menloparkmall
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in the "menloparkmall" journal:[<< Previous 20 entries]
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09:33 pm
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Gangsters and Thugs, Criminals and Hoods
Some of my Friends Sell Books, Some of my Friends Sell Drugs
Current Music: kings of leon
Tags: the life artistic
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12:18 am
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sweet christ
i hadn't even clicked on the link on the something awful page.
this literally made me laugh out loud. goddamn!
http://headostate.com/
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12:15 am
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fuck me presidential
if i only had money to throw away on this. for the campiness, i say!
we should have gotten married a year later and i would have registered for this.
http://www.somethingawful.com/d/horrors-of-porn/horrible-adult-toys.php?page=12
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10:21 pm
[Link] | i think if i were a teen girl now, i'd pick blake sennett as the guy whose pics i'd cut out of tiger beat and post on my walls.
the elected rule. hetero man crush.
this crazy nothingness brought to you by boredconversationsatwork.
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10:27 pm
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what are your old classmates doing?
mine are being sentenced to death.
seriously, i had like 9 classes with this guy. he didn't like me. fuck him. he's gonna die.
http://www.caller.com/news/2008/dec/09/killer-given-death-penalty/
Current Music: the godfather bitches
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07:47 pm
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cubicle confessional
The song Corpus Christi Bay, by Robert Earl Keen just slays me every time I hear it. It’s not just that it’s about Corpus. It’s that the damn thing has to be one of the best pieces of storytelling I’ve been exposed to. You have this set up of a fucked up lifestyle, with at least the slightest hint of ambition for something better. But even that only lasts two lines, and is shot down by the complement of the quatrain. It sets up this tragic existence, and even specific experiences, but the only lesson that is learned is seen from afar by the protagonist. The last two lines are a great short story in and of themselves. It’s no, “For sale: baby shoes, never used,” but it’s complete and jarring storytelling. I mean, everyone has a movie that they’ve seen a million times. And every time they watch it again, they know it’s building to the place that always gets them. They recognize it; they think that this will be the time it doesn’t get them, then BAM—the waterworks. Every time I hear this song I get the goose bumps, what my friend Diana called the songasm. And every time the words catch me like they did last time. Then those last lines… I’m fucking wrecked. Every time. So here’s to that song, and to knowing that there’s always a piece of art that will fuck your shit up and affirm your appreciation—keeping you reading, watching, listening, and trying to create. I worked the rigs from three to midnight
On the corpus Christi Bay
I'd get off and drink till daylight
Sleep the morning away
I had a plan to take my wages
Leave the rigs behind for good
But that life it is contagious
And it gets down in your blood
I lived in corpus with my brother
We were always on the run
We were bad for one another
But we were good at having fun
We got stoned along the seawall
We got drunk and rolled a car
We knew the girls at every dancehall
Had a tab at every bar
If I could live my life all over
It wouldnt matter anyway
Cause I never could stay sober
On the Corpus Christi Bay
My brother had a wife and family
You know he gave them a good home
But his wife thought we were crazy
And one day we found her gone
We threw her clothes into the car trunk
Her photographs her rosary
We went to the pier and got drunk
And threw it all into the sea
CHORUS
Now my brother lives in Houston
He married for the second time
He got a job with the union
And its keeping him in line
He came to Corpus just this weekend
It was good to see him here
He said he finally gave up drinking
The he ordered me a beer
Current Mood:  blank
Current Music: talib kweli-quality
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06:31 pm
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hi
i've been inspired by gene's post *hi gene. love ya, man* to make a catching up-type post of my own. so here goes. work is good and will hopefully get better. i'm almost done with school. i love my wife and living and being with her. all of that is extremely good, but about as boring as actual absolute peace of mind. so what i'll post about is something almost even boringer.
i've been reading a lot. this summer alone i read a ton of books:
where i'm calling from by raymond carver
russian dilettante's handbook by gary shteyngart
the flowers by dagoberto gilb
the corrections by jonathan franzen
already dead by denis johnson
resucitation of a hanged man by denis johnson
wonderboys by michael chabon
the amazing adventures of kavalier and klay by chabon
a model world by chabon
great big american baby by judy bunditz
i will say i was working at a gas station that gave 2 15 minute breaks and a thirty minute lunch and i every now and then rode the bus to work, so i had plenty of time on my hands. if you add that to what i read over christmas break, not including what i was supposed to have read for school, cause i never did. i've read something like 25 books this last year.
i love reading, always have. but now, it's connected to what i want to do and, as such, i don't do it with the same enjoyment i used to.
