day like no other ones are promised to me. So I do. We build relationships and memories. We tear down roadblocks and hesitation. We cautiously ration are time and resources for another day or pursuit. As an ode to the night and youth in transition, this functions as a glorification of days that are destined to end, by my design or something else’s. Conversely, as a promise, this functions as a guarantee that I will not let these days or the people that fill them slip away without a fight. </div>Jayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06324939447517476216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504249988686721605.post-28247983531515179582010-05-28T07:20:00.000-07:002010-05-28T07:20:17.026-07:0024 Hours to Kill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHoufax16gXAeUNjb181qy6e3h91mUZvd3aQ8ndrUJo3D5VOfH5PsCW2ywxaaL2s3-WdzWOyNg3IsCZRZ9CN-vFM6_VydcQFx-XaX-x2IJnoJypmC5om3Hqxw7r_9W7MFQJn-exUbv8Pt/s1600/JAck+glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHoufax16gXAeUNjb181qy6e3h91mUZvd3aQ8ndrUJo3D5VOfH5PsCW2ywxaaL2s3-WdzWOyNg3IsCZRZ9CN-vFM6_VydcQFx-XaX-x2IJnoJypmC5om3Hqxw7r_9W7MFQJn-exUbv8Pt/s320/JAck+glass.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What does a Great American TV Series look like? It can make you think, cry or laugh, but only for a second. It can make you frantically search for the remote, just to hit pause or fast forward through frustration or rewind for remembrance. A finale should make you want to order pizza, pop popcorn, or open a microbrew. It’s as bloody as the red on Old Glory’s stripes or the Scarlet in the end zone of the Horseshoe. It’s riddled with bullets and gore, and bandaged together by one compelling story. The simple, believable plot is as timeless as it is awe-inspiring; that one man with the help of the 2<sup>st</sup> Amendment and balls the size of hand grenades can right the wrongs of government, war, social disparity, and greed. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">There are the good; the characters that are charismatic, charming, and witty. They win our confidence and guard it for a series and some of the spin-off. There are the bad; the characters that question the definition of corruption, darkness, and disorder. They push us to question choices and selfish motivations. Then there is Jack.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p><b>On 24, there were 2 Black Presidents. </b>Lost had zero. LOST is racist. Let's look at the black people that have been on the show.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p>Mr. Eko ~ an African warlord posing as his dead priest brother crashes on the island in a plane full of heroin, hidden in figurines of the Virgin Mary. Ends up being murdered by the Smoke Monster for no apparent reason.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p>Michael - Sells out his friends to save his own ass and the respective ass of his son. Sails off the island only to return estranged from his son and with a death wish. Dies in a huge boat explosion</o:p><br />
<o:p>Walt - the magical son of Michael. Fades to obscurity but reappears periodically to offer vague clues about how stupid the show is. Gets old and is not longer "adorable"</o:p><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On 24, our Jack would have killed or tortured Sawyer, Ben, Locke, Michael, that weird polar bear and all of the Others within the first hour. </b> Then he radio’s for an evac 20 minutes into the second hour. That’s how you do a Series Finale.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On 24, all loose ends are cut. Literally.</b> Jack Bauer literally had all of the armed men, women, and children in New York (and, from what I hear, that’s the entire population) hunting for him and he still managed to steal a Helicopter, shoot/stab/maim his way to the truth, and finally don a Batman-type body armor suit to abduct a guarded, corrupt ex-President. What have you done with your day?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwpHMzsQFDqVN2WhXS48FneKP0AS-5AC1WTBy9wiXQppfAXBw17ZEIrb6JTTnvWGRH3OMD4w0nIs9yxDs4QPkftxW7bSA3aidAobmqnBuUka5wtwvskGYB95OGzVncMC9UCF6WHT5AcZM/s1600/jack-bauer-24-season-7-pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwpHMzsQFDqVN2WhXS48FneKP0AS-5AC1WTBy9wiXQppfAXBw17ZEIrb6JTTnvWGRH3OMD4w0nIs9yxDs4QPkftxW7bSA3aidAobmqnBuUka5wtwvskGYB95OGzVncMC9UCF6WHT5AcZM/s320/jack-bauer-24-season-7-pic.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On 24, Bad guys definitely don’t make it off the island.</b> Every person who attempted to or succeeded in hurting any of Jack’s friends ended up wearing their insides on their outsides, all of them far from the Manhattan island border.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On 24, there wasn’t just one smoke monster. There were several. </b>Jack witnessed or defeated several smoke monsters. You know what he called them? Mushroom clouds. I could go on about bright lights and water, but I think the words “hydrogen bomb” say it all.