-You notice how there's all these bank robberies when the economy is bad?
-Well you really know it's bad when there's all these home invasions, when you gotta go into someone's house it's pretty bad.
-I'd rob the boss's house, that's where all the good shit is. See all that nice stuff hangin on the walls.
(boss) - The first thing you'll see in my house is the shotgun
-The only thing worth stealing at your house are the cows, but that's too much work for me.
(boss continues) - Wolverines took the tail off a deer, If I see that thing I'm gonna kill him.
Coyotes got all my chickens too. I don't know how much coyote hide is worth, but I'm gonna find out.
the end.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Friday, December 16, 2005
Criminology
Ron from Blog of The Hurricane, and I co-wrote this paper for a friend's high school criminology class. The Subject is Charles Michael Hedlund, Convicted Murderer
Of all the choices God had made in giving the gift of life, the most brutal and morally unacceptable gift was given to an undeserving world –and two unassuming parents- when their child was born on November 22, 1964. It wasn’t until 27 years later that anyone had any idea of the sadistic nature of the once innocent, young Charles
Michael Hedlund.
On March 10, 1991 Scotty Merten was feeling optimistic about his future. He had just received his acceptance letter from Brown. To celebrate, he made arrangements to meet his beloved mother at the local Mongolian BBQ. But, his mother never showed up. The waiter continued to refill his diet coke as he watched the minute hand on his watch tick away into an impoverished oblivion. Twenty minutes go by. Forty five. The sun set on an unforgiving horizon as Scotty was forced to conclude that his mother was not going to be showing up. Scotty progressed towards his Buick LaSabre where he had left his cell phone. No answer. He headed towards his mother’s house on the outskirts of the town. Oh….what Scotty was to find. His mother. His beloved mother. Who fed him at her generous breast. Tonight the only ones to have an acceptable meal, were the cats.
Charles and his half brother, James Erin McKinney proved just how sadistic they could be that night. The two of them muscled their way into the home of 40 year old Christine Mertens and ended her life in the most violent fashion. They pillaged her bedroom and dumped out her purse before shooting her and beating the life out of her panic stricken body. Three nights later the two men proved that their remorseless killing binge and insatiable thirst for blood was no fluke, for they broke into the home of the 65 year old James McClain. The men gutlessly shot him in the head while he lay in his bed. Oh the dread. The two men stole two lives in the pursuit of personal Items and Firearms. Clearly, the booty was of much lesser value.
This crime would prove to be too much. The heartstrings of the Arizona judicial system had been tugged so hard that the perpetrating fingers poured out their hot blood on the icy porch steps of justice. The state of Arizona would bring back the death penalty for the sole purpose of witnessing the glorious demise of one Charles Michael Hedlund. Weep not, Mr. and Mrs. Hedlund. That’s not your baby boy walking towards that chamber, but a shell - A shell that had once housed the soul of your sweet progeny, who portrayed St. Joseph in the annual Christmas pageant, who portrayed little Michael in his fifth grade class’s production of Peter Pan. That is not who is walking towards that chamber. No.
And who was this venerable man in black to bring down the gavel on Hedlund’s poor excuse for a life? None other than the Honorable Steven D. Sheldon. And who was the man unabashedly propositioning the court with the will of the people? That would be the man they call Louis Stalzer. And how long did it take them to conclude the guilt of one Charles Michael Hedlund? A mere thirty days, from the thirteenth of October, 1992 till the twelfth of November. And how long did it take them to conclude that Hedlund’s life was not worth sparing? A while longer, as the conclusion was not reached until the thirtieth of July, the following year! But, what of the mitigating circumstances? How about previous drug and alcohol abuse coupled with an abusive childhood? Oh for shame, Mr. and Mrs. Hedlund. Oh…for shame.
I, Brittany Cotant, Believe that a man of such pure evil, a man of such pure shame and heartlessness should pay with his life for the two he yanked from their nests of comfortable obscurity. I believe that Charles Michael Hedlund should be hanged from the highest mountain peak in an exhibition of justice so obvious and true that no man dares to follow a similar path of physical and emotional mutilation. I hope his bodyless soul serves as a sponge so that all the pain felt by the loved ones of Christine Mertens and James McCain can seep into his lowly existence and torture him for an eternity spent pushing red hot rocks in the fiery pits of Hell.
Of all the choices God had made in giving the gift of life, the most brutal and morally unacceptable gift was given to an undeserving world –and two unassuming parents- when their child was born on November 22, 1964. It wasn’t until 27 years later that anyone had any idea of the sadistic nature of the once innocent, young Charles
Michael Hedlund.
On March 10, 1991 Scotty Merten was feeling optimistic about his future. He had just received his acceptance letter from Brown. To celebrate, he made arrangements to meet his beloved mother at the local Mongolian BBQ. But, his mother never showed up. The waiter continued to refill his diet coke as he watched the minute hand on his watch tick away into an impoverished oblivion. Twenty minutes go by. Forty five. The sun set on an unforgiving horizon as Scotty was forced to conclude that his mother was not going to be showing up. Scotty progressed towards his Buick LaSabre where he had left his cell phone. No answer. He headed towards his mother’s house on the outskirts of the town. Oh….what Scotty was to find. His mother. His beloved mother. Who fed him at her generous breast. Tonight the only ones to have an acceptable meal, were the cats.
Charles and his half brother, James Erin McKinney proved just how sadistic they could be that night. The two of them muscled their way into the home of 40 year old Christine Mertens and ended her life in the most violent fashion. They pillaged her bedroom and dumped out her purse before shooting her and beating the life out of her panic stricken body. Three nights later the two men proved that their remorseless killing binge and insatiable thirst for blood was no fluke, for they broke into the home of the 65 year old James McClain. The men gutlessly shot him in the head while he lay in his bed. Oh the dread. The two men stole two lives in the pursuit of personal Items and Firearms. Clearly, the booty was of much lesser value.
