A Link to the Past

Alright all you skeptics, you want proof of God’s existence? I have it! Simply take a look around you at the breathtaking majesty that is Autumn in New England. The slow coloring of the leaves in fall is merely one of countless natural processes, from the water cycle to sexual reproduction, cell division to photosynthesis. But for such a routine process, one of four stages in the never-ending wheel of death and re-birth, to be so awe-inspiring that artists, poets, musicians, photographers, and all manner of creators, have used it as their muse to produce some of the most beautiful work in the history of mankind, there must be a deeper power behind it. For this simple process of the leaves losing their photosynthetic pigment while the life energy of the tree retreats to the center of the trunk and depths of the roots to bombard us with one thousand thoughts, feelings, impulses, and notions, there must be some higher being orchestrating this grand show. For the basic continuation of this ancient cycle to blast forward with a fire of vibrance not seen even in the heavens above, one must admit that there is some superior force in this reality. If one only acknowledges the divinity of Mother Nature, one cannot see the spectacle before us and accept it as just another piece in this chaotic existence.

At least, those were my thoughts when I first began the draft for this post around a month ago. Since then the trees have undergone the inevitable change as fall progressed, turning next into shades of yellow, rust, and brown, as if Mother Nature were clothing herself in drab yet nauseating retro 70's carpet samples. Under the always present grey sky, with lethargic leaden clouds, I drove Andrew back to Maine and returned home, wishing I didn’t have to view the deplorable scenery. Since then, with the aid of the winds and the rain, the trees have become mostly bare. Thin, withered-looking grey limbs extended imploringly toward the impassive heavens, mourning the loss of the sun as skeletal hands, frozen, but conveying an incongruous fevered intensity with their mute pleas. What leave cover remains is scant. Reds and browns, dirt, blood, and bruises, with the tattered remnants of clothing, the once glorious velvet finery of the evergreens. They stand unflinching in the face of change. One detects a superior mentality emanating from these conifers, but beneath that a bitter restrained sadness. I pray for the snows to come swiftly and in force, to cover this depressing display; to mask the death around us and blanket our world with its pure, reassuring weight.

I apologize firstly if my post seems disjointed. I am composing it mainly in two distinct times. There may be lapses in sentiment or changes in style, but at least it’s here, right? Bringing me to my second apology. I have never gone so long without posting. I am sorry to you readers that I have not been more diligent with my writing. I offer no excuse, but I will say that it seems as though the threads of my life, which I have been consistently twisting to avoid confrontation, ducking in and around to slip away from responsibility, have finally caught up with me and have me pretty well tightly knotted inside and out. But I’m not sad, really. (I’m tired, that’s for sure.) I’m not relieved yet, either. But what I feel now is an assurance that I will soon be feeling relief. Sorry to be bumming you guys with my rambling, but I’ll discuss most of this later. What I will say now is that my life is slowly being reigned into control, by myself and by outside forces. I have been bottling up many feelings, some important ones in particular, but have begun letting them out. My life was disorganized, but I am slowly bringing back order. Unfortunately, my life doesn’t change quietly or quickly. It’ll take a while, but I’ll get things together. Repressed emotions are a bad thing, usually. But depening on the person, if they are repressed enough they’ll eventually get to a point that will snap that person into awareness and said person will hopefully act upon them. I think I’ll be okay.

But about blogs:

As a frequent blog reader m’self, I know what a thrill it is to see one’s own name in print. Words can scarcely describe the joy one has upon realizing that they were crucial enough in another’s life to get a nod in that person’s online journal. So, in an effort to keep my readers happy, and save them valuable skimming time, I will now present my friends’ names in Technicolor. Thus, as you scroll at near light speed through my epic posts in a vain attempt to see if you were mentioned, you will find with delight that your name stands out like a rose in the snow. It should, I imagine, make finding your name a far speedier and more efficient process. Let’s see if it works . . . Tony. Bamm! There it is. Caitlin! Woo . . . a nice shade of blue there. How about Steve! Oh yeah! Amy? Purple? Alrighty. If you’re my friend, your name is automatically in bright, vibrant color. This should make name-dropping more fun as well. Did I mention I’m friends with Sir Elton John? Huh? I said Sir Elton John! Be in color, damn you! Aww . . . you got me. I’m not really friends with him. So there you have it. A handy new feature. Moving on.

Oh, wait. If any one of you have a favorite color you want to see yourselves as, comment and let me know.

And now, for your regularly scheduled Update!

Damn, where to start? I haven’t updated in a right long time. Let’s begin by talking about work.