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On 24, Jack’s father wasn’t a “Christian Shepard”. </b>He was a “Dickish Traitor” who killed Jack’s brother, kidnapped his grandson, tried to bring down the government, and had Jack sent to a Chinese torture camp for over a year. For Father’s Day, Jack is giving him a bullet.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On 24, Jack doesn’t need food, water, or shelter; just a 9 mm and a satchel full of clips.</b> The last man to call it a purse ended up holding a good amount of those bullets for Jack, the hard way.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5FvAQveUsbgHWuDHpf3hoyCjrZ53ZCRUrBVCgmYUPbTdFfalqXznQ5QU3NLxz_B_4E8CV56ZJNXtRWfHDLzJxgzDwpNIENt3LidQFnIe7njEBdiXy7dYG27Uic7V6APM2C3nsbEVb4fvr/s1600/man-purse4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5FvAQveUsbgHWuDHpf3hoyCjrZ53ZCRUrBVCgmYUPbTdFfalqXznQ5QU3NLxz_B_4E8CV56ZJNXtRWfHDLzJxgzDwpNIENt3LidQFnIe7njEBdiXy7dYG27Uic7V6APM2C3nsbEVb4fvr/s320/man-purse4.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On 24, Jack answers all questions in one day. </b>Jack murders about 160 terrorists in a single day and somehow, miraculously, people start to give him answers. Who knew?<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>Do you know what Jack calls a cliffhanger? A terrorist that refuses to let go. Jack’s cliffhangers are never a 2-parter.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVwd81isiIJfyv3Rgn8psCERejjpKdxCSL4Pc1rAwKyUieNz8CLloKtxrHUBwRn8yfGbPglQxi_0Lor1UvLZLEQ3BoXa71N_m2YUaS5_lLLCx5e6RXUAE72Wjd9CNMG_ZONRcgR0UvMj9i/s1600/cliff-hanger.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVwd81isiIJfyv3Rgn8psCERejjpKdxCSL4Pc1rAwKyUieNz8CLloKtxrHUBwRn8yfGbPglQxi_0Lor1UvLZLEQ3BoXa71N_m2YUaS5_lLLCx5e6RXUAE72Wjd9CNMG_ZONRcgR0UvMj9i/s320/cliff-hanger.gif" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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</div>Jayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06324939447517476216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504249988686721605.post-54348171059107696782010-05-24T21:21:00.000-07:002010-05-24T21:37:08.073-07:00An Open Letter to All LOST Fans<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinTgHMChe4vocC2DKMZL1_4msVoYttfiIwgvkYe_XelLyAbQ-Iz5BWHpRrlT7dfzcNBqv_2f4aFqJiEbQ65xfYNFXgcDrDTnkNZBrVChDvPaxOsBmNCT1Kgd9hRbxv17sEH3WUkcKmsShC/s1600/kanye_smoke_monster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinTgHMChe4vocC2DKMZL1_4msVoYttfiIwgvkYe_XelLyAbQ-Iz5BWHpRrlT7dfzcNBqv_2f4aFqJiEbQ65xfYNFXgcDrDTnkNZBrVChDvPaxOsBmNCT1Kgd9hRbxv17sEH3WUkcKmsShC/s320/kanye_smoke_monster.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Dear LOST Fans:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Your show sucked. I know what you’re thinking, “I love LOST so I’m going to stop reading and go watch some YouTUBE clips of the Jack-Sawyer-Kate love triangle over and over again”. I ask you to pause, hear me out, and reserve your judgment for another time. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">For starters, LOST does indeed suck but in the best way it knows how to suck. LOST isn’t necessarily plagued by bad writing like some other shows on TV (I’m talking to you Law and Order, and Desperate Housewives). Also, isn’t necessarily full of boring characters trapped in developmental limbo, like Full House or Family Matters. Yes, we all did the Urkel and shed many a tear when Uncle Jesse arrived late to his wedding only to perform “Forever” like a pro. The problem with LOST, or more specifically why it sucks, is the fans. Hubris has haunted the show since the beginning. Remember that old children’s book, The Emperor’s New Clothes? The one where the Emperor gets tricked into spending a lot of money to purchase "invisible" clothes? Well, LOST fans are going along with their invisible sundresses for a solid 6 years. What the rest of us are missing is that their show is the most amazing thing since sliced bread and if we don’t get that, we can all go to Hell. </div><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> A friend said something on Facebook today that stuck with me. She said she was ok with LOST not answering all of the questions because “defining the island would be like defining the meaning of life”. And no disrespect to her, but it stuck with me because when I heard it, I wanted to run out into traffic. I wish I lived in a world where I could in essence take Gillian’s Island and get paid millions of dollars to throw the most random things on to said island with the enthusiasm of a colorblind 3 year old finger-painting in a liquor store. But no, that wouldn’t be enough. I would then have the balls to carry on this way for another year before I set about telling the world’s media that my show was not the drunk-stumble sorority house shit show that it appeared; I actually had a very carefully orchestrated plan for my <s style="text-line-through: double;">piece of shit</s> masterpiece that would tactfully bring things to an end after only 6 years. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> WHEW! “Wait, they bought that?” I would mutter under my breath as I took a swig out of my moonshine flask. And Yes, they would buy that and continue to buy it every season until the horrible horrible end where about 1/4 of the cast without other obligations agreed to sit in a room under the guise of a previous agreement to meet up before they all "moved on". Fuck you, LOST! I know when I'm being shown an awkward cast wrap party as the final scene.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Much like Video killed the Radio Star, DVR killed the Network Superhit. Like a 6 that hangs out with fat 3s, the TV networks would play these bar room games with us where they would put a mediocre show on a night without competition. Real quick: tell me what show rivaled LOST during its first season? Cookie for anyone who gets that right without the research. DVR and Online viewing allows us to now pick when we want to watch a show rather than play by the VP of Programming's game. My real point is, any show with the right exposure, social climate, and timeslot can generate a popular cult following. Remember Felicity? Say what you want about my girl Feli Fel, but THAT finale was a humdinger. HUMdinger.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Eat it, </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Jays</span>Jayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06324939447517476216noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504249988686721605.post-63929883877002714242010-05-23T14:26:00.001-07:002010-05-23T14:26:59.665-07:00Jarred Lightening<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">You gotta begin with the end in mind. I feel like I begin each one of these with that idea and then try to get lost in it. I start lost and work backwards. What’s more reasonable than that? I’ve found, the best kind of writing is the kind where the words are sitting on the edges of a finger tips, waiting to be beat into keys only to have their reflection forever trapped in a screen. Words aren’t tools. They’re wild animals to be domesticated, each one differing by temperament and size. Some are large and complex, while others are small and straight to the point. They start off appearing one way but by the end of all that is said and done, they become something much different. They evolve into a phrase, a question, or a paragraph. Because of the nature of the beast, words trapped on screen and paper will never be as strong as the animal that inhabits a spoken word, statement or speech. The fun of it all, of writing, is to trap the lightening in a jar and power to something otherwise limited in scope.</div>Jayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06324939447517476216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504249988686721605.post-58671414986665150712010-05-21T14:47:00.001-07:002010-05-21T14:47:24.024-07:00Trapped?<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The truth is that no one will admit to wanting to be trapped. The rest of the truth is that there is a certain amount of security in that feeling: in that trapped feeling. There’s a guilt in the conflict between those two ideas, a denial of human nature and an affirmation of limitations/ Here’s my example. I got on the train this morning and saw a baby. It was one of those limp babies wrapped, enclosed, enveloped in one of those baby holding things. I use to always think to myself that it must suck to be that baby. You can’t go anywhere, move around, explore. The strange thing is that the baby always seems to be content or, worse yet, sleeping. I think this is where we, or more specifically I, find the truth. That is that babies get it and I did not. I’ve come to understand that you have to come to terms with a certain amount of the inevitability in the monument before you can ever have a hope of changing any of it. The truth is a baby biding his or her time until the next fight not a kid giving up. I know the feeling, little bald baby. I know the feeling. </div>Jayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06324939447517476216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504249988686721605.post-80153978790136225512010-01-26T18:31:00.000-08:002010-01-26T22:05:12.348-08:00Ten Things Tuesday: ME<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 55px;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium; line-height: 55px; ">1. I really hate Reality TV. Specifically, anything filmed in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">or around the Jersey Shore. I'm looking at you, Survivor: Staten Island</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsTK1orPRc1Lts9wtuhTD1HhhEhz68B9KqQjktdbkCAlpb3jeExl0heFMMgAoAFDJHiIq-80khb_ceSFtxyXlzv2fzRduy_W0Ijm6ELD-jM7uUQnFF5_gEyTBfsPNjodmqHGqzqxHsYCrL/s200/snookie.