Sunshine is awesome

Sunshine truly is ridiculously, badassedly, hot-to-trot awesome.

I'm pretty sure I have SAD because in the winter I am sad.

SAD is no joke. Seasonal Affective Disorder. See that, I bolded the letters to show you why it's called SAD.

You know that feeling when the sunlight starts burning into you? Like you can pretty much literally feel your skin cooking? You liberal hippies and conservative wack-jobs probably call it that 'getting cancer' feeling.

I love that. It's awesome. It's like warming your bones. I need that like once every few days. It fuels me in this weird positive energy way. Like I know 'everyone loves the sunlight--it's only natural' but I'm talking I get way 'higher'. It's almost like sunshine is my drug. All winter I'm still pretty upbeat I'd say but nothing compares to sunny summer days. Sunlight is mega-cool.

They even say you get more vitamin D from sunlight.

I dare you to name any food or magic pill that can do that.















Summer Stats
--I dance about 7000% more at random
--I snap my fingers and air-drum 1100% more
--I can put up with ignorant customer's shit 3000% more
--I have a 300% increase in corny old-person joke outputtage
--I rock 4000% funkier on the bass
--I lift 50% more weight (when weight lifting)
--I run 40% farther (when running)
--I jump 11% higher (when sitting down)
--I do my work quicker and I'm generally 4000% more upbeat
--I take up crazy new hobbies
--I shampoo my hair -20% less
--I fight my dogs 300% more
--I argue with people 70% less
--My chance of curing cancer is 600% greater
--I can hold my breath longer (I'm not a scientist I don't know what %)
--I buy 220% more goods from girlscouts
--I shower -20% less
--I think I start to like my family more
--I swear 200% more
--I am inclined to give people compliments
--I build household bombs and plot against the government -10,000,000% less
--I like vegetables 3% more
--I threaten to murder, rape, and kill TV hockey referee's children -100% less
--I go out at night 511% more
--I drink beer 0% more. No, less.

So there you have it. Let's here it for sunshine.

It's time to get my 'italian' on.

Real Life v. Fake Life Round 1

Yes, the Flyers lost and I shaved.
Yes, the Penguins will get killed soon and I'll enjoy it.
Yes, it was like 90 degrees today and that's awesome.
Yes, we were up 6-2 the other night in Men's League and lost 7-6.


These are all simple facts. Easy. Regular. Part of life.

What's not part of life is Ibanez's grand slam tonight.
It's Matt Walker's broken finger.
It's me buying a charger at the T-Mobile store on Chelten.
It's Jamming in DC as part of Uranium Bassment.
It's driving stick shift in my car and loving manual transmissions.
It's free tuna hoagie's from Chubbie's.
It's the fact that this auto-dictionary doesn't have the word 'hoagie' in it.
It's wanting to become a chef in my life when I can barely cook toast.
It's starting to take protein and starting to work out so I look like Fabio.
It's me thinking about it, should I do it, growing my hair out.
It's going to the Russian Circles concert tomorrow night. Maybe.

Real life is one thing.

What's not real life is another.

Got it?


















It's acutally quite simple.

Or maybe they're all the same.

I forget sometimes.

I think I'll get a motorcycle.

Let Her Sing

Everyone already has the Penguins in the 2nd round.
The analysts have made their decrees.
The Penguins have it in their blogs.
Even the Philly papers have printed the obits.

It's over -- the results are in.
RIP - Flyers in Game 5
2009 Done.

In all honesty even I've given up (I never give up -- I'm a non-realist)
But this is just too much to handle.
Book it ladies and gentlemen.

And yet...

The Flyers haven't.

? Of course they say "Oh, we're still in this," and go through all the motions, when really, clearly, utterly you can already tell when a team knows they're done. But according to reports today at practice the Flyers were loose. The Flyers were confident. The Flyers were savoring the moment. Did they just stop caring? Are they insane?

?

I don't know what to make of it.

Maybe they are crazy. Maybe that's just what we need here in Flyerdom. This team has looked horrible, horrible, horrible before. They were losing 5-1 to Carolina early in the year and came out in the 3rd and my drunk ass was yelling "If you're gonna lose, rip someone's HEAD OFF" from the 200 level. But the Flyers didn't lose. They came out and won. It was insane. There's something about this team. You just can't keep them down. You just can't count them out. It got me thinking -- what's the point?