This crime would prove to be too much. The heartstrings of the Arizona judicial system had been tugged so hard that the perpetrating fingers poured out their hot blood on the icy porch steps of justice. The state of Arizona would bring back the death penalty for the sole purpose of witnessing the glorious demise of one Charles Michael Hedlund. Weep not, Mr. and Mrs. Hedlund. That’s not your baby boy walking towards that chamber, but a shell - A shell that had once housed the soul of your sweet progeny, who portrayed St. Joseph in the annual Christmas pageant, who portrayed little Michael in his fifth grade class’s production of Peter Pan. That is not who is walking towards that chamber. No.
And who was this venerable man in black to bring down the gavel on Hedlund’s poor excuse for a life? None other than the Honorable Steven D. Sheldon. And who was the man unabashedly propositioning the court with the will of the people? That would be the man they call Louis Stalzer. And how long did it take them to conclude the guilt of one Charles Michael Hedlund? A mere thirty days, from the thirteenth of October, 1992 till the twelfth of November. And how long did it take them to conclude that Hedlund’s life was not worth sparing? A while longer, as the conclusion was not reached until the thirtieth of July, the following year! But, what of the mitigating circumstances? How about previous drug and alcohol abuse coupled with an abusive childhood? Oh for shame, Mr. and Mrs. Hedlund. Oh…for shame.
I, Brittany Cotant, Believe that a man of such pure evil, a man of such pure shame and heartlessness should pay with his life for the two he yanked from their nests of comfortable obscurity. I believe that Charles Michael Hedlund should be hanged from the highest mountain peak in an exhibition of justice so obvious and true that no man dares to follow a similar path of physical and emotional mutilation. I hope his bodyless soul serves as a sponge so that all the pain felt by the loved ones of Christine Mertens and James McCain can seep into his lowly existence and torture him for an eternity spent pushing red hot rocks in the fiery pits of Hell.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
lieu
I'm eating waffles in lieu of a bowl of rice
I'm using butter in lieu of margarine
the cold syrup makes the toasting of said waffles rather pointless.
The trick-or-treaters rarely come to my parents' house because the neighborhood elderly are slowly dying and the families with children are constantly moving away. Sadly, that means I get to eat a lot of Junior Mints.
I work in a factory in lieu of going to school
I'm using the internet in lieu of watching TV.
I've been reading in lieu of writing.
The growing trend is to donate to charity in lieu of flowers.
I turned to a friend about one of my problems in lieu of trying to handle them ALL by myself and I remembered what it was like to be able to resolve them that comfortably.
I also remembered what it was like to have friends who listened and understood.
She was returning the favor in lieu of being selfish I guess.
I'm suprised my hair isn't grey already.
I'm using butter in lieu of margarine
the cold syrup makes the toasting of said waffles rather pointless.
The trick-or-treaters rarely come to my parents' house because the neighborhood elderly are slowly dying and the families with children are constantly moving away. Sadly, that means I get to eat a lot of Junior Mints.
I work in a factory in lieu of going to school
I'm using the internet in lieu of watching TV.
I've been reading in lieu of writing.
The growing trend is to donate to charity in lieu of flowers.
I turned to a friend about one of my problems in lieu of trying to handle them ALL by myself and I remembered what it was like to be able to resolve them that comfortably.
I also remembered what it was like to have friends who listened and understood.
She was returning the favor in lieu of being selfish I guess.
I'm suprised my hair isn't grey already.
I'm Supposed to Agree With You
Stuff I'm not supposed to like, but do
Rod Stewart
Folding Laundry
Driving in the rain
Genesis (Phil Collins)
getting my hair cut
Alice in chains
getting my oil changed
half of my friends
Pantera
alcohol
Mechanical Pencils
The History Channel
Steak
Stuff I'm supposed to like, and do
The Postal Service
Public Radio
cellular phones
Mozilla
French toast
Pixies
Elliott Smith
coffee
Fishing
The Beatles
Weezer's Pinkerton
Wilco
Birthday Presents
Females
Chinese food
Stuff I'm supposed to like, but don't
Deathcab for Cutie
Going for walks
Football
U2
swimming in lakes
AC/DC
The O.C.
Sex & the city
Euchre
Icelandic electronic music
Birthday attention
the video game Halo
marijuana
Stuff I'm not supposed to like, and don't
Being sick
the emotionally handicapped (figuratively)
crying
hippies
High winds
car problems
being late
rock/rap fusion
switchfoot
linkin park
Metallica's St. Anger
Stuff I like the idea of, but don't really like
church
rent to own
being a good listener
writing songs
being single.
Rod Stewart
Folding Laundry
Driving in the rain
Genesis (Phil Collins)
getting my hair cut
Alice in chains
getting my oil changed
half of my friends
Pantera
alcohol
Mechanical Pencils
The History Channel
Steak
Stuff I'm supposed to like, and do
The Postal Service
Public Radio
cellular phones
Mozilla
French toast
Pixies
Elliott Smith
coffee
Fishing
The Beatles
Weezer's Pinkerton
Wilco
Birthday Presents
Females
Chinese food
Stuff I'm supposed to like, but don't
Deathcab for Cutie
Going for walks
Football
U2
swimming in lakes
AC/DC
The O.C.
Sex & the city
Euchre
Icelandic electronic music
Birthday attention
the video game Halo
marijuana
Stuff I'm not supposed to like, and don't
Being sick
the emotionally handicapped (figuratively)
crying
hippies
High winds
car problems
being late
rock/rap fusion
switchfoot
linkin park
Metallica's St. Anger
Stuff I like the idea of, but don't really like
church
rent to own
being a good listener
writing songs
being single.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Smells like you have cats
Every time I walk through the door these days I'm overwhelmed with the comforting friendly pheromone of get the hell out of here.
It seems like any simple misunderstanding can lead to a [nearly] groundless, inappropriate and flamboyant flexing of power - right in my face, right in front of my friends. No warning. If the look on my face and the subsequent stare-down didn't accurately portray my feelings of complete confusion, I don't know what could. Everyone constantly contradicts themselves, including me. But I can't help but believe that my conscious contradictions serve a good purpose as opposed to the purpose of pure intimidation. Needless to say, nothing ever gets done around here.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
"working hardly"
Maybe it was because of the snow slowly melting or the fact that the geese were now flying North in V formation. Maybe I was just bored, but a few months ago I decided to seek a new job. The melting snow and flying geese are not supposed to be reason for employment but when you're me you fall into a routine and until you start to think about it, you're stuck. Without geese, I'd still be riding my bike and wearing a satchel at work.