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431284524994387538" /> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height:115%;Arial","sans-serif";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">2. I have a sticker phobia. Nothing weird, I just don't fuck with stickers. Period.</span></span></span></span></p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgappCTRa_52o6_da_RViZzQZwJGqYUChDNbnh985wmxVg7wZhZGHaS7TzRY2ifsM28ssy1D8GObCdrRAaQwzbcft4rQ-vIpE849PuS8yuEepQSdsh9yYLnyMfUHOUKFFVyWKN0sCbJPOw8/s200/stickers2007.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 148px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431294168560347842" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height:115%;Arial","sans-serif";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">3. I'm a sucker for a girl in a skirt. Actually, I'm sucker for a girl in a anything.</span></span></span></span></p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGGZnq1f3sm70EXez0ol2WDlnyblGhyJzh-lesJPC8H_MkvDtcy7at94miOxFQvytxNqRbg8BDL3RPQ7a3tG9NPaBARDvhdkDZChxmKkuK9GibPeOArplg0-LsQBbuwrnW8wn3Um04hP_I/s200/snookie.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431285199190709090" /><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 55px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 55px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 55px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height:115%;Arial","sans-serif";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">4. I hate Christmas, but love Halloween. Much scarier things have happened when my family is assembled than anything dreamed up to costume a 3rd grader with temporary sugar deficiency.</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 55px;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXAVoknAlFDD6xOROFj-mnKKlzBQsk07SgbRINVThVl5STExH5IJB53Q38cJ2vGmOiTpi1MVV1KvLRxPERTUfTZXAFpmp1w-_ZkXZktftq6pndPD50cLtIObSka_NZ1uDxnesYFmExuIaW/s200/trick.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431288268501883970" /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height:115%;Arial","sans-serif";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">5. I have competing fears of dying alone and loving prematurely.</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height:115%;Arial","sans-serif";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">6. Monday through Thursday-ish, I would almost always rather sit quietly in my room with a book than talk to anyone who hasn't seen (or will see) me naked. I say that to say this; if we speak during my "me time", the countdown to my unmentionables has begun.</span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height:115%;Arial","sans-serif";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">7. I like me. If I had another go at this, I'd probably make the same choices. Except for Jen, sophomore year. She was terrible.</span></span></span></span></p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLGamEHYTV7rBmYrWu-POgCA_dHL1hWD8gPdh_Jk-d48iERZ-l9VibMzYHHdCuJ9I1_5Aurw_uTjrhyQTa4oJabrQUcsHl4P3R9yXo9M7aryTgDbm1VA96NgGa6p3e1x4JDV-7BC29Kbqe/s200/drunk-girl-toilet-vomit-294a110907.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431290443521227010" /> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 55px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 55px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 55px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height:115%;Arial","sans-serif";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">8. I could imagine myself as an awesome dad. Not so much with the husband stuff just yet tho.</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height:115%;Arial","sans-serif";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">9. The first cd I ever bought was Dookie by Green Day, but I tell people it was Life in 1792 by Jermaine Dupree. And now that I'm thinking of it, I've been embarrassing myself for years...</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height:115%;Arial","sans-serif";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">10. I tell people that I'm outdoorsy but the truth is I'm looking for something surprising and beautiful at the same time. I couldn't imagine finding that anywhere but off a trail somewhere far from a city. And the Jersey Shore.</span></span></span></span></p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-7PzwMVcABT_Ipuhw4KVFTS7Pt3Lp9BjK5easIvqsBT8yCz1UELYEV0cM8D6G4YC2opZpgds2uXTnP5Z6jxx13gm8J9rUqrAkGs91rfvqBHByEtXDDI7TRt1OF6R1Yrq0svtRXed6c1T/s200/snookie.