What's the point of giving up? What's the point of being a realist? What's the point of probabilities and statistics and numbers and words? This is the '09 Flyers team. This is the '09 Pens team. This series has never happened before. These two individual teams have never met in a best of seven. Throw everything out the window. And honestly -- who gives a fuck?

Let the Fat Lady Sing.

Let all the doubters, all the realists, all the normals come out and say their peace. This is our night. This is the '09 Flyers baby! We can lose 14-0 and I'm still gonna yell. I'm still gonna scream. I'm still gonna go nuts. So why not hold out hope?

Let the fat lady sing, I say.

We're going to stuff her mouth so full of high sticks, flying elbows, and Claude Giroux dangles it won't matter. We are going to Mike-Richards-destroy,
Simon-Gagne-snipe, and Carcillo bang that bitch until it doesn't matter. We're gonna skate, check and deke our fist right into her bloodied mouth over and over.

And maybe, just maybe, we shut her up just long enough to get to Monday night. We shut her up until Game 7. And maybe, just maybe, because, let's admit it, this is crazy, maybe it'll be OUR fat lady singing Monday night. Maybe Kate Smith's 'God Bless America' will rock apart the Wach for Game 6 and echo all the way into Monday night and it'll be the Penguins standing in there in utter shock.

It's delusional, it's a longshot, it's a snowball's chance in hell -- and call me crazy -- but I like our odds.

blank

I Am Jack's Seething Rage

4.20

It's 4-20 Yo

Gettin Baked
Rippin a J
Puffin Cheeba
Smokin the Ganja
Hittin the Hash pipe
Partaking in botanicals
Packin a bowl
Lighting up a fatty
Smokin Dope
Ploughing through the Drug Milky Way
Peace Pipe play time
Tokin on the bong
Crushin herb
Jumping on the Highway
Investigating a hit
Hotboxin without the box
Getting stoned and Bowled over
Refueling the Marijuana gland
Keiffer Smokerland
Joyriding the Magic pipe
THC Time
Diving into the high geyser
Smokey and the Bandit one less bandit
Moking Smarijuana
Procuring goods and services
Journeying to the Center of the Earth
Getting ready to watch Planet Earth
Sudden (Hunger) Valley
Getting ready to get ready to get the munchies
Letting your lungs know who's boss
Filling out an Rx for Red Eye
Sending smoke signals
Sparkin some bud
Shotgunning some Leaf
Doing illegal activities
Turning water into wine into marijuana
Praising the Lord of Greenage
Going to "WaWa"
Saying no to sobriety
Getting like the barometric pressure after rain
Letting combustion take it's course on drugs
Joining the Purple Haze convent
Living underwater but instead of water it's smoke
Convincing your brain and pretending to smoke tobacco
Getting ready to praise the Holy Spirit if the Holy Spirit were pot
Watching music videos on youtube for hours
Taking a really really long shower and almost falling asleep
Watching Last Action Hero because the remote is like, totally, all the way over there
Eating a bowl of cereal at midnight
Hookah brother up
Blazing one






















Whatever you wanna call it, man. It's like totally what I'll be doing to celebrate (one day in the next few weeks or months or so)

Blaze on, pothead.

Carcillo Supsended

Dan Carcillo suspended for Game 2. Why?

Intimidation tactics and "trying to send a message."

The NHL is a joke. Gordie Howe would punch the NHL in the mouth. The Rocket would slash the NHL in the eye. Rick Tocchet would have sex with the NHL in front of a full-length wall mirror.

Pretty much anyone who's played in the NHL up to 15 years ago would club the NHL's mother over the head with a rock and then mount her and point to the NHL's dad and tell him 'he's next.'

It's sad. And it makes me more and more bloodthirsty.

Does Carcillo look like a Flyer?
He's only been here for a month or two and already he's getting 'Flyer for Life' treatment by the refs and NHL brass.



















If this 'wussification' of the NHL keeps up I might have to take up watching Curling (Germany won and I so bet on it on ESPN Streak for the Cash.) Or I could take up murder.

