Gods Monkey is an Independent

September 20, 2012

2 things I don’t do. 

I don’t do politics.
I vote, and I’ll talk to you about it with an open mind. The problem is there are too many fucknuts on the left and on the right and in the middle. Fucknuts everywhere.

I don’t do religion.
What I believe or don’t believe is personal. I won’t get in your face, don’t get in mine. I’ll talk to you about it with an open mind assuming you have an open mind. The problem is there are too many pious closed minded fucknuts out there. Fucknuts everywhere.

There might be more things I don’t do, but these are the two that come to mind.

Agree? Disagree? Thats ok with me.

 

Mixed Drinks and Pussy

September 3, 2012

A few years ago I set up a camera and filmed myself pouring my favorite drink. Today I just finished editing and uploading a video of one of my nephews  first JV high school football games. As I signed in to YouTube, I saw that the video of me mixing a drink had been viewed 527 times! I know some of you are thinking “What’s the big deal?” Well, for me, 527 of anything is a lot. So I was happy but also confused. It’s not like it’s a cat video, though I have one of those too, but damn, 527 views? Thanks. Drink up.

It was my first year of High School. I’d made the Junior Varsity Football team, the JV Basketball team, and the JV Baseball team. Back then not everyone who tried out made the team, unlike today. But that’s another story.

This story takes place on the baseball field. I remember it being cloudy, and kinda cool. I was one of two first-basemen and we were having batting practice. Batting practice consisted of one guy placing a ball into the pitching machine and the coach “coaching” each player as they took turns batting. The machine was on a tripod and had two big rubber wheels that would spin crazy fast. You put the ball in a shoot and the wheels would shoot it out at about 75 miles per hour. Ffffffoooop. Right across the plate. Every time. Coach Ace (not his real name) asked me to man the machine. Ffffffoooop. Smack! Hit! The players in the field would then field the balls that were hit. Easy. Ffffffoooop. Swing and a miss. Ffffffoooop.

The initial buzz of maning the machine quickly turned to boredom. One of the pitchers was next to me catching the balls the fielders were throwing back in. Ffffffoooop. The pitcher was talking to me as I was loading the next ball Ffffffoooop. Crack. Hit. Ffffffoooop. I turned for just a second to watch a great hit and automatically loaded the next ball…Ffffffoooop. I turned and stared in horror…. Coach Ace was standing at the plate giving the batter instructions. Time slowed down as I watched the 75 miles per hour fast ball hit the Coach right in the balls! I was horrified. You could have heard a pin drop on that field. When the coach was able to stand back up he Angrily yelled at me to get my ass to the locker room. I ran all the way.

Coach Ace was kind of a dick. Not a very nice guy. The Varsity guys who had him when they were JV’s hated him. As I sat scared of the unknown in that locker room, I heard the door burst open and the sound of cleats clacking on the floor. It was the Varsity catcher, he yelled out “Who pegged Ace?” I had to smile. It had been an accident, but no one believed me. I was a hero. Everyone wanted to congratulate me.

Coach Ace had calmed down by the time practice was over, and his scolding was rather tame. I’d like to think I rode the bench that year because of my accident, but I’ll never know.

Photo: pitchingmachines.us

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Oh Shit! That’s what I said right after I took a couple of big gulps from my drink. (Sailor Jerry rum and Diet Pepsi – unfinished) What do I mean by unfinished? We’ll get back to that. First let me set the scene…

Saturday evening I’m at my brothers house, actually in his pool house. It’s where we watch the Redskins games and drink and smoke cigars. The game’s over (we won) and my brother left to pick up our other brother from another mother. While he’s gone I have been reading some of the coolest posts by some very talented and witty bloggers.

I think it was LaLa‘s post that mentioned that madame weebles “has big boobs”. I’m a man, so I thought I should just click over and check out those puppies for myself. I wasn’t disappointed. From what I gathered, they’re real and they’re magnificent.

I kept reading, and drinking. I was so engrossed in the lengthy fascinating comments section that I reached for my cup and, still reading, proceeded to gulp down several swallows of straight rum! Shit! I had forgotten to add the DP.