it's like after spending these couple of years tearing apart people's writing and cutting to the core of how we write, i've been robbed of being able to pick up a book and take joy in having finished it. i read with a skeptic's eyes, always looking for the magician's tricks, cause damn it i can see them and the show's not the same for me as it used to be. don't get me wrong, i still get the same kinda kick out of the good stuff, but even with it i'm hyper-critical. and i'm far from a perfect writer, so i know my shit'll get ripped to pieces by folk with this broadened perspective that afflicts me.
it's like, you know how guys are always boneheadedly going on about how awesome it would be to be a porn star? well, 13 year old guys... think of how much one's perspective would be thusly broadened by fucking for 10 hours a day with a crew of people standing over your shoulder telling you your stroke is off or that you need to shave your ass again cause it's getting its five o'clock shadow.
when i was in band, in high school, there was this guy, mr. ramirez, who would come down from san antonio a week before contest to critique us and give us pointers on our playing and marching and what have you. well, one day we were dicking around (this was a little before the time when 2 of our trombone players got arrested for drinking vodka at lunch [which was right before band], so i think this might explain things a bit) and sounding like shit and the guy snapped. he started shouting about how we were ungrateful shits and how if we knew how he heard, that he could no longer listen to popular music or even the music he listened to as a kid cause all he heard was mistakes. we laughed cause he called us little shits and cause we thought he was gay and cause we knew he was right and we were teenagers and we wanted to be good but what can you do but laugh? i get what he was saying. i'm not shouting it. i don't think i'm like totally fully ruined on all books. i can contextualize. i know what's literary and what's genre and how to enjoy each accordingly--just like i like a good flick but know what i'm in for with really bad horror movies but i watch cause i like camp. but still, i know what mr. ramirez was saying. i get it. oh, and can you believe how many books i read this summer?
Current Music: le strokes
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02:14 pm
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i'm going going back back to cali cali
aight bitches... what it do?
So, in the last 5 months, since i've last posted, a lot of shit has happened. first and foremost, to mainly negative reviews, i have made an effort to win back the word 'fuck-o.' i think it can replace 'chief,' 'chap,' and even 'tiger' in the realm of bullshit small talk condescension.
i've been published... i've submitted a few stories, and still have some pending review, and have received some nice rejecction letters. i really like the nice ones. especially since i've been working as a reader for a lit mag and i know that we have something like 3 different rejection letters. what i mean to say is that, while i'm on the 'b' team, i'm a starter.
i've been nominated for 'best new american voices,' which is a collection of stories by mfa students around the nation who are nominated by their respective programs (2 per program, if any).
the thesis manuscript is done. i need to edit it, but i want to have it in the hands of agents and publishers by august, meaning that i could be getting 'b' team rejection letters by year's end.
i taught a creative writing class to middle schoolers, all of whom had pieces published in a literary journal--for which i served as a section editor. woot!
i spent all semester working 4 jobs. the teaching one, two at the RRHEC (at the library and at the campus technology center), and clerking at a convenience store on weekends. that's right bitches, i was a fucking clerk. i got story ideas. not clerk stories, ironically i had already started working on a clerk story before i got the job, but people stories. man, you haven't lived, and had your soul killed a little, till you see a man looking at his young son with loathing in his eyes. anyway.
uly's been in san diego for a bit. work. what can you do? i'll tell you what you can do, finish your semester! i'm done with school and i'm off to cali.
hells yeah muvuckas.
i could write more, but why?
oh, i am right now sporting a handlebar moustache that i have dubbed 'the big tex.' it looks sexy.
Current Mood:  excited
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03:15 pm
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Son, when you've been married as long as i have...
hello world.
i'm back in SM in front of my own computer after having slept in my own bed and been molested by my own cat. the glorious chaos of the wedding and exhausting euphoria (spunds kinda dirty, but get your mind outta the gutter) of the honeymoon are behind me. let me say, it was heavenly. let me follow that with saying that the end, the last few days, were like hell. FOLLOW ME ON THIS BECAUSE I DONT MEAN IT WASNT AWESOMELY GREAT!!! i don't know where i read or heard that hell is like heaven but it reveals itself, maddeningly, in degrees. like, and here is a random-ass allusion, there was a milk commercial where an asshole suit-type guy dies and ends up in heaven because it's a nice kitchen filled with chocolate-chip cookies but he then comes to find out there's no milk. or that old twilight zone episode where the world ends and the dude can finally read and his glasses break "THERE WAS FINALLY TIME!"