People who know me know that I am forcefully lazy. Some say that, in most arenas, I am like the three-toed sloth in that I literally let moss grow on me. Others say that, I "procrastinate like a mutha-fucker." I believe this stems from some deep-rooted psychological issue that prevents me from working for myself due to a sense of unworthiness. Or my masochistic tendencies are more dangerous than I thought. Or, perhaps, I despise change and attempt, when in a comfortable mode of living, to resist any departure or loss of that mode. Nevertheless, whatever it is will most likely plague me for years lest I seek proper treatment. . . . But let’s not talk about that! I’ll just repress some more memories and all should be well.
There is one area, at least, in which I am not lazy. That is in the manual labor field. When it comes to liftin’ assorted heavy objects and moving them from place to place, I stand alone in my ability to not only get the job done, but to do it in an expeditous, and, at times, thoughtful manner. I believe I take to this field so readily because I have workers’ blood a’ flowin’ through my veins. You see, my uncle is a lumberjack, my father used to work in construction, and they both roofed at one point. My great uncle was a sheet metal worker. I am not familiar with the Sugrue genealogy, but I would hazzard the guess that we’ve always been stolid workers throughout history, back to the days when we were building castles and Celtic monuments in Ireland.
Well, suffice to say that I perform the best (not counting when cracking jokes or in bed . . . or cracking jokes in bed . . .) when working., and, as such, my job is not dis-pleasurable. I had been working at a construction site in Hadley, laying massive iron pipes (seriously, they’re, like, six- maybe seven-hundred pounds) and electrical-housing PVC’s in the ground. Also, I am doing slight electrical work. It is more tedious than roofing, the construction work I’m doing, but the hours are better and it is a beneficial experience. I had always heard that, as a class, construction workers were mind-blowingly lazy, and, after working with them for a few weeks, I can report that that stereotype is absolutely true. They were lazy, and I didn’t get paid enough. So I stole from the job site a box containing four Styrofoam heads. I have yet to think of a practical use for them, save resting my hats upon. But you, loyal readers, can help me with that. Send in the wackiest ideas you can think of for these heads. The winner gets his or her idiocy narrated by the great Bob Sagat, and . . . uh . . . some sugar cubes? Plus a kiss from me and the added bonus that he or she can help me with their pet project involving said head.
After construction petered out, I began working on a few flat roofs. This is possibly the most difficult work I have done yet in my life. I wake up every morning at 5:00, to be to work for quarter of 6, when it’s still dark and quite cold. Say 17 or 18 degrees. The materials are heavier than those for shingle roofing, and the rips are much harder. On top of that, the chemicals are hazardous. Fiberglass insulation swirls around the air as sand in a desert storm. Get it on your hands and arms and it itches. Get it on your face and it’ll burn all day. Get it in your eyes . . . . yep. It looked like I had walked through a coal mine and then applied eye make-up after my first day of work. But at least you can walk around. The first flat roof I surmounted was that of my old place of learning, Mosier School. While there I stole a big grindy-wheel pencil sharpener. Hahaha! Payback for all those in-house suspensions! El Kabong strikes again! (I was a troubled child . . .) I’m becoming a regular criminal with all this stealing and public indecency. . . . . . . I mean stealing.
The next flat roof was my own, the addition to the garage. That went well.
Finally, I re-painted a flat roof in the Falls of SoHa. It was a thought-provoking experience. Sweating away, in my jeans and flannel, wielding a paint brush, the autumn leaves falling around me, the radio blasting Clapton and AC/DC, I felt like a token piece of Norman Rockwell-esque Americana.
Then it was off to Springfield to the Hampden Dodge car dealership. That was four days of the most intense work I’ve ever done in my life. I am currently working on a church across from the Academy of Music in Northampton, which, so far, is a damn nice job. With the possible exception of dropping a 200 lbs roll of rubber on my head. That’ll knock you for a loop.
All this flat roofing time has made me realize something: Flat roofs kick a substantial amount of ass. Not as something to go into a career putting on and taking off, but for one’s home. I am captivated by them. Something modern, and yet antiquated about flat roofs . . . . Something about how the coolest old buildings in any city have flat roofs. I love the idea of being able to walk around with ease that high above everything. (This no doubt stemming from years of being so short. Seriously, I’m like 3'6".) I also like the added practical area the provide. One can have parties on a flat roof, or a garden. They make great sanctuaries from the hectic rush of life.
Eventually I’ll include a post on my dream house. Look for it comin’ your way.

It’s time for another edition of Rich’s At Home Learn To Talk Cool course.

I would like to announce that two sayings that I have been tossing around for quite some time are now being retired and sent out into circulation. If anyone wants to use them, go right ahead. They are, in case of exasperation, "Jeezum Crow." And, if excited or victorious, "Boo Yeah." I have three new ones that I will gradually be working into my repertoire, so be on the look-out for new Rich sayings. Aside from these three sayings of my own discovery, I will also try to say "That’ll fly" (meaning "that’s good enough" or that’ll work") which I got from my roofing foreman. Then there’s the ol’ timey "Keep it shady," for any occasion meriting the use of "keep it on the down low." Finally, the Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead line, "Give it a name," meaning "Tell the truth, explain it, etc."

So, there you have it . . . .

The ground-breaking ceremony has commenced at the building site of the addition to my garage. Why add on to the garage? you ask. Well, the garage houses my state-of-the-awesome body building gym extreme center. Why build on to the gym? you ask. Stop asking questions, damn you! I recently acquired several custom-built weight machines and need a place to put them. So my gym extreme center will soon double in size. Soon after that my musculars will also double in size. Look-out, evil-doers! I plan to get crime-fightin’ big.

Some Wednesdays back, I had the great pleasure of taking my father to the doctor’s office. Why was it so enjoyable? I’ll tell you why. My father needed to get an MRI. (Magnetic Resonance Imaging). The procedure involves being stuffed into a small tube to be scanned. My father is probably the second toughest person I have ever heard of, and not afraid of anything. Save close spaces. He is a terrified claustrophobic. Thus, he cannot get an MRI, cannot, if he is in his right mind. So what is his solution? Two Valium, a shot of cortezone, a sleeping pill, two nips of vodka, and two shots of Yaegarmiester. Boo yeah! He’s like freakin’ college student. If I were to describe his state upon exiting the MRI tube as "out-of-it" it would be a grievous understatement. He blinked dazedly as I helped him through the hospital halls, stumbling into posts and walls, hitting slurredly on any sexy nurse he saw. When I got him to the car he began to talk. "You know what you’re problem is?" "What, Dad?" "You’re like a nomadic . . . like a nomad. There’s a bunch of guys out in the friggin’ desert with a caravan fulla goats and tents. ‘Get to the sand dune.’ ‘Which sand dune?’ The crazy bastard’s lost. I’m sleepy." Oh, good times indeed.

I got a tape recorder. I’m cool now. I acquired it from my tag-saling fiend of an aunt. It’s compact and has unimaginable memory. I shall now leave memo’s to myself and record conversations with EJ or the rantings of Sam. It’s like another super power! I don’t know how many opportunities I will have to use this new device, but I am as excited as a celebrity in a place where they have ample amounts of his or her favorite vice. (Give me a break, I have a pounding headache at the moment and as such am not feeling particularly clever.)

Drugs: I was offered pot again several times. Turned it down every time. Straight edge, style, beyotch. I don’t know what the future holds for myself and drugs, but so far I’m pretty certain they’re not for me at this point in time. (Though a cute coworker (19 year old John) is the one who offers, I remain steadfast in my teetotaling.) I don’t think pot will ever be for me, though I have realized there is a wide range of fragrances to the smoke, some of which are actually quite enjoyable. But my thought on the matter is this: If I accept once, I won’t even get high. (According to Steve, Alex, and testimonial from Amy) no one gets high their first time. Due to low levels of THC in one’s blood, the drug has little to no effect. So if I ever even contemplate it, I’ll have to keep in mind that in order to get the proper effect I’ll have to smoke again a few days later. On top of this, anyone who wants the effect every time they smoke would have to smoke every few days non-stop. That’s enough reason to abstain for me. (I’m surprised pot smokers could but so much effort into something.) I figure they should turn that into a drug free ad.

