if there isn't something in that title for everyone, well damn then.
as it says, I get my new tat tomorrow. pictures to follow. it's going to be a compass with a world in side. because, you know, that whole traveling thing sorta appeals to me. just a little bit. sorry AP, no AP related design this time, but my AP heart will be right next to it
new posts, THREE (3) NEW POSTS ON THE WEBSITE.
they are all pretty funny, and i actually agree with people who said that, so that's gotta mean something. check'em out, read them, love me, comment on them.
Back from Vegas. Read some books, saw the strip, ate some food, gambled a bit, didn't win anything. got a tan. sat poolside. that is my experience. my advice, go with someone your own age. I yearn for a partner in crime, i am at my most effective then.
new posts on site, check'em out. they're funny. no really.
Hey guys, this is your fan Sam. You know that one kid who's been there since he could walk basically, before you guys won any cups or anything, when you still had green in your jerseys, Anyway, after listening to your game last night I realized something....SIT KEVIN WEEKES ON THE FUCKING BENCH. Scott Clemmensen? He wins games. Kevin Weekes does not. Trade him the fuck away even, he's not helping the team at all. Okay, just thought I needed to say that. thanks. keep playing well, I like when you guys win.
this is going in the faux newspaper that i help circulate around my school... it isnt my best work but whatever, the deeper meaning behind this is funny. this is my first shot at mocking news articles...
Drop the Tartan Skirt
Bangkok, Thailand (Disassociated Press) It has finally happened, the top male sexual fantasy has been replaced.
Chosen for its relation to the international sex trade, this year’s True Man Convention(TMC) was held in Bangkok. At the TMC it was decided that ‘Catholic School Girl’ is no longer the top male fantasy. Replacing it is the “Naughty Nurse,” replete with high heels, white stockings, short skirt, white not-quite buttoned up button-down and gratuitous stethoscope.
The decision was passed after just seven minutes of voting. This vote was a stunning upset, as “Catholic School Girl” has been reigning fantasy for sixty-eight years now.
The president of the convention, Sir Raul Marshall, had this to say, “It was about time, I feel. I have been pushing for the nurse to takeover since I had to have surgery back in ’99. Since then, I’ve known the true potential of a nurse fantasy.”
The official spokeswoman chosen for the change is adult film star Tera Patrick. Ms. Patrick has yet to be informed of this, though the Sir Marshall does not foresee any difficulties in Ms. Patrick accepting the nomination.
Now that the decision has been made, there will be a push in the adult film world this year for nurse-and-doctor-oriented films. “We’re expecting at least thirteen releases next month with the theme,” Marshall said.
At this point, the Devils are 2-0 and the Rangers are 4-0. This does not bode well for the Devs, especially with last year's record vs the Rangers, which I don't want to think about at all. ever again.
But the thing is, the Devils are 2-0 this season so far. Martin Brodeur, the best goalie of all time, is 11 victories away from topping Patrick Roy's record for winningest goalie of all time. 11 Wins to a guy who gets 40+ usually.
Holy Fucking Shit.
This could be our year again. think about it. When we won the cup, there was an average of 5yrs between wins.
So, this piece makes me laugh. It was something I started God knows when. It is a pride piece, about New Jersey. I am just copying and pasting it, so when it ends abruptly, that's all I got. Should I finish it off?
I am a Jersey Boy, and damn fucking proud of that fact. With the New York City skyline at some point creeping up on and visible from almost every major highway in my area, the allure to want to call myself a New Yorker is there, omnipresent and smog enshrouded. I pay about as much attention to it, though, as beachgoers pay attention to the hypodermics and other delicacies that wash up on the Jersey Shore everyday. That is, I don’t give a fuck.
Sure, the City, because that is what we call it (which creates problems in the south where the people, not knowing where I am from, cock their heads, attempt to pop an eyebrow up, and ask “What city?”) probably has more top quality restaurants than the entire state of New Jersey. On the other hand, the City probably has more shitty restaurants too—dives where rats are let in the back door, hobos fed through a side window just to stay away and unsuspecting tourists go to be conned and maybe robbed of their Canons and Veras. Oh honey, a real New York Deli, Scud’s Subs and More, oh can we? Please?
Armpit of America, you say? I love that line. New Jersey, the armpit of America. I especially love it when people from states like Delaware or New Hampshire say this to me. For the record, Delaware is only the first state because the government wanted to appease the eight people that lived there and get them to shuttup. New Hampshire? Well, I’ve never actually met anyone from there. I have a feeling it is like Narnia, you step through some closet in Vermont and end up in New Hampshire. Someone should tell Bigfoot to check that place out, he might have a fighting chance. He could bring another She-bigfoot, have little Bigfoot babies, start a home business, and take over the state within a matter of days.
