Log in

Friends Only

My journal will be friends only for the most part. Comment to be added.

A comment on the whole plane tragedy

The infamous flight barely flew over my parent's house.

It crashed less than a quarter of a mile away from it.

The plane landed on the house of a girl I went to high school with.

My family heard the engine trouble, the crash, and the explosions.

They saw the flames; they saw the smoke.

A girl I used to work with was on that plane and died. And all of this is real.

I was admittedly detached from all that was happening while flipping between channel 2 and channel 4 from midnight to 1am, but then I went to bed. Smoke was still billowing out from behind some houses and I could see it from my window. I guess it was then that I realized that my my own family could have perished if trouble struck the plane only seconds before. Or that a wider angle could have slashed a scar through my happy neighborhood. You know, in macabre daydreams where I think about how I'd handle impossible situations...I will admit to thinking about what I would do, or be forced to do, in the occasion of being the sole survivor in a freak accident. It is sad how I had underestimated my emotional response. I am perfectly fine; my family is fine; my house and friends are fine...but there's an uncomfortable ripple from this.

Elly Kausner was too popular to be friends with me in high school, but she treated me nicely when we were both hired at Fredi's restaurant. There was even a time when we went downtown with her sister Laura to bars on Chippewa...she kindly afforded me the luxury of free drinks and attention from men before I was even old enough to legally step into those places. I felt like I had a backstage pass to a movie star's life. She was hilarious and we often played poker while the restaurant owner was gone and patronage was slow.

I saw her for the last time at Bath and Body Works, where I wrapped up a gift set and cashed her out. We made small talk and then she was gone.

Her parents live nearby me and I pass her house often. Lights were on and cars were home the night after the crash. I felt bad.

I still feel bad. I regret missing her wake even though I probably would have been out of place and awkward, being just an acquaintance. The whole thing doesn't seem real, like it happened next to our familiar fire hall; but it did. I'm afraid to walk down and face it. My mom freaked out since the flight number is the last four digits of our home phone with only two switched around. My father took a sick day from work.

How will this ever be a normal part of Clarence history?
Sent out my U of Toronto application today. I doubt I'll get in, but hey; I tried. At least I've got the inertia going to take on my other applications now.

Also this, which made me just about die from cuteness.

Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.

It reminded me of the comics and creative writing assignments I did in high school french class. I should find those and post them.

Barack Obama

"This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that's on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She's a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing - Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn't vote for two reasons - because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.

And tonight, I think about all that she's seen throughout her century in America - the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can't, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.

At a time when women's voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.

When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs and a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.

When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.

She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that "We Shall Overcome." Yes we can.

A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.

America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves - if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?

This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time - to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth - that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people:

Yes We Can. Thank you, God bless you, and may God Bless the United States of America."

I got a tattoo.

So I have been debating this for awhile; I wanted to get a tattoo that really meant something to me. Usually I hate when people have them in conspicuous areas, but I figured that I wanted to see it often so I could enjoy it.

The tattoo artist gave me a weird look when I described it to him, but I think he was just dumbfounded that I didn't want a tramp stamp above my butt crack. It came out really well, and the colors look great. It doesn't even itch or look puffy! Technology these days.

Here's a picture I took of it last night!!

New Tattoo!Collapse )

Comment and let me know what you think!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


It was late one fall night at a fairground near town, when Esther first saw the Armenian man. He groveled toward her and stood by her side with a bucket that swung in his hand. His grin stretched the folds of his pasty white cheeks and his lips hurled a dollop of murk on the curb, and the lights from the rides showed a mischievous sparkle that flashed in his hollow eyed stare.

He said, "Little girl, you can chop off my legs and then peel off my socks if you want to; but I'd rather you took this old puppet from me that I hold in my pail as we speak."

And he stood looking down at the innocent girl, and she stared at the bucket, bewildered. He lifted the doll for the young girl to see, and a giant smile grew on her face. She saw the doll's eyes and she couldn't resist! And she thanked the man quickly and ran to the church. She burst through the door with puppet held high and a hush filled the chapel; and the people looked mean.

Esther tried in vain to pacify the mob. Quibble grew to spat, to wrangle, then to brawl. The frenzied congregation struggled desperately to fetch the pretty puppet snugly nestled deep in Esther's leather sack. Through the window of the church a storm began to rage, and Esther knew the time had come to flee.

She scurried down the aisle toward the doorway in the distance, and out into the rainstorm where she felt she would be free. But the wind was blowing harder and her skirt began to billow, until finally her feet began to lift! She rose above the houses and the people and the chimneys. Esther and the doll were set adrift. Floating higher over the hills and the valleys and treetops. They'd flutter and glide; soaring and turning suspended on air. With the earth far below them they'd tumble and dive through the clouds.

And she began to plummet earthward till she landed in the nasty part of town. She glanced about the village, sure to find the evil men who rob and pillage in the darkest hour of night. Nervously she fumbled for the pouch that held the puppet on her rump.

Feeling quite outnumbered, Esther hid behind a nearby pile of lumber, where she waited till the dawn. It would have been a blunder to succumb to a hoodlum on the prowl.

When the morning came, she wandered through the streets along the chilly lake that lay beside the town. At last a peaceful moment, but she thought she heard a sound. It was an angry mob of joggers coming up to knock her down!

As Esther stood and shook her head the joggers were approaching. She knew she had no choice left but to swim. As the frosty water sank it's bitter teeth into her hide, she tried to slide the heavy clothing from her skin. Naked now, she made her way toward the shore, when suddenly she felt a tiny tugging at her toe. The puppet she'd forgotten wrapped it's tiny little arms around her ankle and wouldn't let her go.

The waves seemed to open and swallow her whole as the doll pulled her down through the eerie green deep. The sound of the laughing old man filled her ears as she drifted away to a tranquil
and motionless sleep.

Mayonnaise and Beer

Cross-posted from fmbv.nu

When things in your life seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar...and the beer.

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls.

He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was. So the professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was. The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with an unanimous "yes." The professor then produced two cans of beer from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things--your family, your children, your health, your friends, your favorite passions--things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, your car. The sand is everything else--the small stuff. If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house, and fix the disposal. "Take care of the golf balls first, the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the beer represented.

The professor smiled. "I’m glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of beers."

Pictures For Sad Children (dot com)

A moment of mournful nostalgia

Somehow I've managed to unearth all these snippets of conversations I had with Mike over the years. Bits and pieces of IM conversations deemed necessary to save on my computer, etc. Reading over them reveals only evidence of a great relationship - all the funny, good times...the content I choose to remember. I've got video clips and pictures from 2006, a piece of the printer we hurled off the roof of Mason Hall, a folder of some of his columns from the Leader and Finale printouts of music he wrote me. When all these things are lumped together, I can't help but feel an odd, unknown feeling mixed with regret for how things turned out. Three years of perforated struggle that just got abruptly...abandoned. With good reason...but, still.

I've been too busy being ridiculously happy with Jeremy that I guess I never mourned the (final, actual) end of my strange closeted affiliation with Magoo. Well, this entry is it.

And if it gets too late, for me to wait
For you to find you love me, and tell me so
It's ok
Don't need to say it