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431291735965235874" />Jayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06324939447517476216noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504249988686721605.post-81759290145581249082009-12-24T08:38:00.000-08:002009-12-24T08:59:17.456-08:00Twas the Night Before Christmas Remastered by Jayson Wilkinson<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg403wUUNPNfm7tsDbIOGRe7NeQYzfA115zATI-4iaov6fOlyXF-R0WFCcop3uGihO1vxlO9J3cTD1EZJ0oQ5ORW0nljwS-dMpEPJWBhpcb2Tdc7tUKHIoQIWPjRMagfk1UviQFHOUOCt9A/s1600-h/20090330_MCHammer.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg403wUUNPNfm7tsDbIOGRe7NeQYzfA115zATI-4iaov6fOlyXF-R0WFCcop3uGihO1vxlO9J3cTD1EZJ0oQ5ORW0nljwS-dMpEPJWBhpcb2Tdc7tUKHIoQIWPjRMagfk1UviQFHOUOCt9A/s200/20090330_MCHammer.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418847056799252098" /></a>I wrote this about 5 years ago and I figured it was time to re-release this for the good of the 2 readers I have. Enjoy!<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family:'Comic Sans MS';font-size:x-small;"><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">Twas the night before Christmas, back in '91</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">Everyone was chillin cause finals was done</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">The shinny suit was hung over the lounge chair with care</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">mostly because MC Hammer was near</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">His fans were nestled all snugg in their beds</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">With the hook from "You can't touch this" playing in their heads</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">And Mama in her houseshoes and me in my du-rag</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">both our doors; double bolted so Santa won't lag</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">Then out on my porch I saw someone tan</span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">On his belt, the buckle simply read, " Hammerman"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">Now Santa wears Red with some white in between</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">but Hammer wear black and purple and green</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">Santa rides sleds fueled by magical forces</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">Hammer rolls deep in cars with maaaad horses</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">And Santa wears hats and a smile on his face</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">But Hammer rocks chains that hang down to his waist</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">Now to the window I started to rush</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">from my mama's room I heard her call out, "Boy, Hush"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">He rolled with two men; the smaller, the announcer</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">From the size of the other I figured him a bouncer</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">The smaller yawned as his throat started to clear</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">"Open the fucking door, THE Hammerman is here!"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">I ran down the stairs past the velvet picture of Jesus</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">but I got there in time, just to see him leave us</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">No cars, No suits, No army of lackies</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">Just a Geo, a cat, and a pusher in khakis</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">Where did he go? This jerk knows I'm a fan?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">All I wanted for Christmas was to meet Hammerman</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">As the tears did fall, I turned to walk away</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">To find a package was blocking my way</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">It was big as boulder but shaped like a person</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">"Close the door, the heat's leaving" my Mama was cursin'</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">So I dragged my gift in, and unwrapped it with joy</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">Inside was a lifesize Hammerman toy</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">A man of few words, the Hammer wrote words that fit</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">The card attached said simply, " Stay 2 Legit 2 Quit"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">Screw Vanilla, Screw En Vogue, Screw BVD</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">MC Hammer came through