The job looked really great! The sign posted on the board at the coffee house reminded me of a personal ad - using terms you would never use in any given assembly job. It seemed like me, so I took to thinking about it for a week before finally making my way to this fantasy land of a workplace to inquire.
I arrived with 5 minutes to spare before I needed to be leaving for my real job. It took me long enough to even find the place, holed up & building recumbent bicycles in a Mafia meeting room-type-building. The size of the building alone threw me off enough to where I forgot to try to act like I fit the description of the desired applicant. For nearly two years, I've been taking 5 minute walks across my workplace just to get to the bathroom and this place was like driving up to a gas station. When I opened the door, I was greeted with being briefly glanced at by one of the three gentlemen in the room. I had enough time to notice bike parts all over the place and two guys at a table assembling one bike. I immediately thought "whoa, that's totally inefficient" then stood there for around 5 seconds, which seemed like an eternity, until one of them spoke.
"Can I help you?"
"are you hiring?"
"who?"
"are you hiring"
(the clearly socially inept guy then threw it over to his associate)
"I'm sorry, the position was filled"
"wha?"
"the position was filled, you're about aaaaah....week or two late. But thanks for stopping by!"
"yep"
Oh well. The place was small anyways. And I probably couldn't listen to music either. And they probably don't pay very well.
I didn't let myself get too disappointed and instead stopped at vertigo on the way to work and bought some compact disc therapy.
my first job was hardly inspired by geese and melting snow. I needed money for magazines & things, so the day after my 14th birthday, I called the phone number in the paper and got myself an interview for a job with the Grand Rapids Press. A paper route. I was to be an "independent Carrier". The woman from the GRP in charge of the Hastings area came to our house a few days later, my mom signed the forms and I had the job. She drove me on the route the first day to make sure I understood the process of leaving a paper on someone's porch. She gave me a little book designed specifically for keeping track of money collection and a large canvas bag with orange reflective edges and the press logo on the side. She also gave me a gigantic bag of green rubber bands, most likely to keep me occupied after work.
I started off the next day, alone, on my bike. I Lived near the south edge of Hastings, and my route happened to be on the North edge, it was quite a trip considering the incline and my weakling-ness. My papers were dropped off every day in front of the credit union, so I actually had time to rest while I rubber banded each paper and stuffed it into my bag. The neighborhood was mostly inhabited by the elderly... Or lonely middle aged people. The old men were always waiting for the paper. Watering the lawn, washing the car, sitting in a lawn chair in the garage, certain men always asked silly questions. "what's the word?". "uhhh"
I felt sorry for the old men who lived alone. Some of them were married to their lawns, but the others were just plain alone. One guy was always on his back porch around the time I came by at the end of the route, drinking lemonade and reading a book or doing some sort of puzzle. He'd always greet me enthusiastically with a "hey Joe!" when I opened the door to the porch and handed him the paper. One day I opened the door to find him at the table sitting across from a framed black and white picture of a young woman. He was drinking some sort of liquor. He greeted me with an "oh... hey there".
One year later, I was 15 and fed up with my monthly salary. It fell somewhere between $90 and $120 monthly. I tried to get a job at the new Applebees, but was disappointed to learn that the last of the positions suitable for a 15 year old were filled earlier that day. DAMMIT. The paper route had kept me from getting a new job. I relayed my dismay to the boss, and she offered me a new, larger paper route that was closer to home. Left with no other options, I accepted. The new route was much like the old route, but now included an entire retirement community. Retirement communities can be looked at by their denizens in two ways.
1.Pennock Village: A place where older people can enjoy their retirement without the worries of home maintenance and with the convenience of meals on wheels, a health club and a hospital next door (just in case) there's also a golf cart path that leads directly to the Kmart parking lot.
2. A prison... Forced upon you because you cant keep up the house anymore and your kids are pretty busy and can't come help you out all the time. Plus, you can't drive.
The difference of perspectives is made clear when it comes time to collect the money. Half the time, my money was left on the door or mailed to me in the envelope I had provided a week earlier. Half the time, I would have to knock on the door and politely demand my seven or thirteen dollars (depending on the subscription). Half of this time (one quarter of the entire time) the people inside were very nice and would offer me cookies or on warmer days, a drink. I always accepted. Sometimes I stuck around an extra few minutes to converse, and I ended up hearing some pretty cool stories about the old days, the depression, world war, vacations to Yellowstone, fishing, etc.
The remaining time was pure hell. Being a 13 year old left me with little right to argue or even defend myself against the cranky ones. Evidently, knocking on doors was taboo in the earlier half of the century - or so they made it seem. I'd knock at the door and be greeted with an angry expression and unkind words.
"I'm here to collect for the grand rapids press"
"Why do you always come around at dinner time!?"
"I shouldn't have to be interrupted from my meal"
"I'll get your money, but I really don't appreciate being interrupted during my dinner"
I could have responded with "perhaps you should hang some sort warning on the door next time you're eating dinner, bitch, assuming you still refuse to pay me on time with the conveniently pre-addressed envelope I provide you with every month. I know you can mail it, because I know you get the newspaper from outside your door which happens to be 3 steps from the mailbox, which has a large outgoing mail slot...If you can't acquire a stamp, just leave it on the door like some of your neighbors do. I don't think they'll steal it, you have quite a reputation for bitchiness".
Cranky elderly couples are even worse, they work as a team.
I kept up the job until my sixteenth birthday. After a very brief period of unemployment, I was hired at McDonald's.
TO BE CONTINUED - when you least expect it.
The job looked really great! The sign posted on the board at the coffee house reminded me of a personal ad - using terms you would never use in any given assembly job. It seemed like me, so I took to thinking about it for a week before finally making my way to this fantasy land of a workplace to inquire.