Congratulations to the new As Schools match Wits Team on its successful entry into the play-offs, something not seen since the heyday of Matt O’Reilly and myself . . . . The new team, comprised of Grant Newman (oddly enough Newman is the only returning player), Matt Lonzak, Jason Frank, and Mike Martin. Well, it seems Mr. Matte is scraping the bottle of the barrel this year for members, huh? No, just fooling, fellows. This year’s team show much potential and we will watch their future career with considerable interest.

In a related story, John Baran is still every inch the pompous, inept ass he always was, only now sans goatee. Good call, John. The lack of beard perfectly highlights your double chin, you insincere waste of molecules.

What’s that you ask? Talk about yet another pretentious jerk? Here we go. Senator and former presidential hopeful John Kerry has always struck me as a politically-minded and infuriatingly deceitful bastard, did something several weeks before the campaign ended which almost made me switch my vote to bush. Kerry, a few days before this incident, had made a stirring and completely un-heartfelt speech regarding the merits of stem cell research. A few days after that, Christopher Reeve died and Kerry made yet another speech in which he praised Christopher Reeve for being such a brave American. He went on to say that, after his speech on stem cell research he had received a call from Reeve in which the actor thanked Senator Kerry for what he was doing and pledged his support to both Kerry and his campaign. All well and good, it seemed. However, it soon became known that the day on which Reeve supposedly made the call, he had been in a coma. So Kerry used the memory of a decent person to further himself politically. Way to go, you grinning douche bag.

This brings me to another point. I realize it is slightly late, but I would like to pay tribute to a special kind of hero.

Christopher Reeve, while by no means a tremendous actor, did, in his early life, convey through his portrayal of Superman, the quintessence of American ideals, and instilled in multitudes a sense of the importance of honor and compassion in a dangerous and unfriendly world. He raised our spirits up with him as he flew, and made us feel secure and protected, while at the same time filling us with a sense of duty and purpose.
In later life he crusaded for furthering stem cell research for the benefit of people like himself, quadriplegics, and others with a wide range of disorders.

I salute you, Mr. Reeve, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you did. You will not be forgotten.

Superman never made any money
For saving the world from Solomon Grundy,
And sometimes I despair
The world will never see another man . . . like him.

Boy, it seems like all the good celebrities are dying off. Johnny Cash and Warren Zevon die as their careers are going strong, yet the majority Motley Crew is mysteriously still functioning. Christopher Reeve, Jim Varney, John Ritter, and Rodney Dangerfield all gone, no longer to delight us with their exploits, but Jay Leno, George Lucas, Ben Affleck, and Liza Menelli are all still here, and look as if they’ll be around to scare and torment audiences for years to come.

Why, God? Why?

In a related story, http://oceania.org/ Floating cities rock hard core.

Many Sundays ago I skipped Church and breakfasted with Amy. Now, I realize what you devout Catholics are saying. "You put your soul in danger of hell to have breakfast with some girl?" Yes. Yes I did. But that’s okay. Amy’s the kinda girl you don’t terribly mind putting your soul in danger of hell to be around. Plus, the omelettes at J’s in SoHa are pretty darn good. To say nothing of the hash. Amy was content with Belgian waffles, but they didn’t have those, so she settled for pancakes. After a delightful breakfast, in which we discussed India, urinary track infections, and sexuality, we took a walk around the Upper Lake at MHC. This was back when the foliage was still pleasant to look at. With the golden leaves swirling about our feet, we spoke at length on many topics, in some instances even being serious. I usually refrain from showing my serious side to people, especially members of the opposite sex, lest they burst into tears or I make an ass out of myself. (Well, more of an ass than normal). Speaking of asses and returning to my tale, Amy spent a good deal of the walk time bending over the railing of a small bridge, watching sticks float underneath it on the gently flowing water. I was busy watching something else . . . . All in all, a wonderful experience.

Several Fridays past I was delighted to learn that many of my closest friends had returned form collegiate exile. Andrew LeTellier had made it back from Maine, unscathed by any remnants of the Umbrella Corporation’s forces. We made plans post-haste, and concocted a clever scheme to go tag saling on Columbus Day with our mutual bosom buddy (get it?), Amy.

That day Andrew and I, along with Tony and Sam, went to the Thirsty Mind, and then, in a failed attempt at dividing and conquering, split our forces. Tones and Sammy stayed at the Mind whilst Jackson and I ventured in to feminilicious halls of North Mandelle, the headquarters of Princess Diana of Themyscira, or, as she is currently known, Amy McMenamin. (To all of my readers who aren’t Tony, Princess Diana of Themyscira is the real name of DC super-heroine Wonder Woman, whom Amy resembles in more than just prettiness of face, sexiness of body, and nobleness of soul). Andrew and I hung around Amy’s dorm, annoying her friends and drawing curious onlookers. We eventually made our way back to The Thirsty Mind and met up with Tony, who dealt both Andrew and myself stunning blows to the forehead with his fiery fists of doom on account of we wasted his night. We also encountered Evelyn Powell (whom I had the presence of mind to hide from Andrew as a surprise, and Ashley Lapointe. Andrew brought Tony home and returned promptly. A large number of us, Evelyn, Ashley, Sammers, Amy, Andrew, Amy’s hot bisexual chain-smoking friend Penny, and myself, then went back to Amy’s dorm. Andrew, Amy and I played tag (What, Andrew "Steady as a Rock" LeTellier slipped and made an ass of himself? Surely not! Not Andrew!) And we all sat in rapt attention, thrilled by the sounds of sexual ecstasy emanating from N. Delle. What a night, huh?

Saturday I went to Best Buy with my perenial amigo Steve to Best Buy, bought some junk, went to Tony’s for pool and sexual jokes, then went to The Thirsty Mind yet again for a mini-reunion of HCHS past and present. I sat distant, making occasional pithy comments, sipping my mocha drink, and flirting ineffectively with Mike Pytka. It was damn good to see those friendly faces again.

The Sunday preceding Columbus Day, I showed up with a small contingent of fellow lunatics, Sam and Caitlin among them (In fact, Sam and Caitlin were the only ones that everyone else could see . . . Jamal and Hubert Cumberdale were there cheering as well, but the rest of the world is blinded, perhaps luckily, as Jamal’s teeth have gotten even bigger, to their presence) to honor everyone’s friend, Anthony Celi upon his being awarded the rank of Eagle Scout, the most accomplished level in the Boy Scouts. To achieve this most prestigious honor one must be brave, strong, and true. One must be valorous and noble and pure of heart. One must caring, diligent, and selfless. I can think of no one who deserves this more than Tony. Congratulations to a well-earned and well-deserved award.