Truely Truth in True

Hockey. What is it anyway?

It's just a barbaric sporting event the way I see it. I mean, who puts all their eggs in a basket that actually allows fighting as part of the game?

It's just a game.

War on Ice

It's 5:26 pm Wednesday night.

In less than 3 hours until all of the shit hits the fan at once.
The bomb goes off.
Everything reaches critical.
Something explodes while something else implodes.
Particles start racing around at absolute zero.

I'm wired. I'm really nervous right now. It's like when you drink a ton of beers and you double fisted Miller Light cans out in the open in DE and when the cop pulled you over he found out you were under 21, and you were drunk in public, and you were pissing in a tree while he wrote you a ticket and now you have to face him in court and pretend to deny at least one of your charges so you don't get kicked out of college. It's like that. And I'm going insane.




















War on ice.

These two teams don't like each other. These two fan bases are not friendly.

War on ice.

Someone is going to die tonight. It could be me. It could be Crosby. It could be Scott Hartnell.

War on ice.

I can't even think straight right now. I'm waiting to pounce or attack or kill or dropkick something in the mouth.

War on ice.

I need to go do something before I explode. I've been waiting all year for the magic that is the Stanley Cup playoffs and it's finally here. I'm like a kid who wakes up at 5 am Christmas morning. You can't just GO BACK TO SLEEP! Only this is like imaginary Christmas. It's Christmas where you open presents and they're bazooka's and hunting knives and skateboards and badass electric guitars (ones you don't even have to learn to play!) and slow-moving dim-witted zombies are coming from everywhere!

You don't feel bad when you shoot a zombie!

This is war on ice god damnit! And I typed "Flyers Penguins" into google and this showed up.









While I'm not confident that we're necessarily going to win this game -- or this series -- I do know this is a good sign.

Is that camel toe I spy?

This is a great sign!

Excuse me, but I've gotta get out of here. 40 Red Bulls, 3 lines of cocaine, 72 Jolt Cola's and one 5-hour energy (Lime flavor) and I'll be ready to go.

Ready for WAR ON ICE!!!

The Passing of a Legend

Harry Kalas
March 26, 1936–April 13, 2009


There isn't much I can say to really hit home the point about Harry the K.
He truly was the Voice of the Phillies. I have yet to hear a Phillies game without his voice since I was born. He was there when my dad turned 10. He has probably spoken through that radio in the garage on Bysher Ave to my grandfather over 5,000 times. He's the freaking voice of NFL films.

He's the kind of guy my kids will ask me about. He's voice that's tied to so many clips that have become our memories. Sure, he was just an announcer--but he brought something special to the table. He brought something you can't measure in decibles, or wins and losses, or neilson ratings. It's somewhere in between the lines. I can't explain it, but he's forever tied in there with all our Phillies records. He's there when the Phillies picked us up. His voice will be played again and again and again long after any of us are still around to here it. And he was a class guy. He had "it."

Something about him made him feel like everyone's grandfather. I didn't know him but I bet he had that grandfather smell. I bet he smoked cigars. I bet he always told old stories. He wasn't just a great professional--he was personal. We all knew him somehow.

This truly was one of those people in your life that you don't truly know how big a part of your life they are, until they're gone. The whole city felt it. We will continue to feel it. And I have a feeling we still don't even realize just how deep this hurt runs.

Because you taught me to say MickY MoranDIni!!
Because every time there's a deep, long fly ball to right field will it really be OUTTA HERE
Because you brought me the first Philadelphia World Championship of my life
Because when I say to myself CHASE UTEY, YOU ARE THE MAN!!!! will I be saying it alone
Because before you -- he was just Mike Schmidt
Because whenver there's an 0-2 pitch, I'll hear STRUCK 'IM OUTTTT!!
Because you're the one who gave us all such highhhh hopes -- high hopes


--you will always be missed
and you will never be forgotten.
--the voice of the Phillies
may you echo out into forever.

Doven Man Masvenhoven

Don Van Massenhoven (I could have looked it up and spelled it right but I'd rather spell it wrong in a form of disrespect) is a god damned retard. He's a communist. He's a pirate (the gay butt-kind). He's a disgrace.