with a gift just for me</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">SO forget Boyz II Men and that group Kid N PLay</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">MC Hammer's the one that made this kid's day</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">To all that love the season, Happy Holidays I wish</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=" text-decoration: none; font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">but if you see Hammerman remember, You can't touch this</span></span></span></p></span>Jayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06324939447517476216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504249988686721605.post-46651100461906496092009-12-05T08:57:00.000-08:002009-12-05T09:19:00.212-08:00Redline (Part 1)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsf9Ihbv5s9KRyeWdgbul5O_R8mcEiAlTDTWiWRvKjKGe_HNB6TnuBC6qEHT0uXb4haJ4-vO_y0ELDtlmL183WamwJBspRHaJWE_gwVQ72kBjxW9hQ2nOhBWtzJ9tiUnEnvZj-S-juRed/s1600-h/ride+on+bus.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsf9Ihbv5s9KRyeWdgbul5O_R8mcEiAlTDTWiWRvKjKGe_HNB6TnuBC6qEHT0uXb4haJ4-vO_y0ELDtlmL183WamwJBspRHaJWE_gwVQ72kBjxW9hQ2nOhBWtzJ9tiUnEnvZj-S-juRed/s200/ride+on+bus.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411800472815706898" /></a><br /><br /><br /> My daily commutes on the Metro Red line end up being my vehicle to putting a lot of things into perspective. Everyday, I wake up and take the bus to Twinbrook station. Luckily, my bus stop is directly outside my front door, so it’s a pretty easy walk. Once I the bus arrives, I start my morning rituals. The first one is a folksy comment to the bus driver on the way into the bus. It has to be something quick and old timey, so not to upset the people waiting behind me to get on the bus<br />Ex. Hot enough for ya?<br /> Cold enough for ya? Rough game on Sunday, huh?<br /> How’s the (wife, old man, mother, partner, cat) doing?<br /> Bitches is crazy, huh?<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>My theory is if I make a connection with them, they’ll love me. That love leads directly to my Ride-on driver thinking twice the next time I’m running behind the bus screaming for it to stop and take me to the station/ home.<br /> <div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>En route, I search for a discarded newspaper on the bus so that I can read a little and begin my daily crossword puzzle. Both of these things are essential to the illusion of unfriendliness, but I’ll come back to that later. I try to sit in the middle of the bus because I favor the chairs that point forward over the ones that put my back against the side of the bus. I have a waking fear that if the bus were to be attacked by, lets say, ninja assassins, they would enter the bus via super kick to the side windows and then what? I would just look foolish with an open back to a ninja<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgB1QiW67CcvSROX5loSxvi6FH7W8mWXnvRc7oCVhw6GIFTUgSm4Ib_ly2jjjXCuGcy-zoK7_lFqcHH2JLtVEtBKjHhQpIw06NIj_wptsThWRuhvwh_Q7DkoUMEovb9-cO3MqSgPJPN6sd/s200/ninja7.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411800893112657074" /> assassin’s super kick and ninja stars If there’s one thing this Trinidadian doesn’t do, its look foolish </div><div>to a ninja assassin.<br /><br /> <br /> Once I get to Twinbrook station, I play it polite and let one of the old ladies or men get off the bus before me. Why only one, you ask? Because if you give a mouse a cookie, it’s going to fuck in your house and leave mouse babies everywhere. If you let anymore</div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUN6dpK1zSuuN9qRRlDfOMp7_YcMTGe_04ywCV9M6rV0WihbRiKyE63WnT7OgUCVVh-M2v0nm6XyevSxnruWghskazKBZx7PiVgQqI-S-8vCFr1D-zDobJgKmm5Vsu1y4PaQjkRgKmqTcc/s200/twinbrook+station.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 124px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411801617747503666" /><div> than one senior citizen off, they’ll ( all of the old people on the bus) will sense your weakness and push pass you. Even worse, one may walk with you from the bus to the station and precipitate a topical conversation about the “weather” or “ the way things use to be”. No thank you, elder statesman or woman! Hence the strategizing my exit from the bus. I let the one pre-baby boomer off of the bus and promptly pop in my head phones. As I step off the bus, I turn on my “Aggressive “ playlist and turn it to the red. Not because I enjoy listening to “ Smack my Bitch up” in the early morning hours or potentially surrendering my hearing to Apple, but because it makes me seem completely insane to any</div><div>one around me for the rest of my commute. Remember, the goal is for all strangers to stay away by maintaining the illusion of unfriendliness.