Also in attendance at Tony’s ceremony was vigilant protector of Catholic Spirit, Mr. Goddu. That fact that he was there, showing support for a student he had know but two years and who had already graduated shows the level of commitment this under-appreciated hero has to his "kids" as well as the kind of person he is. He may very well never know how much he means to how many people, and, while I don’t profess to know the exact figures myself, I am confident they are astronomical. (Keep in mind I’m saying this because I actually know and feel this way, not because he has now joined the ever-swelling ranks of my readers) (Ahem).

Right, so, anyway, after the ceremony, Senor Goddu, Caity-Cait, Sammy-Sam, and I all adjourned to The Thirsty Mind to view Pawel’s triumphant and thought-provoking photo gallery. I confessed to Mr. Goddu that I had not yet begun college, and, after he kindly offered to take me outside and beat the ever-living fuck out of me, he asked me genially what I was doing with myself between now and when I do start school. I explained that. Aside from working nigh on 50 hours a week, I was writing, mainly in my blog. He asked for the address and voila, here we be. So now Mr. Goddu is a reader. Don’t be shy, Mr. G, feel free to comment.

The day after Tony’s induction into the few, the proud, the Eagle Scouts, and Mista G’s induction into the few, the crazy, the Letters readers, was Columbus Day. On this holiday in the town of South Hadley, tag sales galore spring up like dandelions along rt 116 and specifically in the center of town. Andrew, Amy, and I wandered the countless tents and tables like those nomads my dad mentioned, meeting up with Cait’s smokin’ cousin Sarah and Amy’s father, baby sister, and baby sister’s friend. Seeing the lil’ ones cling to Amy was an endearing sight, though it made me realize it must look much the same way when I hug her. . . .

After the Tag Saling ended, or, rather, we had bought our fill of frog rings, giant pocket watches, and old-timey goggles, we went to Northampton to see the Paradise City Art Festival. By quirk of fate, we wound up at Oh My, the sex store conveniently located next to that children’s day care center and second hand clothes shop. God I love that town! What happened once we entered? Take it away, Mr. Attel! "We went to a sex shop, you know the kinda place you go to with your buddies, you been out [tag salin’], you’re celebratin’, maybe one of you just [got a job roofing], you go there, laugh at all the crazy stuff, then you race back secretly alone and buy it. They’ve got weird things in there. Like anal beads. Anal beads! And they come in many different colors. Why, when they always come out brown? That sounded like a poem. Strap-on dildos. Mmm hmm. Hangin’ on a wall like shotguns in your granpa’s shed, ready to go! Strap-on dildos? That doesn’t even sound sexual to me. That sounds like a nautical term, doesn’t it? It sounds like something you’d say in a boat when a storm is coming. Whooosh! Whooossh! (That’s the storm, I’m not flying) Whoosh! Laddie, strap on the dildos! Batten down the butt plug, it’s gonna be quite a gale! You and you, grab a cock ring and meet me on the poop deck! Strap-on dildo, I didn’t know what it was. I put [two] on my [fro’d] head and chased people like a [satyr]. Everyone was laughin’. Even the deaf mute boy was breathin’ heavy an’ pointin’ at me, an’ that’s laughter to their kind. Then it got quiet, you know the kind of quiet right before a hooker takes a piss on ya? I’m sorry, I cannot tell a story." That did sum up our experiences rather well, though. Amy seemed right at home, taunting us playfully with a riding crop that stingethed like an adder, while Andrew and I gazed in slack-jawed, school boy amazement, especially at how the owners seemed to talk about the place like any other business. Shipments and inventories and supply rooms.

So we were standing around, gazing at some French ticklers, when we noticed how quiet it had become. Andrew and I looked warily around. The store had emptied completely except for us. He and I huddled together next to the gay porno section as Amy cocked a bemused eye-brow at us while flicking a cat-o-nine tails back and forth.
"What’s gotten into you guys?" she asked.
Just then metal plates closed over the windows, a huge itantium-titanium door swung shut over the plain wooden one of the shop, and a frighteningly familiar voice spoke from loud speakers on the ceiling.
"Yarr, comrades. Ye thought ye kid kill ze mighty Captian Adolph Lenin Huzuki-bot 3500? Vell sink again, ye scurvy dogs!"
"Holy–"gasped Andrew.
"What the-?" I exclaimed at the same time.
"But we saw you die." whispered Amy. "Steve shot a hole in your chest and you fell into that conveniently placed bottomless pit."
"Harr harr, soes I did." laughed the villainous Cap’n. "But I ruckily had a secret Umbrella Corporation-issued time-displacement inside-out Doberman. Vith zat handy gizmo I managed to slip into ze time stream and return to plot yer demise."
We rubbed our heads, brows furrowed.
"Now, try an’ escape from zis perdickermint. Yer all trapped in a sex shop vich wehll slowly fill weth chocolate syrup. Yarr, the irony!"
"That isn’t irony." I said.
"Vell, comrade, it be irony accordin’ to Miz Alanis Morsette. Have ye nay haired her song? ‘It’s like 10,000 spoons when all ye need be a knife, or like being trapped in a sex shop that be rapidly fillin’ vith chocolate syrup. An’ isn’t it ironic, don’cher think?’" sang the Capn’ in a hearty and ethnically mixed baritone. "An now, wivout further ado, I leaves ye to die!"
The loud speakers went silent and we were left in the pitch black sex shop rapidly filling with chocolate syrup. I fumbled around walls until a found a switch.
"Maybe this’ll shed some light the situation, I said cleverly as I flipped the switch. Instantly the entire shop was partially illuminated by several black lights while somewhere in the depths of the building Marvin Gaye music began to play.
"Umm . . ." ventured Andrew.
With the chocolate syrup now sloshing stickily against our ankles and Sexual Healing starting on the second verse, things looked pretty bleak. It was at this moment when the three of us looked at one another and realized what we must do to escape with our lives from such dire peril. We had to do the only thing three sexy hormonally driven teenagers could do when trapped in a sex shop: We had to fuck our way out! So fuck we did. And how! Making use of the countless squashy, vibrating weapons in our perverted armory, we humped like there was no tomorrow. After what seemed like hours, we emerged, dripping with chocolate syrup and other fluids outside the store.
"Well," I spoke, wiping chocolate and saliva from around my eyes, "Now that we know the Cap’n is back in action, we’ll have to be a bit more careful."
"Yeah," said Andrew, "it looks like our mutual super-hero friend Justin Time might just be needed again after all."
Andrew and I stood around for a moment, contemplating this new development. We were jarred from our musings by a sharp stinging thwap on our backsides. Jumping into the air, we looked around wildly.
Amy was standing there, swishing the riding crop back through the air.
"Quit standing around, you two. We’ve got some work ahead of us."
At this point the world froze and a catchy song began to play as credits rolled in front of our eyes.