it was all so great and fun and wonderful and i saw reality on the horizon and it sorta sucked. but oh well. now i get to have my wife in my real life and that's more exciting than any honeymoon. i am glad to say that i did a little bit of tagging in the holiday inn golden gate and our stay there will forever be solidified in sharpie-black grafitti.
while ulyana and i are kinda young 23 apiece (i just turned on sunday), we have been together for a good long time. that said, we went into the marriage without many mysteries existing between us. but in just three short weeks, i feel like i have learned so much about her, and her about me, that it's like we're getting to know each other all over again. and it's all small stuff, mysteries so intangible as to exist beneath our perception of what anomalies can exist as such. but still, it's refreshing. and that's what i look forward to at this point, at least most immediately: discovering my wife through the serendipitous happenstance that results from fully devoted coexistence.
there's so much more to say but not now.
i'm happy
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12:40 pm
[Link] | so ulyana and i got our marriage license yesterday. it was pretty cool.
she filled her half of the application out first, then i did mine. she tikd me to let her know when i was signing my half, finishing the application-- so she could hold my hand. kinda gay? i guess, but it was a big moment. so i fill my half out and let her know i'm about to sign it. she grabs my left hand with her right. then, when i touch the pen to the paper, she knocks the pen out of my hand with her left. it was pretty funny.
"that's really why i wanted to know when you were signing it," she told me.
it was pretty funny.
but that's not the story of the whole deal, nor is the fine late lunch we had after. the interesting thing was the couple in front of us. they were both in their 80s and about as happy and giddy as me and my lovely early-20s bride to be. i mean, really, if octogenarians can find love and be happy and skip into and out of the travis county clerk's office to get a marriage license, then it's never too late to find love.
Tags: damned- help!
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11:45 am
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this is a chaotic time, but only halfway
i'm getting married on saturday. to tell the truth, i have absolutely no stress coming my way from the wedding. i'm not nervous. i'm not anxious. that's the most right thing in my life.
finals are nigh. my sweet lord, i'm kinda drowning. but not in a bad way. i'm not behind, just up against a wall. i'll do well.
my heart was warmed, however. when a former teacher e-mailed me in response to a congratulatory e-mail i sent him for his having won a national writing award. he closed the e-mail with, "Keep writing those Texas tales. Don't let the bastards confuse you." damn if that didn't feel good. it's not like i've been getting turned down or away for my stories, i'm not big enough to have faced too too many bastards. but he is. and i'm glad he gave the advice. oh well, it's kinda silly to cling to. but it still felt good.
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06:08 pm
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jamming to the freedom
so i'm currently listening to the new radiohead album that i purchased for exactly zer0 pounds pence or quid. i believe that converts to roughly $0 American, but who knows-- i'm an english major. and let me say, i don't feel bad about entering 0.00 in the 'you decide what you pay' box at radiohead.com. i'm in search of a job and planning a wedding and even if i wasn't, i wouldnt have bought the expanded packaging.
i know i'm all the more hypocritical because my life is leading me to art. but if i publish 6 wildly successful books, the seventh will cost whatever anyone wants. so there. and when the disc comes out in jan, i'm all over it.
so go buy it online. and pay them if you can.
btw, i had a reading yesterday at school. i didn't want to read an old, polished story. so i wrote one in 2 and a half hours and by the time i read it, it was the bomb diggity. i'm suprising myself in good ways.
Current Mood:  curious
Current Music: radiohead- bodysnatchers
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05:18 pm
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acceptance feels damn good
i submitted a story to a literary journal and they're going to publish it-- pending my herbie hancock on some contract pages.
yipee. i'm happy.
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05:59 pm
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i still laugh myself to sleep with thoughts of these guys
big shoutout to ulyana for the heads up. that's why i'm marrying her. btw, it's a song called new year about new year. but that doesn't matter. funny is funny across all languages.
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07:54 pm
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BOOK JOY!!!
"You really wanna know what being an X-Man feels like? Just be a smart bookish boy of color in a contemporary U.S. ghetto, Mamma mia! Like having bat wings or a pair of tentacles coming out of your chest."
"The next day he woke feeling like he'd been unshakled from his fat, like he'd been washed clean of his misery, and for a long time he couldn't remember why he felt this way, and then he said her name."
i was in CC this weekend and i went to the bookstores with my sisters (Vicki wanted me to make some suggestions so i guided her to some toni morrison, ana menendez, and cormac mccarthy). i got a couple of books i need for class. being in a bookstore i felt in me a surge of self-hatred for not having already done what i should have done the second i could-- buying Denis Johnson and Junot Diaz's new books: Tree of Smoke and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. i reccomend them both highly, as i will always reccomend any book by either writer. Denis is a genius. that's really all there is to it. and i don't mind saying he is, or was once, a fan of my writing.