I arrived with 5 minutes to spare before I needed to be leaving for my real job. It took me long enough to even find the place, holed up & building recumbent bicycles in a Mafia meeting room-type-building. The size of the building alone threw me off enough to where I forgot to try to act like I fit the description of the desired applicant. For nearly two years, I've been taking 5 minute walks across my workplace just to get to the bathroom and this place was like driving up to a gas station. When I opened the door, I was greeted with being briefly glanced at by one of the three gentlemen in the room. I had enough time to notice bike parts all over the place and two guys at a table assembling one bike. I immediately thought "whoa, that's totally inefficient" then stood there for around 5 seconds, which seemed like an eternity, until one of them spoke.
"Can I help you?"
"are you hiring?"
"who?"
"are you hiring"
(the clearly socially inept guy then threw it over to his associate)
"I'm sorry, the position was filled"
"wha?"
"the position was filled, you're about aaaaah....week or two late. But thanks for stopping by!"
"yep"
Oh well. The place was small anyways. And I probably couldn't listen to music either. And they probably don't pay very well.
I didn't let myself get too disappointed and instead stopped at vertigo on the way to work and bought some compact disc therapy.
my first job was hardly inspired by geese and melting snow. I needed money for magazines & things, so the day after my 14th birthday, I called the phone number in the paper and got myself an interview for a job with the Grand Rapids Press. A paper route. I was to be an "independent Carrier". The woman from the GRP in charge of the Hastings area came to our house a few days later, my mom signed the forms and I had the job. She drove me on the route the first day to make sure I understood the process of leaving a paper on someone's porch. She gave me a little book designed specifically for keeping track of money collection and a large canvas bag with orange reflective edges and the press logo on the side. She also gave me a gigantic bag of green rubber bands, most likely to keep me occupied after work.
I started off the next day, alone, on my bike. I Lived near the south edge of Hastings, and my route happened to be on the North edge, it was quite a trip considering the incline and my weakling-ness. My papers were dropped off every day in front of the credit union, so I actually had time to rest while I rubber banded each paper and stuffed it into my bag. The neighborhood was mostly inhabited by the elderly... Or lonely middle aged people. The old men were always waiting for the paper. Watering the lawn, washing the car, sitting in a lawn chair in the garage, certain men always asked silly questions. "what's the word?". "uhhh"
I felt sorry for the old men who lived alone. Some of them were married to their lawns, but the others were just plain alone. One guy was always on his back porch around the time I came by at the end of the route, drinking lemonade and reading a book or doing some sort of puzzle. He'd always greet me enthusiastically with a "hey Joe!" when I opened the door to the porch and handed him the paper. One day I opened the door to find him at the table sitting across from a framed black and white picture of a young woman. He was drinking some sort of liquor. He greeted me with an "oh... hey there".
One year later, I was 15 and fed up with my monthly salary. It fell somewhere between $90 and $120 monthly. I tried to get a job at the new Applebees, but was disappointed to learn that the last of the positions suitable for a 15 year old were filled earlier that day. DAMMIT. The paper route had kept me from getting a new job. I relayed my dismay to the boss, and she offered me a new, larger paper route that was closer to home. Left with no other options, I accepted. The new route was much like the old route, but now included an entire retirement community. Retirement communities can be looked at by their denizens in two ways.
1.Pennock Village: A place where older people can enjoy their retirement without the worries of home maintenance and with the convenience of meals on wheels, a health club and a hospital next door (just in case) there's also a golf cart path that leads directly to the Kmart parking lot.
2. A prison... Forced upon you because you cant keep up the house anymore and your kids are pretty busy and can't come help you out all the time. Plus, you can't drive.
The difference of perspectives is made clear when it comes time to collect the money. Half the time, my money was left on the door or mailed to me in the envelope I had provided a week earlier. Half the time, I would have to knock on the door and politely demand my seven or thirteen dollars (depending on the subscription). Half of this time (one quarter of the entire time) the people inside were very nice and would offer me cookies or on warmer days, a drink. I always accepted. Sometimes I stuck around an extra few minutes to converse, and I ended up hearing some pretty cool stories about the old days, the depression, world war, vacations to Yellowstone, fishing, etc.
The remaining time was pure hell. Being a 13 year old left me with little right to argue or even defend myself against the cranky ones. Evidently, knocking on doors was taboo in the earlier half of the century - or so they made it seem. I'd knock at the door and be greeted with an angry expression and unkind words.
"I'm here to collect for the grand rapids press"
"Why do you always come around at dinner time!?"
"I shouldn't have to be interrupted from my meal"
"I'll get your money, but I really don't appreciate being interrupted during my dinner"
I could have responded with "perhaps you should hang some sort warning on the door next time you're eating dinner, bitch, assuming you still refuse to pay me on time with the conveniently pre-addressed envelope I provide you with every month. I know you can mail it, because I know you get the newspaper from outside your door which happens to be 3 steps from the mailbox, which has a large outgoing mail slot...If you can't acquire a stamp, just leave it on the door like some of your neighbors do. I don't think they'll steal it, you have quite a reputation for bitchiness".
Cranky elderly couples are even worse, they work as a team.
I kept up the job until my sixteenth birthday. After a very brief period of unemployment, I was hired at McDonald's.
TO BE CONTINUED - when you least expect it.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Friday, April 08, 2005
xanga revisited
This is the April Fool's page from maddox.xmission.com and pretty much sums up everything I hate about xanga, but couldn't put into words.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
walking through meijer and...
Stan once put mayonaise in his hair, but this stuff is hardly creative. This stuff is just disgusting. It's cholesterol AND PLACENTA!
Monday, April 04, 2005
MSU = Links
I stayed at MSU on Friday night, and most of Saturday (big basketball day). After reflecting upon my great weekend 10 minutes ago, I remembered that according to sitemeter, 21% of my page's visitors are from MSU, or at least visiting my page from an MSU server. After reflecting on my weekend at MSU, and my page's visitors from MSU I was reminded of my fellow bloggers who link to my site, namely, a Blogger who lives at MSU. After reflecting upon my weekend at MSU, my page's visitors from MSU, and my fellow blogger who lives at MSU, I was reminded of the fact that I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how to add a link field to the side of this page. I pasted the html in various places, assuming the links would eventually show up somewhere on the site, but obviously they have not. Look over there and see for yourself. I noticed that a few visitors were referred to my site from some of my friends' sites so I'm going to link to them right now. Actually, I'll link to a few others who didn't necessarily link to me, what the hell. This post serves as my temporary (and incomplete) link list.