I hope he's held accountable for all of his games. I hope the league reviews him and realizes he probably doesn't know more than my younger sister Nadine does about hockey. I hope they suspend his referee license (they have those, right?) I hope he can't get another job. I hope he doesn't make enough money to feed his family. I hope his child dies. Then I hope he makes enough to support himself and his wife and his other child. But I also hope he keeps looking back on his past in regret and his dead son's cries for more food always haunt him. He'll look back and go 'man, that wasn't the first time I totally screwed Philadelphia in a game, but that is when my life took a turn for the worse.' I'll say something witty lik: "isn't karma a bitch, don?" or "do you need a dollar, sir?"

I'll even buy the guy a cheap gun (look, I'm not spending mad dollars on the thing-- he's already demonstrated he can't perform well under pressure. For all we know I could buy him a fancy gun, he could try to kill himself, and he could still screw it up-- retard).

Maybe someone else should *wink wink* buy him something (like a dirt nap)














Even in this picture--I keep seeing him point to the penalty box and making a 'hooking' or 'tripping' motion.

After I got my way I'd only make one motion at Don-- the jerk- off.





I'd be like "Hey Don, I totally had dirty dirty back-door intercourse with your mom the night you tried to have back-door intercourse with the Flyers. Oh wait, only one big difference-- Don, I cut your mom's throat with a razor blade and watched her bleed to death in front of a mirror. My bad man. Totally an accident. We're even I guess."

At least I'd be straight forward with him you know. He'd probably think I was doing that to his 'live' mom.

That's messed up.

I'd only do it to her upper half that I'd have set to the side.

Oh, Don.

You crack me up buddy. You silly sir.

Hope your life, your family's life, and your career in the NHL are fruitful and don't end horribly in flaming car wrecks.

Chances Are...

Chances are....
the music I'm listening to is 78,000 x more badass than anything anyone else is listening to.






















Do you think viking metal is a joke?
Just look at their album cover.









Chances are...
my favorite football player left on the Eagles is white.
















Stewart Bradley may look white but he moves so fast and tackles players so hard the jury is still out.









Chances are...
Scott Hartnell's hair is the secret to his strength and overpowers the opposition.

















It may never stop growing. It may never stop flapping in the breeze. We might start having to call him 'Scott Hartnell's Hair' and refer to how little Scott Hartnell it has showing.















Chances are...
I'm going to use stabs and grenades only (no guns) and still get the top overall score in COD4






















Before I work out, I will play Call of Duty 4 and stab, stab, stab, stab everyone in the game while they say things like "that's BULLSHIT!"









Chances are...
I don't know who the Secretary of Defense is, nor what his title entails.























His name is Robert Gates. I've never heard of him before in my life, I've never seen him in my life, and I have no clue if he even has a party affiliation. And I sure as shit know he's an American.










Chances are...
I just got Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas in the mail today and I'll be reading it.

























I ordered it from Amazon.com the other day because it wasn't in the bookstore. Why wouldn't they carry this in the bookstore?









Chances Are...
I won't be shaving for a while after this Sunday.





As soon as the NHL playoffs start the fun is over. It's business time. Business beards are in the house--and where it ends only Lord Stanley and the Flyers can decide.























Chances are...
I would be so unstoppable amounts of badass if I drank from this coffee mug









I typed in the word 'punch' into google image and this came up. I've never seen such a thing. I've never heard of such a thing. And I don't think I can go another day without it.













Chances are...
Mike Richards is CANNON!!!!




[Fact]

Hockey with some hockey and a hockey helping of hockey. With hockey. Hockey.

It's another Monday and I'm already thinking about the weekend. A whole lot of badassedness is afoot.

Phantoms.
Drunken Clams at the Spectrum.
Flyers division hockey.
Flyers again. Agaisnt a division team.
Ice hockey tryouts for Men's League B.
NHL playoffs start soon.

Wow, so yes, actually a whole lot of one thing-- ice hockey.