<br /><br /> </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>As I make my way into the Station, I start to channel the Matrix ( the first one, not the two crappy ones that followed) because of the eternal newspaper war that is fought at each and every station the Metro services. Is it going to be the Express or the Examiner? Red pill or Blue pill? Blonde or Brunette? Boxers or Briefs? Jacob or Edward? </div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDaFwOZ-Tyuvm5Nmq9km4ax4mF_oEpn6TyA04xoUsytj9PhZ4BcBC1ibwxk4PARUYuSURJfaDVFNtjhdWHZ4ZPLGStVZYQN4yOUWGwr7DMwJGr1jknHJ6tGC18-ieYVMb1FKgc1PjNQ2Wx/s200/matrix_pill.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411802089962429074" /></div><div>The Express Lady and the Examiner Lady stand about 10 feet away from each other every morning and they are cold and they are calculating and they are evil. They make you choose which poison, which pill. So sometimes the pressure of my impending choice gets to be too much and I breakdown, right there in the middle of the two increasingly bewildered ladies, and I sob. I sob for missed opportunities, for lost love, for broken hearts but most importantly, I sob for these ladies. Frank Lucas and Nino Brown over there are dealing their drug of choice to the people and the people like it. Fives minutes, 60 confused stares, and one concerned station manager later, I pick myself up and get an Express from the lady on the left. I like their Celebrity News section in the back and its been waay too long since I’ve had an update on the who Tiger Woods is fucking…..<br /><br /><br /></div>Jayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06324939447517476216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504249988686721605.post-67978440012491475342009-09-10T20:58:00.000-07:002009-09-10T21:00:48.609-07:00August and Everything After...<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CJays%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CJays%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CJays%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 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margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoPapDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; margin-bottom:10.0pt; line-height:115%;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I feel like for a while now I’ve had the desire to take things back to the times when I wrote for just myself.<span style=""> </span>It’s been a long time. For the longest time, I believed that writing, when it came to be personally, was a means to an end. The truth has always been that writing is, and will always be, my release. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I was going to start this off by saying something about this being a pivotal moment in my life or that I’m standing at the foot of an unclear path. That thought seems like enough of a focus for reflection.<span style=""> </span>I hate the idea that ideas feel so singular and profound. I hate the idea that it’s human nature to never be able to stand above the fray and figure out where you stand. I hate the fact that I know this to be a fact, when every bone in my body wants to believe that I have within myself the power to change this. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Because I grew up on the wrong half of the 1980’s, I think I missed a lot of the angst-y fun that seemed to grip those a couple years my senior.<span style=""> </span>I’m left wondering what exactly that must have felt like. I ask because I think most of the words I’ve heard to describe these times and feelings can be thrown our way to encapsulate these days.<span style=""> </span>Double Dutch. That’s what it feels like to me. I know, hang with me for a little and I’ll explain. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I think the most amazing part about double dutch is that moment before the kid jumps in. In that moment, there is a world of decisions to be made. Do I jump in now? OK, how about now? What about now? Are you coming in from the side? How about directly in the middle, where the arc is the biggest? Fine, now that that’s settled, do I walk in? flip? summersault? Granted, this is solely my guess as to what’s going on in this specific dutcher’s head. Assuming the best (or in worst, depending on your perspective) this moment in every way is the moment to watch. It’s the time before the magic happens, wedged in between when the shit hits the fan and when the goose is cooked. It’s the time when that person is on the edge of greatness; on the edge of glory. A few seconds seem like an eternity but the call is made and the show goes on. In a lot of ways, I feel emotionally robbed of the prestige of the moment.<span style=""> </span>I or specially we are standing there staring at the rope and these seconds are feeling like an eternity.</p> Jayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06324939447517476216noreply@blogger.com0