It was a good night despite the fact that the point to this post got lost somewhere after the 3rd or 4th drink. Football? Drinks? Boobs? Hell, I don’t know, and I don’t care. As my NY friends love to say and I hate to hear, “It is what it is.”

 

Now sober and well rested, I think the only way to salvage this drinkin’, smokin’, big boobin’ TMI fest is to share, with anyone who cares, some of the blogs that have captured my attention.

madame weebles
clownonfire
LaLa
Domestic Diva MD
artlesspoems
bird
25tofly
notwithoutthebike
jillian levi
sweet mother

I’m flicking back and forth between “The Mentalist” and “The Big Bang Theory” . I’m out of cigars, so I’m smoking a Black and Mild. As I stare at the cursor flashing at me, daring me to write something original, I catch a whiff of the little cigar. It’s sweet, pipe tobacco actually. Immediately, I think of my friend Steve. We spent hours in his basement office sharing stories, talking of books and movies and women. Steve always smoked Black and Milds. Fylo, his cat would jump from Steve’s desk to mine looking for attention. It seems so long ago, those care free days hanging with Steve and Fylo. Fylo passed unexpectedly in 2008 and Steve met a great lady and moved to South Carolina. I haven’t seen him in years, though I think about him often. After Fylo passed I made this video slideshow for Steve.

If you’re still reading the Blog, I miss you bro.

Make sure your sound is on.

Remember this? I found it at the grocery store. I didn’t know they still made it.

Jiffy Pop

It got me thinking. When I was a kid we used to go camping just about every other weekend. MD, PA, WV, VA, mainly. Anyway, we used to stop on the way to a campground in PA at a little general store. There, we used to get these little fruit pies. I remember them being the tastiest little things I’ve ever had in my entire life. I know from experience that sometimes the reality doesn’t match up to the memory, but I sure wish I could find those pies. My parents tell me they think the company went out of business. Maybe I should investigate myself. Meanwhile,  I’ve got popcorn.

I’m a mac

August 20, 2012

I’ve been with Windows since Windows 3.0. I enjoyed Windows 95 and 98, suffered through Windows Me, and loved Windows Xp. I resisted Vista, but it won me over. I’ve had may PC’s over the years and the latest on came loaded with Windows 7. I do not like Windows 7. A few months ago I installed Windows 8 consumer evaluation copy. I absolutely hate it. It’s terrible. It seems to be completely designed for tablets. For a desktop, it is just horrible.

I’m a Graphic Designer and I’m comfortable with Windows. I’m also a big fan of Macs. I’ve owned 2 old iMacs, and when I went back to School to get my degree, the College had an awesome Mac lab stocked with smoking fast G5’s. I was in love.

Recently I had the good fortune to purchase a 6 month old Macbook Pro. It’s awesome! And fast! Everyday I’m learning more and loving it. That is until I decided to try the dictation app. This is the window that came up:

 

Why the hell would they need my contacts?!?

Anyway, I still love my Macbook pro.
Did I mention it has a back-lit keyboard?

…back into the blogging community.

“Are you still writing that bloggie thing?”

After more than three months of nothing, I’m writing again. I wish I could explain why I stopped writing. But the truth is I just don’t know. I woke up one day, in the last days of April, and couldn’t think of a damn thing to write. Absolutely nothing peaked my interest. I had lost my spark, my motivation, my desire. I had nothing more to say. If I could point to one thing and say “That’s it! That’s the reason I stopped writing.” I would, but I can’t.

“It’s just a blog…it’s not like it’s Rocket Surgery!”

Sure, it’s just a blog,  just random thoughts and pictures about nothing important. But it was my blog. My random thoughts and pictures. And I loved it, until I didn’t. Truth is I missed it a week after I stopped, but I didn’t know how to start up again. The more time that went by, the harder the prospect was for restarting. Like when you haven’t called a friend back…the longer you wait, the harder it seems to be to just do it.

“You’ve done this before.”

Yes I have. And I may do it again.

“You know, there’s a good chance no one even noticed you were gone.”

Mom noticed. But sure, I know what your saying.