Blog of the Hurricane
Guythatnooneknows has opinions
The Randall J. Supplement
The Isaac Haze
WYCE (listen online randomly in the middle of the night)
darth punker
Michigan Radio (npr)
isyouis
the human comedy
things I hate about my flatmate
UPDATE 4/21/05: since the conception of this post, my MSU visitor percentage has dwindled to 8% of total visits.
Blog of the Hurricane
Guythatnooneknows has opinions
The Randall J. Supplement
The Isaac Haze
WYCE (listen online randomly in the middle of the night)
darth punker
Michigan Radio (npr)
isyouis
the human comedy
things I hate about my flatmate
UPDATE 4/21/05: since the conception of this post, my MSU visitor percentage has dwindled to 8% of total visits.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Fiction 2
I had been waking up at 8:30 p.m. for the past few weeks, but since it was my birthday I decided to get up at 5. I put on some decent clothes, and did my hair in anticipation of my birthday celebration. The place was clean, as it had always been since she stopped staying there. I wasn't actually expecting anyone to show up but I got up early just incase the proposition turned out to be real, the birthday part really made no difference to me. I was prepared to sleep all day then head to work at 10:00 p.m. No one at work knew when my birthday was.
I was never ignorant enough to be "suprised" at what I'd become. I was perfectly aware of the way I was wasting away, alone. With the blinds drawn and the lights off, I would wake up, shower, shift the futon into couch mode, watch TV and chain smoke until it was time to leave. I was sure I was forgetting how to speak. I didn't eat much at the time aside from vending machine food. The fact that this was bad for me was indeed a fact that I was aware of, but self pity would just make things worse.
After living in Grand Rapids for 6 months I had no friends in the city, let alone my building. This was fine at first, I had a roommate afterall, and had moved there with the intention of continuing the pursuit of something that made so much sense before. Things were great then, and things were great for the first few months after moving. The place was awesome, she was awesome, my job, though not particularly awesome, was now 10 minutes away from where I lived. Things started to deteriorate around the same time her ignorance started to build. The bills would never pay for themselves, and the sleeping neighbors had feelings too. So did I. The only thing keeping me from cracking, aside from my razor sharp ability to reason, were the weekly visits from my friends and the alcohol they brought with them. The manufactured fun provided me with the opportunity to express my feelings for my departed companion in a healthy way: through disrespect and sarcasm. Mean, yes, but much less than what I was capable of. I would rush home (to my parents') as soon as possible every weekend with the ultimate goal of making normal social contact. The combination of skipping sleep on Saturday morning and the familiarity and safety of my parents' house provided me with just one good night of sleep per week. The pattern seemed to be working out, but it was obviously unhealthy. I hadn't been physically able to eat a full meal in a month, and had extremely painful chronic heartburn. Heartburn, how fucking ironic. One of my many attempts to break her shell of ignorance was to make my doctor's appointment while in the same room.
"Yes, I need to make an appointment"
"I've been having eating and sleeping problems"
"yeah that's fine"
She didn't even seem to notice that I was there, or that I was on the phone. I left my pepcid samples and paperwork on the counter a few days later in hopes of provoking some sort of inquiry, just so I could answer "BECAUSE OF YOU!", "YOU'RE THE REASON I CAN'T EAT OR SLEEP! DON'T YOU GET IT?". It didn't really work out that way. The hardest part of living with her was the fact that I lay restless on the other side of the room while she slept every night. The fact that she was right there, that she no longer wanted to even talk to me, that she seemed to hate me for no particular reason and there was no way I could get her to try to explain it really drove me crazy. Her alarm clock would wake me up from light sleep later in the morning, and I had to lay with my eyes closed and listen to her get ready for work. It was torture. The hardest part of living without her was the fact that all of her belongings were still there, teasing me. I was constantly distracted during my TV watching by the pile of clothes amassed on her bed. Sometimes I would throw my empty pop bottles into the heap. "fuck you, pile of clothes!" The sharpie writing around the door frame didn't help either. A few weeks earlier, she held a large late night party while I was at work. Some drunken asshole wrote each guest's name on the paint with the disclaimer "BUY PAINT TO FIX THIS SHIT". If only it were that easy, jackass.
I was very angry with her about the party, but she laughed at me. She also laughed at the noise ordinance violation that was left under the door the following Monday. I let her know how I felt about the blatant disrespect, and a week or so later, she was gone and I was alone with bills and no good explanation.
Around 8 there was a knock at the door. I jumped up, perplexed as to how my visitor could knock at my door without first being let into the building.
"happy birthday Josiah!"
Two of my friends entered the apartment.
"someone was going in, so we went in after them"
"ah ha"
"we put our money together and bought you a gift"
"sweet, thanks!"
"we didn't have any wrapping paper, so we just used newspaper"
I unwrapped it.
"holy shit, its the thing!"
"yeah, I remembered how cool you thought it was when you and I saw it in the store and decided it was overpriced... We got it anyways"
It was a tiny, highly detailed Asian cork carving in a small glass case.
"sorry I didn't bring a cake like I said I was going to" said my female friend
"no, you said you were going to come up here and bake me a cake" I replied
We ended up walking around downtown looking for a place to eat. Everything seemed to be closing just as we approached. I realized that this was the first time in weeks that I had been outside in the daylight (aside from my weekend commute to Hastings) and one of the few times I had ever walked around since I moved there. We found a place that was still open,"Harry's Brooklyn Pizza", and went in. The single piece of pizza and two fountain drinks I consumed nearly made me sick. I guess I wasn't quite to that point yet, but for the first time in a long time, I was having a great day.