Several days later we had not seen any signs of the nefarious Cap’n or his minions, and it was time to bring Andrew back to college. Andrew and I departed my house at 2400 hours, with an ETA of 2:00 PM Eastern Time. We were to rendezvous with one of Andrew’s brothers-in-arms from the resistance movement back in the days when St Joseph’s University was still under the iron hand of The Umbrella Corporation. The ride passed uneventfully until the junction of I-90 and I-495, some 64 minutes from our destination. At this point, as we were exiting the toll booth from the Mass Pike, a golden sports car sped alongside us from out of nowhere.
At first I believed it to be an overzealous fellow motorist, until I glanced at the insignia painted on the doors and hood of the vehicle: a red and white umbrella! It seems the Umbrella Corporation was determined to stop Andrew from reaching his stronghold at St. Joe’s at all costs, (even if those costs were the heightened ones of gas). The gold speedster raced alongside us, in the middle lane. My eyes widened in horror as I saw twin sub machine guns emerge from panels in the car’s hood and turn their mechanical sights towards us. I was certain that we were about to be shredded into a flaming heap by those cold steel cannons when suddenly a minivan switched lanes in front of the Umbrella Corporation’s death mobile, forcing it to fall behind us. Using my expert driving skills honed from years of careful road experience *pauses to look thoughtfully off into space* I managed to stay one step ahead of the murderous driver in the golden vehicle. I clung white-knuckled to the steering wheel as I piloted the ‘Falcon around the other motorists on the highway, with the death mobile never more than one step behind. After nearly 17 minutes of intense interstate cat and mouse, the Umbrella Corporation’s professional killers tired of the game and began to open fire on anything in their sights. The minivan took a critical hit to its starboard paneling and swerved erratically in and out of lanes. I gauged the timing and glided the ‘Falcon alongside the damaged van. With great patience and determination, I slowly pushed the flaming vehicle off to the break-down lane, letting it come to a stop. The passengers quickly abandoned their transport and ran for safety. The other motorists on the highway had fallen behind, leaving only Andrew and I in the ‘Falcon and the ruthless assassins in their golden sedan of havoc on the road. Andrew turned to look at the speeding enemy, but I had my gaze riveted on the road ahead. Due to road work, the highway split in two, the middle and right lanes curving to one side, the left passing lane to the other. In the middle of the fork was a row of cement blocks, 4 feet high and 6 feet long. They formed a wedge, breaking the lanes of traffic and then served as a continuing divider for the left-hand detour for several miles. The Umbrella Corporation’s thugs seemed to notice the same thing I did. If they had not caught us by the time we reached the detour we would be able to loose them. They revved the engine of their death mobile and had soon bridged the gap between themselves and the noble ‘Falcon. We were racing near neck and neck as the concrete divider raced to meet us. The golden sports car trained the sights of its mechanical canons on us and let out a blast of sporadic machine gun fire. I had the ‘Falcon’s shields running at full capacity, so the force of the shots merely jolted Andrew and myself, but we would not be able to take many more hits from the powerful weapons. At this moment the sound-speed gauge of the Falcon blinked off. I tore my gaze from the road with dismay. Now the pursuers would catch us for sure.
"Damn it, you old jalopy!" I yelled, smashing my hand down on the dashboard.
The lights blinked on and the sound speed generator hummed back to life, giving us the extra burst of speed we needed to pull ahead of the enemy. We blasted past the concrete median at Mach 5, while the golden sports car, with no time to turn now, slammed full force into the rock-hard wedge, sending it flying, flipping crazily through the air, over our heads to smash upside-down on the pavement ahead of us.
"Memories . . . bad memories." muttered Andrew, holding himself.
I finally relaxed my tensed muscles behind the wheel and slowed the ‘Falcon to a reasonable 75 miles per hour.
"We made it, Andy, we made it."
"Damn, that was close."
And the enemy was foiled again.
"But it looks like we foiled ‘em again, huh?" I said.
"Yeah," said Andrew, "we foiled those bastards again."
"Yeah," I said.

Man, all that talk about hot teenage sex and car chases has made me realize several things:

Firstly, I don’t wanna get old. I appreciate how truly messed up it is for someone not yet officially out of his teens to brood upon the inevitability and injustice that is the aging process, but looking at life in general, I fear old age. Oddly enough I’ve never feared death so much, being simultaneously sure of a next life and not overjoyed with the current one. But old age, the gradual loss of physical and mental ability, scares me more than anything else. Even clowns. I suppose there are but two solutions. One, live every moment right up to the hilt and get over my rational but futile fear. And two, live every moment right up to the hilt and die at 30.

Secondly, the near death experiences in both Oh My, the sex shoppe, and on the highway with Andrew Jackson Cooleridge have made me realize how fleeting life can be. As such, we need to hold our friends close, and maintain those special relationships, for, we ne’er know when we might be drowned in chocolate syrup or gunned down on I-495. But Richard, you ask, how can we stay close to our treasured friends? Well, you dumb fucks, I cheerily respond, howzabout you read their blogs? So many of mine contemporaries publish online journals nearly as good as mine and get no reader response. So, goddamn it, let’s read each others blogs and comment on every friggin’ one! If every friend comments on every blog, do you realize how close that will make us? Look, it doesn’t have to be a long, in depth comment. Just a one line "nice post, buddy, see you soon," will suffice. So, for this one time only, here are all the blogs you need to visit:
http://speedyweasels.blogspot.com
http://fallenangelzeon.blogspot.com
http://pawelisbored.blogspot.com
http://deadjournal.com/users/wrongwaylouie
http://livejournal.com/users/catinthegrass
http://guyyouneed.blogspot.com
http://mrwopsicle.blogspot.com
http://liberalbastard.blogspot.com
http://kingcrazydave.blogspot.com

So get readin’, dammit! To paraphrase the words of my Rastafarian doppleganger: One love, one light, let’s blog together and feel alright.

Here are two thoughts I’ve had on bisexuality lately. They tie together.