Diaz just inspires and awestrikes me. i'll say it like i told my sister-- ''i'm a fanboy. if i saw him walking down the street i'd throw my underwear at him." so yeah. i'm a third of a way through his book and i already found a couple of soul-touching quotes. i've shared them with you.
Current Music: mike ness
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08:24 pm
[Link] | i love you guys. i love you so much i'm gonna take you behind the middle school and get you pregnant.
Current Music: me and julio down by the schoolyard
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09:11 pm
[Link] | the mars volta rules. i mean, they are awesome-o and there's no denying it. i can't even verbalize how much ass they kick. and that's just their albums. you have to see them live, it's a religious experience. and i've never seen so many metalheads dance (and try to dance) [saw them open for system of a down a while back].
in other news, my coworker can't say the word 'organic.' if he were lass of a lazy asshole who gives me attitude (technically i'm his boss), it'd be cute. as it is, he's a lazy asshole and it's funny to see him struggle. in know this sounds bad and it probably shows some flaw in america's educational system or something and i'm a snobbish jerk for taking pleasure in his shortcomings, but he's really a lazy asshole.
FUCK!!! argentina just scored their sacond goal against mexico in the copa america semis. at least it was lionel messi- who i just love.
so a couple of days ago my direct boss and i were in the spice room, where we go help when there isn't any product on our line, and i heard her have an interesting conversation with lupita-- a lady who, like my boss, speaks pretty much only spanish.
now, there's this kid, he's 16 years old, who works in the spice room. he's one of 2 kids whose parents work at the plant and who has gotten a job for summer break from high school. anyway, this kid is white bread as can be. he's tall and lanky-- the soft-spoken type who wouldn't speak up even if all of his coworkers weren't monolingual spanish speakers. he's apparently just coming into his own personality/teenage rebellion-wise. he wears all black and all that shit. now, on monday he came into work after having dyed his bangs yello and purchased a pair of goofy horn-rimmed glasses that look more military-issue than Hot Topic. during lunch he told me that his dad said he looks like jeffrey dahmer (who must have been the only serial killer he could think of because the kid looks nothing at all like the dead hungry homo), his mom said he looks like waldo (as in "Where's..."), and his brother said he looks like the guy from mythbusters. he looks like waldo.
anyway, so my boss and lupita are talking in their sewing circle way in the spice room when the topic of the kid's makeover comes up. my boss says he's just going through an awkward phase like all kids do. lupita agrees, to a certain point. she thinks he's playing dress-up because he's kind of ugly-- he's 'feito.' then they just start tearing the kid apart. he's got no arms and his shoulders are too big on his chest. he's a nice enough boy and has a strong face. they come to agree that he will be quite a handsome man when he grows up, but right now he's kind of ugly.
i'm just standing there, listening, a bit awed because, as i pointed out to the ladies, the kid was standing 3 feet away. half an earshot from his evaluation!!! they laughed and said they were just talking and he couldn't understand them anyway.
it got me thinking of this convo i had with uly about a time she was in a department store in SD. she needed to use the restroom but the shop's patrons refused to let the public use their restroom. she didn't have to go that bad so she browsed. upon finding clothes she liked, she went to the dressing room where she heard two girls talking at just louder than inside-voice levels about how bad they had to pee. something about how they were gonna pop if they didn't piss soon. she then overheard them talk candidly about how clothes looked on each othere and who had the better body parts for certain clothes (... i.e. 'those shorts make your ass look fat,' mind you this is all total hearsay). now, why were these girls talking about pissing and ass and backfat and the such? because they were talking in russian and they didn't think anyone around them would understand them. little did they know, ulyanushka was having a grand ole time listening.
language is funny like that. i mean, you can say whatever about whatever as long as you do it in code. we're all so similar and so divided. but we can take comfort in that which presents itself as a universal facet of the collective unconscious we all wanna know if our asses look fat in certain pairs of shorts.