And yes, I'll be trying to crack a +30 league and playing with the big boys (that's B league for all you C league caliber players). I just hope I don't get so pumped about NHL and Flyers stuff that it carries over into my hockey and I start flying elbowing innocent people. Slide tackle the refs in a friendly pick-up game. Maybe take a 2-hander to the first guy on my new team that says "Hey, I'm Dave welcome to the team." Spit on some teammates kids face and throw dollar bills at his wife. Bite my new goalie's ear. Who the hell knows what can happen with this playoff hockey flying around in the air! Lock up the children and cover the booze's eyes-- crimes agaisnt decency and civility are right around the corner.

I can't wait for it. The violence, the intensity, the cursing, the alcohol, the blood-for-blood revenge. And that's just the family get togethers on Easter!

Iron Maiden - Hallowed Be Thy Name

It's really a countdown to so much more. Playoff hockey is like... I don't know what it's like. Days can go by. Whole weeks will go by and I'll remember horribly officiated high sticking calls (he barely touched the guy!), weak offsides (dude, if they called that offsides like they should have they wouldn't have scored on the Flyers in the 2nd period on that delayed penalty and we would have won), and any number of insignificant on or off-ice details (remember when they showed that dickface sitting on the bench when they went up 5-3 and he was smirking? Yea, I wanted to kick his face in).

I'll remember all of this and I will have no idea what day of the week it is. I will be wearing clothes all day and when you ask me if I'm wearing jeans or basketball shorts I will look down and stare at my legs and still not be able to tell you. I will wake up at 3am and for no reason I will walk to WaWa to get milk and when I get there I will have forgotten what I came for. I will kick this computer over and over and not realize 'hey, this isn't my dog' (that I was going to kick).

Things will not make sense to me. All will be either way too focused or not focused at all. I'll be all out of sorts, off in another world, and totally detached from my own life for about 3 weeks straight. And I'm starting to think it has something to do with me being constantly really, really, really drunk.

Go to Hell, Satan.

Ok, I figured it out.

My new TV-movie is going to be freaking unstoppable hotness. It's based on a book I'm going to write one day.

Ok, so quick synopsis, there's this guy, and he's standing on the foot of this really big dais (like steps leading up to a king and his throne.) There's this like cheesey corny metal piano piece playing in the background and we see our hero is pleading to this king who you can't see at the top of the landing. Of the dais. So he's pleading and there are like tears in his eyes and he's got his hands folded and he's asking for something but we can't quite hear.

The throne spins around and we see it's -- gasp! -- Satan!

Satan turns and points disapprovingly. He gets up all big and badass and he's blasting this guy with words.

"Your soul was forfeit in contract, earth creature. It was mine from the day you decided you wanted me to save your family in exchange."
"But then you murdered them!" The man yells, getting angry now.
"HaHaHaa foolish human. What's mine is mine and you are vanquished from me. Your eternal soul is mine and there is nothing you can do."

The man looks down at his open hands. He is at a loss for words.

Satan turns his back on the man, "Leave me mortal, I have no time for you." He sits back in his throne and sits down.

"This isn't fair. I sold my soul to the devil in exchange for their safety and you murdered them. My soul can't be yours."

"I murdered them after i saved their miserable lives," Satan explains, growing bored. "Once they were saved your soul was mine and I was free to do what I pleased. And it pleased me greatly to slaughter them as they cried for help. BaHaaHaHaa!"

The man is at a loss--can only stand there in rage.

"And your wife and child were totally gay" Satan adds.

Something terrible washes over the man. A mask of rage seethes through him. He grits his teeth and his palms close into clenched fists. He glares up at Satan and starts shaking in rage.

Satan gets this look and all of a sudden starts shaking, turning around real quick to look at the man. All the sudden metal music starts kicking in with this badass riff. Satan is looking all around to see where the music is coming from.

All of a sudden a guitar appears in the man's hands and he's the one shredding out the song.

Satan gets up foaming and screaming "I banish you! Away earth creature! You have no power here!"

But the man keeps coming forward slowly, all the while badass licks are flying out of the guitar.

Satan lets out this torcherous scream and jumps to his feet. "It's burning! I'm BURNING!!"

The dude is walking up toward Satan, all the while playing, and then the solo starts.

Satan is holding his head and suddenly burst into flames.