Some of the happiest moments of my tenure in the city were the days we moved my things back home. My friends and I ran across the balconies, pushing loud carts and banging into corners. Hell, at that point I had nothing to lose. At the end of the night we sat on the steps outside and had a small "last time we'll ever smoke here" ceremony in which we reminisced about the other times we had smoked cigarettes on the steps. The time I found a pack of Newports and someone's car keys, then activated a car alarm while smoking a Newport, the time some guy promised us dozens of drunk women and a keg in 15 minutes, not to mention hookups to the VIP room at "the stack" (he went inside after just one of his cousins showed up, empty handed).
Everything came back together when I moved home, but the resentment for the girl who caused me so much distress has yet to cease. Every time I hear from her, begging for forgiveness, I get the same feeling in my stomach that I once had every single day and it's starting to seem that I've become the depressor. My principles and standards keep me from making more stupid decisions, leaving me with only one explanation for my coldness; I bought paint to fix that shit.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Fiction 1
I had just driven home from work, another day, another average day. I was put on one of the worst jobs in the pressroom. I had to stand, as opposed to sitting on a stool, and I was forced by boredom to actually complete 400 + parts. My mind would tell me to slow down, but my boredom would tell me to go faster, as if the day would end when I did. It rarely did. I usually had an extra half-hour between the time my job was over, and the time the bell rang at midnight. Tonight was no freaking exception. It was a Thursday and Thursdays usually meant watching my friends drink when I got home. I wasn't to the point where I was going to start drinking on work nights, I'd need some sort of problem to start that kind of problem. Funny how that works, the way one solves problems with other problems. I guess if it works, then there's still only two problems, and yet another problem has not been created. Problem problem problem.
I arrived at home approximately 48 minutes after midnight. I was wearing a nappy plain white tshirt, and an oft worn zip-up sweatshirt with a cigarette hole burned in the pocket. Everything is a god damned memory these days. I spit my chewing gum over my car, out into the rural abyss, slung the one good strap of my back-pack over my left shoulder, and headed to the door. I could hear the people inside laughing, having a good time. "already drunk" I thought. I opened the door and the party crowd was in the corner of the kitchen on some beer-drunk mission, when unexpectedly, two girls turned around simultaneously. Shit. This wasn't one of the regulars. This one actually appeared to be my age. This one was attractive. This one seemed different. She spoke. "hi". The look on her face told me that this wasn't going to be another MGD night, something was in the air, it was the high life, tonight was going to be a mixed drink with three ingredients; me, you and lots of vodka. (name) spoke "Josiah, this is my cousin (name), (name) this is Josiah". Name spoke next "I've been waiting for you all night" and kissed me on the cheek. FUCK...fuck fuck fuck... This doesn't happen to me, nothing like this is supposed to happen to me. My feeble mind cannot possibly bear the load of another, not again, not after those other times. My 19 year dry spell was not about to end. As much as I wanted it to, there was no way the two devils on my shoulders would let me experience any sort of pleasure. I could get the twins drunk, but they'd just become more witty and clever, like I do (I think I do). EDIT: The twins would just become jerks, like I do, and end up distracting me all night long.
I arrived at home approximately 48 minutes after midnight. I was wearing a nappy plain white tshirt, and an oft worn zip-up sweatshirt with a cigarette hole burned in the pocket. Everything is a god damned memory these days. I spit my chewing gum over my car, out into the rural abyss, slung the one good strap of my back-pack over my left shoulder, and headed to the door. I could hear the people inside laughing, having a good time. "already drunk" I thought. I opened the door and the party crowd was in the corner of the kitchen on some beer-drunk mission, when unexpectedly, two girls turned around simultaneously. Shit. This wasn't one of the regulars. This one actually appeared to be my age. This one was attractive. This one seemed different. She spoke. "hi". The look on her face told me that this wasn't going to be another MGD night, something was in the air, it was the high life, tonight was going to be a mixed drink with three ingredients; me, you and lots of vodka. (name) spoke "Josiah, this is my cousin (name), (name) this is Josiah". Name spoke next "I've been waiting for you all night" and kissed me on the cheek. FUCK...fuck fuck fuck... This doesn't happen to me, nothing like this is supposed to happen to me. My feeble mind cannot possibly bear the load of another, not again, not after those other times. My 19 year dry spell was not about to end. As much as I wanted it to, there was no way the two devils on my shoulders would let me experience any sort of pleasure. I could get the twins drunk, but they'd just become more witty and clever, like I do (I think I do). EDIT: The twins would just become jerks, like I do, and end up distracting me all night long.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
It's 6:20 a.m.
And I hear a motorcycle in the distance.........................................
I stepped outside to have a cigarette at 6:20 in the morning, expecting to hear nothing more than kittie's purring as she eats her food out on the frigid front porch. But I heard the motorcycle in the distance. I can only imagine the other times I've heard the motorcycles. I would lay in bed, sleepless, at my parents' house a few years ago. I had to work early the next morning, but neither my mental state, nor my sleep schedule would let me rest. Every Friday night, I would hear the motorcycles trekking down Broadway street. A fun night at the bar, and a drunken, two wheeled drive home. Up to that point I was always worried. "I'm never going to wake up in time for work" I would think to myself. Little did I know that my McDonald's life was just a tickler, a feather in the world of my work life... Three periods equals "continued". Boy are those three periods perfectly posed.
So I stand, leaning on the outside wall of this magnificent, tiny home, the house where I now live. Upon hearing the echoes of the 10 degree motorcycle ride, the first person I can think of is my own second cousin. Victor. Victor once worked as a lumberjack out in the forest, and once upon a time, a large branch fell on top of Victor's head. From that point on, Victor suffered from random headaches, and regular/random memory loss. Once when I was at the grocery store with my mom, we ran into Victor. She had to remind him of who she was and of course, he suddenly remembered, and she went on to tell a joke about the branch that fell on his head. He responded with laughter. The impaired have a default reaction. The impaired want to be treated as if they have no impairment, so a joke about said impairment has no adverse psychological effect on the person. If anything, it has a positive effect. I was young at the time, but shared an understanding between Victor and my mother, as was the case in most situations. I play pool at the Olde Town Tavern almost every Sunday, but during Hastings Summerfest, I've been known to play on weekdays. One such weekday, I ran into Victor, wearing his leather, motorcycle parked outside, talking on the payphone. I didn't approach him, knowing there was know way in hell he would know who I was. My friend made a joke about him, his "mullet" his "Pantera fan" getup, his barfly ways. But I respected this man more than I respected the friend who was making these comments. Afterall, he may act like it, but a branch never fell on his head.