Current Mood: feel like writing
Current Music: the mars volta
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07:39 pm
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good article i read
"Even Richard Nixon knew it was time to resign"From Iraq to Scooter Libby, Bush and Cheney have broken America's trust and stabbed this nation in the back. It is time for them to go. By Keith Olbermann July 4, 2007 | Finally tonight, as promised, a Special Comment on what is, in everything but name, George Bush's pardon of Scooter Libby. "I didn't vote for him," an American once said, "But he's my president, and I hope he does a good job." That -- on this eve of the Fourth of July -- is the essence of this democracy, in 17 words. And that is what President Bush threw away yesterday in commuting the sentence of Lewis "Scooter" Libby. The man who said those 17 words -- improbably enough -- was the actor John Wayne. And Wayne, an ultra-conservative, said them when he learned of the hair's-breadth election of John F. Kennedy instead of his personal favorite, Richard Nixon, in 1960. "I didn't vote for him but he's my president, and I hope he does a good job." The sentiment was doubtlessly expressed earlier. But there is something especially appropriate about hearing it, now, in Wayne's voice: The crisp matter-of-fact acknowledgment that we have survived, even though for nearly two centuries now, our commander in chief has also served, simultaneously, as the head of one political party and often the scourge of all others. We as citizens must, at some point, ignore a president's partisanship. Not that we may prosper as a nation, not that we may achieve, not that we may lead the world, but merely that we may function. But just as essential to the 17 words of John Wayne is an implicit trust, a sacred trust: that the president for whom so many did not vote can in turn suspend his political self long enough, and for matters imperative enough, to conduct himself solely for the benefit of the entire republic. Our generation's willingness to state "We didn't vote for him, but he's our president, and we hope he does a good job" was tested in the crucible of history, and earlier than most. And in circumstances more tragic and threatening. And we did that with which history tasked us. We enveloped our president in 2001. And those who did not believe he should have been elected -- indeed those who did not believe he had been elected -- willingly lowered their voices and assented to the sacred oath of nonpartisanship. And George W. Bush took our assent, and reconfigured it, and honed it, and shaped it to a razor-sharp point and stabbed this nation in the back with it. Were there any remaining lingering doubt otherwise, or any remaining lingering hope, it ended yesterday when Mr. Bush commuted the prison sentence of one of his own staffers. Did so even before the appeals process was complete. Did so without as much as a courtesy consultation with the Department of Justice. Did so despite what James Madison -- at the Constitutional Convention -- said about impeaching any president who pardoned or sheltered those who had committed crimes "advised by" that president. Did so without the slightest concern that even the most detached of citizens must look at the chain of events and wonder: To what degree was Mr. Libby told, "Break the law however you wish -- the president will keep you out of prison"? In that moment, Mr. Bush, you broke that fundamental compact between yourself and the majority of this nation's citizens, the ones who did not cast votes for you. In that moment, Mr. Bush, you ceased to be the president of the United States. In that moment, Mr. Bush, you became merely the president of a rabid and irresponsible corner of the Republican Party. And this is too important a time, Sir, to have a commander in chief who puts party over nation. This has been, of course, the gathering legacy of this administration. Few of its decisions have escaped the stain of politics. The extraordinary Karl Rove has spoken of "a permanent Republican majority," as if such a thing -- or a permanent Democratic majority -- is not antithetical to that upon which rests our country, our history, our revolution, our freedoms. Yet our democracy has survived shrewder men than Karl Rove. And it has survived the frequent stain of politics upon the fabric of government. But this administration, with ever-increasing insistence and almost theocratic zealotry, has turned that stain into a massive oil spill. he protection of the environment is turned over to those of one political party who will financially benefit from the rape of the environment. The protections of the Constitution are turned over to those of one political party who believe those protections unnecessary and extravagant and quaint. The enforcement of the laws is turned over to those of one political party who will swear beforehand that they will not enforce those laws. The choice between war and peace is turned over to those of one political party who stand to gain vast wealth by ensuring that there is never peace, but only war. And now, when just one cooked book gets corrected by an honest auditor, when just one trampling of the inherent and inviolable fairness of government is rejected by an impartial judge, when just one wild-eyed partisan is stopped by the figure of blind justice, this president decides that he, and not the law, must prevail. I accuse you, Mr. Bush, of lying this country into war. I accuse you of fabricating in the minds of your own people a false implied link between Saddam Hussein and 9/11. I accuse you of firing the generals who told you that the plans for Iraq were disastrously insufficient. I accuse you of causing in Iraq the needless deaths of 3,586 of our brothers and sons, and sisters and daughters, and friends and neighbors. I accuse you of subverting the Constitution, not in some misguided but sincerely motivated struggle to combat terrorists, but to stifle dissent. I accuse you of fomenting fear among your own people, of creating the very terror you claim to have fought. I accuse you of exploiting that unreasoning fear, the natural fear of your own people who just want to live their lives in peace, as a political tool to slander your critics and libel your opponents. I accuse you of handing part of this republic over to a vice president who is without conscience and letting him run roughshod over it.