The first thought was, people look at the great achievements made by heterosexuals, and occasionally the great achievements made by homosexuals (DaVinci, Whitman, John Waters), but what about bisexuals? Ever hear of Alexander the Great? Cheah! Bisexual. He conquered like the known world . . . plus Asia. Bisexuals rule.
Next, it has always been a belief of both myself and Freud that no human being is completely homo- or heterosexual, that everyone is to some degree bisexual. Well to back this theory up, consider this:
In civilizations in which homosexual activity was not considered taboo or evil, bisexuality was far more common. Take ancient Greece and Rome. Both were powerful, influential civilizations, and neither condemned homosexuality. So bisexual exploits were prevalent and never held in disdain. In a civilization like ours, in which the evils of homosexuality are ingrained in us from parents, religious groups, and the government, such behavior happens less and is looked upon in an entirely different light. There, just a thought.

Here’s another random thought: How the hell did the North American colonies manage to win the war for their independence? Twice?

I’ve reached a point in my life now where I must make a momentous decision. I feel it might be time to finally give up my golden locks for the sake of love. I believe it’s been long enough. It’ll be two years this month, and I’m frankly I’m getting tired of the constant bother of washing and drying, putting up with the hassle of countless bad hair days. It gets in my face as I work, it gets in my way when I’m kissing or eating . . . food. I have but two reasons to keep it for a while longer and I know not if they are strong enough to change my mind. The first reason is that winter is fast approaching and my thick briar patch of hair has thermo-genic properties. Second, I really like the way my hair looks after a day at the beach, and so would like to keep it growing until summer is here again. Alas, what to do? I’ll make a decision eventually.

The thing that bothers me most about my hair is that it has become too much a part of me. I believe it was William Wordsworth who wrote something about our hair being too much with us, and, let me tell, ya, Willy, it goes double for me! I have no doubt that a healthy portion of any increased popularity I obtained the last year of high school was due to my startling hair and not to any talent or charm I may have had. Even now, people identify me partially by my hair.
I can’t say as I don’t like the attention, and I love my hair dearly. If nothing else, it makes a lovely conversation piece.

But I wish that people liked me for me. Not because I hang with Leonardo or that guy who played in Fargo, I think his name is Steve. Or because of my hair.
The hair. It is my gift. It is my curse. Damn you white-boy afro!

Cryptic message: Ninja Pirate Inc is now officially open for business.

Casting Call: Smallville

For those of you not familiar with this decent, original, and occasionally stupendous WB program which airs Wednesday nights at 8:00 PM (ET), it tells the story of a young Clark Kent growing up in his home town of Smallville, Kansas. The show makes a halfhearted attempt to follow the mythos of the world’s most famous comic book hero in its depiction of a high school aged Superman, before he accepts his mantle of world protector, before he even knows he will be a super hero, and is still trying to deal with the obligatory problems of teenage life, as well as the emergence of his burgeoning super powers. While it is often a near perfect mix of fantasy and realism, of action and human interest, the show fails in some aspects. Firstly, it becomes bogged down in its "mutant of the week" plot lines. It seems the meteor rocks which fell to earth along with young Clark, while merely poison Superman in the comics, in the show have an instantaneous effect on everything around them, creating a legion of super-powered whackos. This becomes boring. Second, for the sake of ratings they deviate from the comic mythos. I didn’t mind the addition of a young Lex Luthor to the cast, for he is the show’s best character, but having Clark meet Lois and allowing the death of Lana Lang’s future husband and father of a young boy named Clark, Pete Ross is too much. Finally, aside from the mutant of the week concept, the creators have one other to draw in ratings. The ol’ "make the young, hot stars go wild for some arbitrary reason" plot. First it was red Kryptonite for Clark, then red kryptonite and a freaky, barb-shooting Kryptonian cave worm, then a girl’s mutant pheremones, then red Kryptonite again, then meteor-ade for the football players. Every chance they get the writers have an episode in which some force lowers the inhibitions and pants of the entire cast. But, for all its faults, the show is still decent. So, for those of you who follow it, here’s Smallville Casting Call:

Clark Kent: Andrew LeTellier (completely dissimilar save for that they are good-looking and tall, but Andrew could pull off the likeably naive and goofily, tragically, heroic soon-to-be hero.)
Jonathan Kent: Oddly enough, David LeTellier. He could capture the rugged but warm farmer’s character pretty well. Plus, he wears flannel often.
Martha Kent: This doesn’t seem fair, but Lis LeTellier seems to fit the part of strong and motherly sophisticated farm wife pretty darn well. Her constant concern and love for Andrew mirrors perfectly the kind displayed on the program.
Chloe: Caitlin Sczewyk. She already has much of the zealous reporter’s spunk and intelligence, and they look a bit alike.
Pete: The short, funny, and underappreciated best friend, who doesn’t do too well with the ladies? Me, of course. Plus, he’s black.
Lana: Meg Lynch. The soft-spoken but aggressive orphan and object of Clark’s affections.
Lois: Amy McMenamin. Cousin to Chloe, she has not yet adopted the journalistic spirit, and argues constantly, but flirtatiously, with Clark.
Lex: EJ Massa. Shave his head, bleach his skin and you got yourself the perfect semi-villain. One great thing about the show is how it is simultaneously a story of Clark becoming a hero, it as much an explanation of hoe Lex came to evil. Given EJ’s performance in The Clearing as a man who slowly gives in to the dark side of his soul, forsaking his friends, he’d be perfect for the ultra-hip, philosophy and proverb spouting young billionaire.
Lionel: Mr. Paul. He probably can’t act his way out of a paper bag drenched in holy water, but he would capture the soul of Lex’s depraved, but charismatic and calm, father.
Random Laser-eyed Mutant: (by request) Sam.

Movies:

Many Fridays ago I went with that poster child of cool, Mike Pytka to see a film at the outrageously overpriced West Springfield Showcase Cinemas. If not for the company, the money would have been wasted, for the film we saw was The Grudge. For anyone who hasn’t seen this movie, don’t. For anyone who has, I empathize. There, there. It’ll be alright. The freakin’ thing was one long strain of "Hey, don’t go I there!" scary movie scenes. One or two a film ain’t bad, but to have every death in the movie be of that "Let me check what’s in the spooky attic" variety is too much for my feeble stupidity tolerance level to handle. If there’s a noise in the attic, it’s gonna be one of three things: A squirrel, so who cares. A robber, so call the cops first if you don’t like getting stabbed. Or a ghost. Here’s what I don’t want in a scary movie: I don’t want silly predictability. I don’t good people to die horribly because they tried to do the right thing. Drunken teenagers can be slaughtered ad nauseam for all I care, but don’t kill off decent folks when they’re trying to help. And lastly, if you succeed in making a frightening film, give me a happy ending. I got what I payed for (chills) and now want to leave on a good note. So don’t give me a bad ending. O for three, eh, The Grudge? Get the hell back to Japan, the lot of you!