I heard the motorcycle somewhere out in the rural abyss, and hoped upon all things that it was Victor. I hope he's on his way to some warm bed, to be shared with some beautiful, understanding woman. I wish this upon him more than I wish it upon myself, afterall, a branch never fell on my head...But maybe one should.
I stepped outside to have a cigarette at 6:20 in the morning, expecting to hear nothing more than kittie's purring as she eats her food out on the frigid front porch. But I heard the motorcycle in the distance. I can only imagine the other times I've heard the motorcycles. I would lay in bed, sleepless, at my parents' house a few years ago. I had to work early the next morning, but neither my mental state, nor my sleep schedule would let me rest. Every Friday night, I would hear the motorcycles trekking down Broadway street. A fun night at the bar, and a drunken, two wheeled drive home. Up to that point I was always worried. "I'm never going to wake up in time for work" I would think to myself. Little did I know that my McDonald's life was just a tickler, a feather in the world of my work life... Three periods equals "continued". Boy are those three periods perfectly posed.
So I stand, leaning on the outside wall of this magnificent, tiny home, the house where I now live. Upon hearing the echoes of the 10 degree motorcycle ride, the first person I can think of is my own second cousin. Victor. Victor once worked as a lumberjack out in the forest, and once upon a time, a large branch fell on top of Victor's head. From that point on, Victor suffered from random headaches, and regular/random memory loss. Once when I was at the grocery store with my mom, we ran into Victor. She had to remind him of who she was and of course, he suddenly remembered, and she went on to tell a joke about the branch that fell on his head. He responded with laughter. The impaired have a default reaction. The impaired want to be treated as if they have no impairment, so a joke about said impairment has no adverse psychological effect on the person. If anything, it has a positive effect. I was young at the time, but shared an understanding between Victor and my mother, as was the case in most situations. I play pool at the Olde Town Tavern almost every Sunday, but during Hastings Summerfest, I've been known to play on weekdays. One such weekday, I ran into Victor, wearing his leather, motorcycle parked outside, talking on the payphone. I didn't approach him, knowing there was know way in hell he would know who I was. My friend made a joke about him, his "mullet" his "Pantera fan" getup, his barfly ways. But I respected this man more than I respected the friend who was making these comments. Afterall, he may act like it, but a branch never fell on his head.
I heard the motorcycle somewhere out in the rural abyss, and hoped upon all things that it was Victor. I hope he's on his way to some warm bed, to be shared with some beautiful, understanding woman. I wish this upon him more than I wish it upon myself, afterall, a branch never fell on my head...But maybe one should.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
A selection from my huge novel
from: NOTSUR DNUORA SELCRIC PT. IV
...not to mention, the spotlight and the heat radiating from hearth's edge was making the dome extremely uncomfortable. I put out my cigar in the dog's dish and continued to aimlessly shuffle about the showroom. The band had started playing of a horrible dissonance and it was no longer possible to carry on a conversation with any of the members. Groups of 2nd, no, more likely 1st class Chamber Masters were sitting in small circles on the floor, making the trek more difficult than I had originally planned. I desperately looked for a clear spot where I could finally stake my claim, this was also made nearly impossible by the management's strict no-leaning policy...
Online Dating in Ruston, Louisiana! HERE!
...not to mention, the spotlight and the heat radiating from hearth's edge was making the dome extremely uncomfortable. I put out my cigar in the dog's dish and continued to aimlessly shuffle about the showroom. The band had started playing of a horrible dissonance and it was no longer possible to carry on a conversation with any of the members. Groups of 2nd, no, more likely 1st class Chamber Masters were sitting in small circles on the floor, making the trek more difficult than I had originally planned. I desperately looked for a clear spot where I could finally stake my claim, this was also made nearly impossible by the management's strict no-leaning policy...
Online Dating in Ruston, Louisiana! HERE!
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Burn On Sweet Fire
That's the title of one of the many romance novels, sitting atop one of the many piles of romance novels in the lunchroom at work. The cover of course, is a copy of a racy oil painting depicting a partially shirtless long-haired male clutching an open mouthed petite woman wearing a lacy old-timey dress. The peculiar and confusing thing about trashy romance novels is that the ending of the book is almost always given away on the cover. There is no point in reading one of these books. There is probably no point in writing these books either, but that is beside the point (If there even is a point here). My point is, piles upon piles of trashy romance novels can only mean one thing; someone at work is obviously very lonely. Somebody at work obviously doesn't have the unconscious ability to get themselves out of a rut, and probably hasn't for the past 30 years judging by the age and quantity of the books. Today happened to be the day that I unconsciously enabled my ability to unconsciously change myself, whilst driving home from work. Here's how it happened!
I'm an asshole. At least I have been lately. I'm also a really nice guy most of the time and I find myself jumping between these two phases about 6 times per year. I don't know what triggers the asshole phases. It's probably just a mechanism in defense of some wrongdoing, specific or not, that offended me just before the phase set in, or just a way to get out of a lull in action or "depressed" period. I put quotes around "depressed" to convey sarcasm. It's usually more boredom than depression. Either way, I get myself into these phases, and rarely notice the change. But as time goes by, my gut, like the innocent bystanders, starts to feel the effects of my own alter-ego. I was driving home from work earlier tonight and happened upon an illuminated church sign, you know, the kind with a clever message on the front. The one-liners seem to be just as important as the church service itself. If its not meant as an advertisement for the service, it's meant as a promotion of the church's message and is aimed the kind of person that drives more than they worship God. I am the latter.
This week's message:
Forbidden fruit causes many jams
If it weren't for the mood in my car created by the song that was playing, I probably would have thought something like "how can they never run out of those...Do they have books filled with clever church sign ideas"? But the song played on, and I started thinking about the message, and how It intertwined with one line of the song and how the two lines could be applied to my life right now.