We smell? No, we don’t. The turnpike smells. The turnpike, being Route 95 which runs through every other state on the eastern seaboard. Yeah, same road. We just happened to use the land for manufacturing. At least half the people I’ve talked to don’t realize that we in Jersey have mountains, and a shore, and forests, and every other sort of natural feature short of arroyos and buttes—its okay, the west can keep them, something else with a vaguely malodorous connotation wouldn’t help us anyway.
I realize this rant seems born out of anger. Parts of it are, sure, but as any Jersey boy, girl, man, woman can attest to, after multiple years of putting of with armpit jokes, Sopranos references, and questions along the lines of “so, what’s it like being a wannabe New Yorker?” or, even worse in south Jersey “What’s it like being a wannabe Philadelphian?” all of it just gets old. A smile and nod; clenched teeth and a small nod. Yes, of course. Armpit. So funny. No, never heard that one before. Oh, you’re good. On the other, non-aggressive hand, though, this is, in some way, a pride essay that hearkens back to fourth grade social studies—you, New Jersey and the World. Twenty-one counties, the state capital and lore about the Pine Barrens and the Jersey Devil all condensed into one seventy-or-so page workbook.
A friend--we'll call her Princess, as opposed to a) her real name, b) a nickname or c) remaining anonymous (I only say this now because the name will pop up here and there, princess is a friend of mine who I can talk writing with, not some stripper, or anything lascivious like that. See look, bonus points for reading and keeping up. Go you.)-- told me to write about air in my next post. She was tired of reading food, and anyway, she said, the tone was whiny. I thought she was a little crazy and a little stupid--air? really? just talk about air?--until I got to thinking about it. Air. Air air air. We breathe it, we cough it, we choke on it, we blow it, we suck it, we whistle it, we do so many things with air. All that crap, though, would make me sound like some pretentious little dick if I talked about it. I'm not trying to go cosmic here, I don't want to. If my ideas ever become to highfalutin, I am almost certain I'd run full force into a sharp object at heart-height.
There are two kinds of air I love. I absolutely would, if they were physical beings, have sex with them. The first is winter air. At home in Jersey (and anywhere it gets really cold. Really,this feeling is only intensified where the air is... fresher than in Jersey), when it gets colder, the air gets crisper. At dusk, right as the sun is going down and right before the temperature plummets there is that short time where you can still see your breath--thick and slow moving like cigar smoke--but you can still feel your face. Sucking the air in deep, all the way to the diaphragm it chills then stings your insides. What feels like an icicle from your throat to your stomach stays there until you exhale and watch the breath wisp away. I love that air. I love that crisp feeling. I love it even more in the morning when, right after you wake up, walking outside for the mail or the paper you can stretch, inhale, and become awakened( get awoken? become awake?) instantly. It is a jolt. And I like jolts.
The second kind of air isn't air I should love. This is a dirty, hot, heavy secret relationship fit only for back alleys and two-dollar whorehouses. I love city air. Let me be more clear, I love New York City air, and the air in the subways and on the PATH, the air that goes between Jersey and the City. I was immersed in that air every day for four years on the PATh twice a day to get to and from my high school. Hot and heavy and slightly saline--whether from the sweat of thousands of immigrant workers, or the dollar peanuts, or other viscous substances emitted by whoever--the first thing that comes to mind when I think about it now, six hundred miles away, are the toxic bright yellow lines on dead gray concrete. That, and steam. The air, even inside the PATH where they pump AC, is steamy and heavy. It sits on your shoulders like a conscience, reminding you that the City is what it is--dirty but full of everything, anything you can think of. But then what is that? A whiff of flowers or something. Perfume. Cologne. Whatever. Something new to the mix, strangling that scent that hangs in the air, another reminder that things are changing. Slowly. The perfume stays for a few moments then goes, but comes back when another tourist boards. Slightly omnipresent, like a ghost, in and out. I don't like the perfumed air. I love the stale, muggy air. It reminds me of day trips to the city--the American Museum of Natural History, the Intrepid, Radio City. It reminds me of high school--all those days dressed in khaki and dress shirts, watching as vagrants begged four feet away, hoping that they wouldn't come close enough that I'd have to interact. Then there is always that burst, that new cologne, a tourist in a cowboy hat or an I <3 New York shirt, forcing their way into a seat, oblivious of the old black grandmother, two grandkids in tow that couldn't make it fast enough from the platform.