And I accuse you now, Mr. Bush, of giving, through that vice president, carte blanche to Mr. Libby to help defame Ambassador Joseph Wilson by any means necessary, to lie to grand juries and special counsel and before a court, in order to protect the mechanisms and particulars of that defamation with your guarantee that Libby would never see prison and, in so doing, as Ambassador Wilson himself phrased it here last night, of becoming an accessory to the obstruction of justice. When President Nixon ordered the firing of the Watergate special prosecutor Archibald Cox during the infamous "Saturday Night Massacre" on October 20th, 1973, Cox initially responded tersely, and ominously. "Whether ours shall be a government of laws and not of men is now for Congress and, ultimately, the American people." President Nixon did not understand how he had crystallized the issue of Watergate for the American people. It had been about the obscure meaning behind an attempt to break in to a rival party's headquarters, and the labyrinthine effort to cover up that break-in and the related crimes. And in one night, Nixon transformed it. Watergate -- instantaneously -- became a simpler issue: a president overruling the inexorable march of the law, insisting -- in a way that resonated viscerally with millions who had not previously understood -- that he was the law. Not the Constitution. Not the Congress. Not the courts. Just him. Just, Mr. Bush, as you did, yesterday. The twists and turns of Plamegate, of your precise and intricate lies that sent us into this bottomless pit of Iraq; your lies upon the lies to discredit Joe Wilson; your lies upon the lies upon the lies to throw the sand at the "referee" of prosecutor Fitzgerald's analogy, these are complex and often painful to follow and too much, perhaps, for the average citizen. But when other citizens render a verdict against your man, Mr. Bush, and then you spit in the faces of those jurors and that judge and the judges who were yet to hear the appeal, the average citizen understands that, Sir. It's the fixed ballgame and the rigged casino and the prearranged lottery all rolled into one, and it stinks. And they know it. Nixon's mistake, the last and most fatal of them, the firing of Archibald Cox, was enough to cost him the presidency. And in the end, even Richard Nixon could say he could not put this nation through an impeachment. It was far too late for it to matter then, but as the decades unfold, that single final gesture of nonpartisanship, of acknowledged responsibility not to self, not to party, not to "base," but to country, echoes loudly into history. Even Richard Nixon knew it was time to resign. Would that you could say that, Mr. Bush. And that you could say it for Mr. Cheney. You both crossed the Rubicon yesterday. Which one of you chose the route no longer matters. Which is the ventriloquist, and which the dummy, is irrelevant. But that you have twisted the machinery of government into nothing more than a tawdry machine of politics is the only fact that remains relevant. It is nearly July Fourth, Mr. Bush, the commemoration of the moment we Americans decided that rather than live under a king who made up the laws, or erased them, or ignored them -- or commuted the sentences of those rightly convicted under them -- we would force our independence and regain our sacred freedoms. We of this time -- and our leaders in Congress, of both parties -- must now live up to those standards which echo through our history. Pressure, negotiate, impeach: get you, Mr. Bush, and Mr. Cheney, two men who are now perilous to our democracy, away from its helm. And for you, Mr. Bush, and for Mr. Cheney, there is a lesser task. You need merely achieve a very low threshold indeed. Display just that iota of patriotism which Richard Nixon showed on August 9th, 1974. Resign. And give us someone -- anyone -- about whom all of us might yet be able to quote John Wayne, and say, "I didn't vote for him, but he's my president, and I hope he does a good job." Current Music: mr and mrs john soda
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07:26 pm
[Link] | so, life keeps moving on. folks graduate and get hired and get fired and get married and get dead and whatever. they grow up and find themselves and find other people and find five dollar bills in the pockets of pants they havent worn since high school. and that's life and that's good. i'm entering a new phase in life- the one with a big wedding in a big church that i'm standing in front of with my special lady friend and a man in a smock and white collar. yippee.
but as i charge forth in life, so do those around me. folks are full-on growing up. they are moving up and out. let me say that i am nothing but proud of all of my friends and near-family who are finding themselves in the world out there.
but i want to express my grandest wish that those in such situations put forth as much effort as is reasonably possible to arrange to be in corpus christi TX with me on december 1 2007. if it's not possible, so be it, but if it is, that'd be swanky. and who doesn't want a swanky wedding?
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05:00 pm
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made me smile
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