Instead, I thought "I'm such an asshole!". The "forbidden fruit" had been eaten, and I am indeed in a little "jam".
On I drove, and on I thought.
Lately, people from my past have been casually contacting me, and I've been forced to sort through them in order to not make the same mistakes over again. There's a reason that I consider them "people from my past". The song is "fooled with the wrong guy" by Beulah and lyrics seem to fit my circumstances in an eerily literal fashion. (Although, the song sounds great under any circumstances).
The recent contacts served as the beginning of my phase shifting, the crafty church sign served as the realization of my current status, and the dark lyrics and overwhelming calm of the song that played in the car at the same time helped me realize that It was time for another change. The romance novel merely Served as a catchy title to this thread. Maybe sitting in the drivethru at McDonalds on the way home reminded me of a more simple time in my life, namely the summer after senior year when I still worked at McDonalds, practically had no job, had lots of friends who got along with eachother, many aquaintances, and all the time in the world. I could also get along with very little socialization skills. If only I could have what those church sign keepers have.
All in all, tonight's drive served as the denouement to my latest phase. I eventually got home, and being the nice guy that I am, fed the rest of my double cheeseburger to the cat. So far so good.
I'm an asshole. At least I have been lately. I'm also a really nice guy most of the time and I find myself jumping between these two phases about 6 times per year. I don't know what triggers the asshole phases. It's probably just a mechanism in defense of some wrongdoing, specific or not, that offended me just before the phase set in, or just a way to get out of a lull in action or "depressed" period. I put quotes around "depressed" to convey sarcasm. It's usually more boredom than depression. Either way, I get myself into these phases, and rarely notice the change. But as time goes by, my gut, like the innocent bystanders, starts to feel the effects of my own alter-ego. I was driving home from work earlier tonight and happened upon an illuminated church sign, you know, the kind with a clever message on the front. The one-liners seem to be just as important as the church service itself. If its not meant as an advertisement for the service, it's meant as a promotion of the church's message and is aimed the kind of person that drives more than they worship God. I am the latter.
This week's message:
Forbidden fruit causes many jams
If it weren't for the mood in my car created by the song that was playing, I probably would have thought something like "how can they never run out of those...Do they have books filled with clever church sign ideas"? But the song played on, and I started thinking about the message, and how It intertwined with one line of the song and how the two lines could be applied to my life right now.
Instead, I thought "I'm such an asshole!". The "forbidden fruit" had been eaten, and I am indeed in a little "jam".
On I drove, and on I thought.
Lately, people from my past have been casually contacting me, and I've been forced to sort through them in order to not make the same mistakes over again. There's a reason that I consider them "people from my past". The song is "fooled with the wrong guy" by Beulah and lyrics seem to fit my circumstances in an eerily literal fashion. (Although, the song sounds great under any circumstances).
The recent contacts served as the beginning of my phase shifting, the crafty church sign served as the realization of my current status, and the dark lyrics and overwhelming calm of the song that played in the car at the same time helped me realize that It was time for another change. The romance novel merely Served as a catchy title to this thread. Maybe sitting in the drivethru at McDonalds on the way home reminded me of a more simple time in my life, namely the summer after senior year when I still worked at McDonalds, practically had no job, had lots of friends who got along with eachother, many aquaintances, and all the time in the world. I could also get along with very little socialization skills. If only I could have what those church sign keepers have.
All in all, tonight's drive served as the denouement to my latest phase. I eventually got home, and being the nice guy that I am, fed the rest of my double cheeseburger to the cat. So far so good.
Monday, January 24, 2005
A few more are now available.
These pictures are from the Rockit King show I attended earlier this month.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Monday, January 03, 2005
things have been up with lots
UPDATE 2005
My last post was about the Northern Lights. I think I was going through some transcendent phase back then, becoming more of star player on Team Josiah's Mind. Then I moved out here to the country, to the back 40, wild cats chill on the porch (where there happens to be a couch). I've stopped loitering because of this place, I'm not constantly in search of the unattainable good time. Here, the good time is easily attainable and doesnt have to be searched for. Hey, I dont watch tv anymore.
So far, in order of personal acceptance, this blog has mostly been about :
Card Playing
Writing in this blog
My current place of residence (at the time of the particular post)
So far I am the most proud of my blog because:
I dont talk about romance (possibly because it doesnt exist)
I dont provoke anyone (except you, bitch)
I rarely post, even after a small amount of critical acclaim
The Killiteenz are back from Hiatus. We're writing songs again. If you dont know who the killiteenz are, you probably think I'm being serious right now. If you just read the word "Killiteenz" and thought I was being serious, you're probably reading this in CIT class.
But seriously, the killiteenz actually exist, and there will be links someday... If you're confused right now, just be patient and you'll eventually understand.
Questions? Comments? they feed my ego....... please throw me your intellectual scraps.
My last post was about the Northern Lights. I think I was going through some transcendent phase back then, becoming more of star player on Team Josiah's Mind. Then I moved out here to the country, to the back 40, wild cats chill on the porch (where there happens to be a couch). I've stopped loitering because of this place, I'm not constantly in search of the unattainable good time. Here, the good time is easily attainable and doesnt have to be searched for. Hey, I dont watch tv anymore.
So far, in order of personal acceptance, this blog has mostly been about :
Card Playing
Writing in this blog
My current place of residence (at the time of the particular post)
So far I am the most proud of my blog because:
I dont talk about romance (possibly because it doesnt exist)
I dont provoke anyone (except you, bitch)
I rarely post, even after a small amount of critical acclaim
The Killiteenz are back from Hiatus. We're writing songs again. If you dont know who the killiteenz are, you probably think I'm being serious right now. If you just read the word "Killiteenz" and thought I was being serious, you're probably reading this in CIT class.
But seriously, the killiteenz actually exist, and there will be links someday... If you're confused right now, just be patient and you'll eventually understand.
Questions? Comments? they feed my ego....... please throw me your intellectual scraps.
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