I also saw Team America World Police in theatres a few days ago with my buddy Steve. That was a damn fine movie, funny to the extreme, and replete with action, gratuitous puppet sex, and a kick ass soundtrack.

"America,
Fuck yeah!
Comin’ again to save the mother-fuckin’ day, yeah!"

More horror movies you say? Well There was the disappointing and laughable, if not stylish Alien Resurrection. Then there was the intense and awesome, but not at all scary Dawn of the Dead (the remake). Finally Underworld, which was both better and worse than I gave it credit for.
Also, I saw the Kiss the Girls prequel, the blandly likeable thriller Along Came a Spider.
Then there was The Substitute 4: Failure is not an Option. Yes, I’m being serious, and no, don’t ask.
The early 90's comic book adventure The Phantom, a decent action movie which gives the viewer laughs and thrills.
Fahrenheit 9/11 was a let-down, too, after the amazing Bowling for Columbine, Michael Moore has made his personal vendetta against all things Bush hinder his genuine film making skills.
Lastly, I saw two favorites of mine.
The first favorite was the 1993 Disney version of the Dumas classic The Three Musketeers. Aside from the annoyingly anachronistic performances and lines of Oliver Platt and Chris O’Donnell, the movie is seemingly perfect. The plot is Dumas watered down to the point of being unrecognizable, but it still manages to develop its likeable characters and come off as deserving respect. The fencing scenes are well done, the European scenery is glorious, and the production values very high. Watching this movie puts me in a better frame of mind and makes my worries go away.
The second movie is actually a new favorite. The techno thriller Strange Days should delight fans of The Matrix and The Crow. I recommend it whole-heartedly.

Many of the above films have an actor in common. This is not coincidence. For a few weeks now I have been obsessed a little bit with someone I consider a criminally underrated thespian. I expect none of you, save Steve, to know him, but the man’s name is Michael Wincott, and I guarantee many of who have seen him before. He has a very distinguished look to him, a skeletal face with a gaunt frame, dark hair and steady, black eyes. The most unique and impressive thing about him, though, is his voice. A soft, gravelly purr, like velvet over stone. Raspy yet deep. Truly the best voice in show business today.
Michael started off in Canada, where he grew up. His friends described him as ‘a little out there" but "always ready with a joke." He had a unique, humorous, and not entirely unlikable outlook to life. His first experience with performing was in high school, when he and his friends began putting on Monty Python Skits for the entertainment of their peers. He is an accomplished musician and poet. (Remind yo of anyone? Maybe a bit of Steve, Tony, myself, and (if you have seen him in any of his films) several whopping cans of bad ass.)
He usually plays small parts, and those usually villains. But he easily upstages the stars around him and is gifted at fleshing out and adding realism and humor to bit parts and otherwise flat characters.
And now, so you can all say "Aaaahh, that guy," go here:

http://michaelwincott.org

Music:

Some Saturdays past I went a’journeying with Steve to Best Buy, where I purchased two new CDs. I would like to address them separate-but-equally right now.

The first was Green Day’s new effort, a semi-narrative rock opera called American Idiot. The pulse-pounding, heart-banging rock music blends seamlessly to the spittingly bitter lyrics regarding the hollowness of teenage suburban life. Fans of the band should love it, as should anyone who can appreciate good music.

Before I speak of the next CD, I would like to apologize. You see, in a past post, I professed like of Ani DiFranco. I spoke too hastily, for I had not heard enough of her music. Having bought Living in Clip, her two disk live album, I am now able to speak at length on the musical goddess. Ani is most certainly an acquired taste. Her unique brand of music, Urban Folk, is a seemingly ill-conceived blend of Folk rock and Punk rock. Her songs spare no feelings. Nor do they hesitate to use jarring sounds or harsh lyrics to convey their message. I wish at times, that Ani were more melodic, more smooth and flowing. Then I realize that, as her music is so drenched in startling emotion, and emotion is never flowing or smooth, her style is appropriate, and, I will go further, perfect. Ani’s songs are as choppy as the broken sobs of despairing lover, or as stilted as the joyous, no longer nervous laughter of a true friend. Once one can get by the initial nausea of her erratic, swear and slur laden, image-heavy songs, one will be a fan for life.

I suppose I take to Ani readily because of my affinity for little-known folk rock singer songwriters. Like Mike Doughty, who is similar to Ani, though he lacks much of her boiling energy.
He has said himself that he is a songwriter more than a musician, and that much is certainly true. But he is a superb songwriter. His words are multi-layered and introspective. They, like Ani’s, are heavy in imagery and emotion. Mike also enjoys making clever, obscure pop culture references, much like yours truly.
For more on Mike, try here: http://www.ithaca.edu/buzzsaw/1202doughty.htm
I envy deeply Ms. Shepard’s writing skills. They make me feel inadequate.

One more tidbit of music: I finally got around to hearing John Lennon’s Imagine as re-envisioned by A Perfect Circle. It did not, as some would guess, make me want to cry and shoot up heroin. On the whole, I thought the song was well done indeed. It certainly caused shivers to pulse through my body, its creepy tone not at all subtle. The song conjured up surreal, nightmare images of Bush and the members of his administration splitting out of their skins, turning into ravenous beasts, guzzling blood and oil, all the while shadowy armies of U.S. soldiers marched in perfect formation around the globe, erecting flag poles upon which flew a bloodied stars and stripes. I appreciate the inventiveness in creating a totally different meaning for the song, and, as I feel Lennon and all the Beatles, whether together or separate, are possibly the most overrated acts in the history of music, care not about "ruining his vision." Way to go, APC.

Last weekend Steve came home and, as celebration I guess, took me out to Anthony’s strip club. Steve’s friend Alex, a fellow of few words, came along, as did Amy "Wonder Woman" McMenamin. The interior of the joint was surprising clean and simple. Black lights added "atmosphere" (although, my theory is they were there purely for clit-ring enhancement). The girls were more languid than I would have expected, and the poles were almost unused. Languid and imperfect, they were, these exotic dancers. But, their imperfections made them more endearing. In movies strippers are always perfect, even in dive strip clubs, but here they were just regular girls . . . only with less inhibitions and more piercings in odd places. The bouncers were not the least bit intimidating, and made me consider bulking up and looking for work as one of them. Anyway, long story short, Steve got a lap-dance from hottie Sasha, who made up for her poor cats cradle skills with her erection biting skills, while Amy watched. The night was at last complete!