To those who did notice, to the few who took time from their busy day to read my blog, I’m sorry. And Thank you.

Talking to Me

April 20, 2012

Me: It’s Friday, and just when I think my shitty week is over, the  rain is coming. It’s supposed to rain all weekend. No riding. No beach.

Myself: Sigh.
Me: Well, I could go out.
Myself:Yes!
Me: Maybe tomorrow.
Myself: Boo!
Me: Maybe I’ll paint. Maybe play guitar… write a song.
Myself: Yawn.
Me: Of course, I have to do laundry.
Myself: Laundry? Really? Nobody gives a shit about your laundry!
Me: Perhaps I’ll watch some of the bazillon shows on my DVR.
Myself: Boring!
Me: Maybe I’ll just catch up on some much needed sleep.
Myself: Can’t argue with that…
Me: Cool?
Myself: Cool.

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17

April 16, 2012

I had an excellent childhood, two loving parents, and I was a good kid. I didn’t smoke, drink, or do drugs. Not yet. I would eventually dabble in all three, but that’s another story for another time. I was 17 and invincible.  I was a football player, and at that age, I couldn’t fathom how fragile the human body really is. I couldn’t possibly understand that we are only here for a cosmic blink of an eye.

There were two passengers with me. Both friends of mine. Both a year younger. We’d been out playing miniature golf at Putt Putt. We were running late getting home, and I didn’t want to be late. I didn’t want to disappoint, to…take advantage of the trust I had with my parents. None of us were wearing seat belts.

It was summer and I remember the heat. It was so damn hot, oppressively hot and muggy. I remember making a right down Glasgow Drive. I’ve no idea how fast I was driving. I remembered too late the curve at the end of the street, and I was driving too fast to make it safely. I remember trying to brake, turning the wheel, willing the car to stop. I remember twisting my body, gripping the steering wheel with both hands at the “12 O’ Clock” position and I remember thinking “this is gonna hurt”.

I remember a loud boom as the car hit the tree, then nothing…then…I heard static…the radio. Someone pulled me from the wreckage. To this day, I’ve no idea who. I propped myself up on my elbows and looked around. One of my friends was lying on the ground beside me. I grabbed his hand, squeezed and tried to tell him everything would be ok.  His eyes were wide open. he didn’t respond. He was in shock.

I could hear the sirens getting closer. I couldn’t seem make my eyes focus and my nose was running. I reached up to wipe it and my hand came away bloody. My nose felt like mashed potatoes. I thought it was weird that it didn’t hurt. Now I knew why my vision was blurry. I’m pretty sure the cops arrived first. Officer Brown questioned me. I told him I was the driver, we were on our way home. No we hadn’t been drinking. No we don’t do drugs. I gave him my licence. I told him to keep it, that I wouldn’t be needing it again. I felt sure my parents would never let me drive again. He laughed and told me to hang onto it anyway.

I knew my leg was broken. It was numb, I couldn’t move it, and it was doing a very unnatural “U” turn. Weird that it didn’t hurt. Yet.

By this time the paramedics had arrived and had begun working on me. I tried to cooperate but I wanted to know where my other friend was. I kept asking about him and i was meet by blank stares. “We’re working on you. We don’t know about him.” I told them his dad was a Captain on the police force, but I couldn’t get any answers from them. My heart sank. I felt sick, like I was going to throw up. “He’s dead”, I thought. “I killed him”.

As they put me in the ambulance, I remember feeling very cold, and thinking how amazing these people were who were working on me. They were sweating, I could see it. All the way to the hospital all I could think about was the friend I had killed. That and how it was weird that I didn’t feel any pain.

This is a true story. I publish it now because I have a niece who is turning 16 and is learning to drive. I don’t hold much hope that it will make much difference. I doubt hearing this story would have made any difference to my 17 year old self. But if just one person passes this story and pictures on to their kid and it makes them slow down…

The pain finally came, and stayed for months. My other friend lived. They had to cut him out of the car. He was lodged between the passenger seat and the passenger door. He had been ridding in the back seat. I cannot begin to describe to you how it feels to think you killed someone. I hope no one ever has to feel that.

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