The song goes into this mad frenzied finger tap solo part and Satan is a raging blaze.

"AAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaAAAAGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" Satan screams into the air, arms flailing.

The dude is right next to him by now and Satan has fallen to his knees in pain. The guy hits this sweet note mid solo and bends it on the guitar like all the way and just holds it while lifting his guitar high in the air over his head.

Satan's head explodes in slow motion and the pieces fly all over the place.

The dude lays down his mighty axe and sits in Satan's throne and a chorus of angels dressed in metal armor appear at the landing of the dais and are all singing sweet vocal harmonies and the piano is playing again and this time there's a sweet 'ending song' type riff playing.

He sits on his throne and turns to the camera and says "Go to hell, Satan." And puts on the crown and the camera pans back and it all gets farther and farther away and fades out.








Now all I have to do is write this badass as shit story!

Winds O' Change

You know that expression, "The winds of change"? I think I figured out what it refers to. Unlike some learned (pronounced ler-ned) scholars and some jamokes who claim the phrase is metaphorical I know for a fact it is literal.

I was closing up the front gates today at A & E listening to Lamb of God - The 11th Hour when it hit me. Literally. The wind.

It was a warm enough day and a cool breeze blew right in my face in just the right way where you smell and you taste a thousand things. It was just this moment that stood still. And the feel in the air was old. Way old. Old to the point where you stop calling things 'old' and start calling them 'ancient'.

And to put it literally, the wind has been around for..... a few billion years. It changes form and goes through thousands of complex chemical transitions and transfers compounds and breaks down and is absorbed by creatures and animals but some wind has got to be old. Think about it. The air you're breathing could be between 1 hour and 1 billion years old. And I don't know how you can tell the difference or if there even is a way to tell but this wind was incredibly old.

It was an ancient wind. It stirred something inside of me. It stirred my soul. It awoke something in me that I can't describe. It was like a voice came to life inside of me and answered a question I had never heard before. It was like something in that wind, something older than any man, called out to something in me. And part of me, part that felt older than anything I ever felt, a part I'd never heard before, was reaching out and answering the wind.

Like a cry to battle. Like a call to leave this place. Like a voice without words. Like a language flying and swimming in a sea of ideas. Like a need to leave this human body.

It only lasted a second. But I felt like I was supposed to do something. I felt like something deep-routed in my DNA was meant for something else. It wasn't a bad feeling. It wasn't a good feeling. It was an itch I could never scratch. It was a flash of something I never was. It was a taste of somewhere I'd never even imagined. And it was familiar.

I think that was the weirdest part. It was familiar. I've felt this before. Somewhere deep, deep down I recognize it. Somewhere beyond my own memories of Nick Capozzi, beneath anything I can remember as the 24 years of living being, behind anything I can accurately put into words -- somewhere in me or under me or through me it all felt familiar.

And I was supposed to do something. I was supposed to go somewhere. And I keep seeing pictures of mountains. I keep hearing the noise of the sea in my ears. I keep tasting fire on my tongue. It's something natural I'm sure. It's something I'll feel again. It's wild and it's free. It's huge. I mean huge. Vast beyond space. I want to take off sprinting. I want to vault into the unkown. It's like this spike in adrenaline and my breathing gets a little shallower. And everything slows down just a little. And I remember things I never experienced. And I want to break free. Break free.

It's in the wind. And it feels like forever. But it only lasts a couple seconds. And it's gone. You keep pulling down the other gates and locking the masterlocks and the cars are still driving by and volume slowly leaks back out into the world around you.

And that's it. It's a taste of something. Something 'anceint' I guess. I can't prove it ever but I feel like it's something animals feel all the time. Maybe something trees and plants feel. It's like the very very basic lowest form of feeling 'alive'.

You want to run, to dance, to fight, to explore, to breathe, to jump. To live. It's electric and it's a feeling I've had before. And I'll have it again at random.

I assume other people feel it, too. Or I'm off my rocker and listening to too much Lamb of God (that's a joke, you can't listen to too much Lamb of God). Either way, I'm pretty sure that's what the winds of change really are. And why you ask is "O' Change" in the title? I felt like making the title more Irish. Duh.