I spent some time thinking that night, the aromatic smoke from Amy and Steve’s black clove cigarettes swirling around my head. I came to the conclusion that, were I a female stripper, I’d wear a cape. And futhermoreover, that there is a key demographic not being exploited out there. Lonely fan boys and comic book geeks. Why not have a club in which strippers dressed as comic book heroines cavorted around, where graphic novels and War Hammer figurines were plentiful? Where costumes and DVDs and action figures, both for collectible and sexual uses were sold? Someone get on that!
Also, the best strip clubs are probably night clubs with strippers. Where there are dance floors and places to get food or sit and talk away from all the flesh. That’s what I think.

It seems that police officers in Springfield brutalized the principal of one of Springfield’s high schools. As much as this makes me yearn for justice, for these officers should be shown little leniency, it also makes me wish the Granby police would show some initiative and get over to Holyoke Catholic.

Rich’s Sexy Celebs:

The entire cast of Smallville
Juliet Lewis
Angela Basset
Angelina Jolie

The Survey:

[FOR OR AGAINST...]
Long distance relationships = Sadly against. It’s too much to ask of both parties.
People = I am, and have for quite some time been, an ardent misanthrope. People are a scourge in the universe as far as I’m concerned. We should all be killed. Except for me. I’m alright. And Don Johnson is pretty cool, too.
Smoking = Anyone who is against smoking is either naive or a self-righteous health Nazi. If I didn’t want to get cancer and die, I’d start smoking right this minute. I am pro-smoking, pro-smokers, pro-smoker’s rights, pro anything that makes humans look cool while killing them and pissing off other humans. It makes monkeys look cool, too.
Gay/lesbian relationships = For. Indeed for. But let’s not classify shall we? A favorite quote of one of the smartest and hottest people of our time is, "Love is tender, it knows no gender." Love who you want, how you want. But don’t march in a parade devoted to it.

[HAVE YOU...]
Ever cried over a boy = Can’t say as I have . . . *quickly hides picture of Zach, from Saved by the Bell, in desk drawer and reaches for tissues.
Ever cried over a girl = No, haven’t done that, either, but I’ve come close.
Ever lied to someone = Never.
Ever been in a fist fight = Two, I think. But I’m itchin’ to start another. Hey, punk! What’s up your craw? *advances slowly*

[WHAT...]
Shampoo do you use = Loreal Curl Moisturizing
Shoes do you wear = Doc Martens, my rapidly deteriorating Sauvoys, and my new
Are you scared of = Clowns, deep water, monkeys, dolls, mannequins, being alone, mediocrity

[NUMBER...]
Of times I have been in love? = Maybe one, I don’t know.
Of times i have had my heart broken? = Um . . . three. I think. Yeah, three.
Of times my name has appeared in the paper? = Well, every report marking period for Catholic, then once when I wrote a poem that got published, then one more time . . . over 18.
Things in my past that i regret? = too many to count, baby, too many to count. I have all their phone numbers, though . . . .

[DO YOU THINK YOU ARE...]
Pretty = Every human being has a prettiness to them, but I’m not overtly pretty by any means.
Funny = Are you kidding? I am the single funniest person to ever walk the earth! I am way funnier than Jesus. See, you’re laughing already. Told you I was funny.
Hot = In some ways, yeah, to some people.
Friendly = With my friends. I’m wary of strangers.
Amusing = Is that the same as funny? Or do you mean that I amuse you? That, what, I’m some sort of clown? Here to make you laugh? Like a fucking court jester, is that what you mean? *shoots in the knee* There, is that amusing, you fuck!?
Ugly = Yep. In many ways I am.
Loveable = If you get to know me, yeah, most certainly so.
Caring = More than most.
Dorky = No, not anymore.

In an attempt to heighten reader participation and also to loosen the tension between the sovereign nations of Portugal Mexico, I am beginning on this date a new blog segment. The Reader Response Question. Any and all readers are asked (ordered) to respond with one of two or more choices on a seemingly random question. This entry’s question?

Reader Response Question:

Which horror movie staple do you prefer, vampires or werewolves? (This could be on a scale of which you think is scarier, cooler, more likeable, or which you think would win in a battle royale.)


The CGB AMA’s:

"THIS IS CAITLIN! I have taken over Jenni's computer... and life! WOO! we're hanging out here at her school. we're having fun!
"

"I beat the internet.
The end guy was hard.

"dreaming in vanilla vodka clouds"

"Pillow fighting with the crew is strongly discouraged. Virgin Atlantic flight crews fly upward of 200 flights per year, many of them overnight, so they are extremely experienced in this area." MeatSim592

"My feet is my only carriage
And so I've got to push on through.
Oh, while I'm gone,
Everything's gonna be all right! " Steve

"Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?"Is that a scroll in your toga, or are you just happy to see me?"" Jimbo NoQuart3r

"Our youth is fleeting, old age is just around the bend and I can't wait to go gray
And I'll sit an wonder of every love that could have been
If I'd only thought of something charming to say

"Video games don't affect kids. I mean, if Pac-Man affected us as kids we'd all be running around in dark rooms, listening to repetitive electronic music and munching magic pills." No Quart

"that was a lot of alcohol..."

"alright then, I am going to go find something to do

"im gonna go eat some eggs. Then class, then work/study, then.... if i have time, maybe ill fit a smile in."
"
"people do not have to die to be noticed... but it rarely hurts
the dying itself is usually pretty painful."

"what??? class???? yeah, thats right, i did NOT go to sleep last night! I'm all over the place!
where did i go????? ...........ZZZZZ........"

Dude, where’s my overused pop-culture reference? AL

"TIME FOR DEATH!!!!!!.............i mean school.--back around 4ish. bleh. leave lots of love. I'm sure I'll be needing it.<33"

"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Doing my best to be completely unprofessional. What are you doing? What do you wish you could be doing? What are you doing that you wish you couldn't do?Leave love and such."
This week's winner comes to us all the way from Denver, from Dan:

"Normally I'd make a vain attempt to be funny and witty here while I'm gone, but not today. No. Today this away message mourns the passing of Christopher Reeve, known the world over as "Superman." There will never be another Man of Steel quite like him, not that kid on Smallville, not the cartoons and comics, and not whoever gets the famed role in the future. Christopher Reeve is the only actor for the part, he has left very big shoes to fill.God Speed Superman"