opeth

opeth - the devil's orchard

oh baller.


you're welcome america.

keep forgetting.
keep forgetting everything.
keep forgetting the order of everything.
when did they happen? who was there? in what order?
am i mixing some of my own stories with dreams?


am i dreaming now?



it's all happening in 7/4. everyone knows the dance steps but me.
it's all flying by me in slow-motion, wrapped up in the delirium of up-tempo jazz.



"CLEAR!!"

The metal press comes down to my left, pressurizing, locking and then releasing steam.
I grab my face in my hand and let it slide down. I sigh and pull the red lever to my right.

I haven't been sleeping too well lately. Too much on my plate. The divorce. The kids. The promotion. The nightmares.

What day was it? Wednesday? Christ, I could use a beer.

music

music.
it always comes back to music. well, "music" and "time".


in life, i find myself boiling my politics, my love-life, my herbs, my spices, my views on international-trade, sex & drugs all in one big pot--and no matter the ingredients, no matter the stirring, no matter how i mix it all together.... i taste only the dulcet tones of one particular song. and it's the same song every time. i don't know what this song is. i don't understand any of the words in this song. it has been growing for 26 years. it has shifted and faded, changed and swelled. it never stands still and i don't know where it will go next. and it is oh so devilishly delicious.












so, yes, also, i can taste music.



i haven't played bass in over a week. i tried to play drums today but gave up after 10 minutes because i was having a "not-feeling-it-sesh,-man". i wish i had more time to rock out, i really do. lately i've been doing gads of things (i didn't really use 'gads' there) and just haven't had the time. it's like will ferrel in old school

FRANK: "Maybe bed, bath & beyond. i don't know. i don't know if we'll have enough Time!"























but it's true. that's what life is. figuring out what to do with your time.
and looking at it now, im starting to think i haven't lost as much music as i think i have. as im sitting here writing this i realize i've lived a shit-ton of lady gaga songs over the past couple months. i've gonna my swag on to more than one ke$ha song. i think i saw britney spears live a few weeks ago (fuzzy memory, lost cell phone, far from stage). Yea, none of these songs are ever going to make my top 500. i will never let my friends know i've ever enjoyed any of them. ever.


but who says you can't enjoy crappy music if you're with good friends? and making (more) great fuzzy memories? and who says you can't enJOy the music you don't enjoy? you have to live in the moment. you have to taste the sounds around you. you have to swirl around in whatever rhythm your song is creating.

you can't decide which songs make you smile when you remember a city, or a place, or a friend's awful hat. you can't tell what song might drive you to take up golfing. you can't know what songs will bring you back from the edge of depression. you don't get to pick what songs make you fall in love. you don't know which songs will ultimately drive your life. and you don't get to know what song will be your last.



so i sit here shirtless by the computer and i can't 1000% remember why i started writing this post. no clue. but that's ok. the tattoos emblazoned on my back are itching right now. itching for bass and for drum and for the sweet respite of time one finds just after midnight. it's time to do something i havent done in weeks. it's time to make sweet, sweet music to my bass. to add to my song. to give a little and to listen a little.

we've all got to listen. the music is all around us. those delicious songs drop in from time to time. here and there. whenever we least expect it.
it's our job to take them.
grab them.
and just hold on.

and for god's sake--- dance.

The Gears Above

the fates lie in wait
the time to move is now

shift from 2nd to 3rd
the low-growl on asphalt

where are we going?
look up, see the ribbon unwind

"i dont know-- forward.
just hold on."

metallic teeth, alloys unhinged
the time to move is now

3rd to 4th now
the starshine drips down

the fates lie in wait
we're searching for 5th gear

Holy Shit

Holy Shit my desktop got fixed and i remembered the password to my blog.



am i a 'blogger' once again?

k. william scott

K. William Scott.
Scottsdale, Arizona.


billy scott.
bill.
k.
the scoff (his coworkers)
william (his mother)


this is the man i must kill.


the K. doesn't stand for anything. it's one of those names. and it's never just a "K" either. it's got to be connected at the foot to that period.

"K.".

like that.



Germaine Street Pre-K.
Kelpville Elementary.
Kelpville High. (basketball team)
University of Illinois. (accountant/business classes)
Hilton Research Co. (consultant)
6', 173 lbs. 33. glasses.
mole over right cheek.
wife, daughter, dog named Sam.


every day that goes by is a day closer to when i will kill K. William Scott.


i've never met him.
i've never talked to him.
i don't even know why i need to kill him.

but i do.


and i'm so very afraid.
i laugh because you think it's your laws, your morality, your sense of stability and reason that frighten me.


i'm sorry to tell you but they don't so much as pose a nuisance, let alone keep me at bay. i could drive onto Red Valley Rd, park beyond the culdesac, walk onto 2119 Faulton Way, jimmy the side door lock, walk in, press 5119 (his and janet's birthdays), turn left, up the stairs and glide into the bedroom on the right -- careful not to step on the creak at the foot of the door -- and slit K. William Scott ear-to-ear before janet even had a chance to wake up and scream. keep on screaming.

i could.

but then what?

no, not the law. not justice. not reality. not guilt.





the voice.






what would happen to the voice?

the voice i've had since i was 7. the voice that kept repeating the name "K. William Scott" like some magic elixer into my ear....

at first i was terrified by the voice.

doctors. therapists. psychiatrists. pills. crying. fighting. mother. no father. couldn't concentrate in school.


no one could explain it.

no one could hear the voice but i.

and who in the world is K. William Scott?!
why in the world is his name whispered into my ear every. single. day?


and what did it mean?

was it me?
was i K. William Scott?


and then it happened.


google.


i was 21 years old and for a research project at school we were allowed to use internet search engines.


and there they were, my fingers tracing the letters, almost as if someone else were controlling them.

"K-.--W-I-L-L-I-A-M--S-C-O-T-T"

i found him.





but it wasn't enough.

the more i obsessed, the more the voice took shape, whispered into my brain.

hurt him.
stop him.
kill him.


and there it was.



i told no one.

i researched more and more. frantically, moving to Arizona. searching him out. following the trail of breadcrumbs left behind. always searching, always gathering information, always hungry for K. William Scott. i needed more. i needed to end this.

but then what?
why kill him?
who am i?


so many questions, so much doubt, so un....sure.....


what happens when i do?
would the voice go away?
would i be alone forever?
what was this? where am i?

the years were peeling away around me, i didn't know who was up and what was down. i only knew K. William Scott. if i lost him....if i finished my one mission.... what would....


is this true madness?









what am i?







i ordered another gin and tonic, using two fingers to massage my aching forehead, willing it all to swill away with the next drink. Jillson's was packed full tonight and when i got my drink i tipped her well. i wanted her to remember me and keep bringing them as i needed them. i sipped on the cool, soothing elixer, a touch of the honey-drunk buzz beginning to spiral in my mind while K. William Scott ordered his 4th Bud Light across the bar, clinking bottles with his friend Dave. all the while i watched.



like always, i watched.

sometimes there's a rhyme in my head

.... it's weird, i've wanted to write for days and days now. and days.

it builds up. words and thoughts overflow, get jumbled. soon, work intertwines, the days become nights, running and running, and before you know it:

it's payday
it's christmas
it's your second wife's third honeymoon anniversary
it's the holocaust chapter II
it's the last wednesday before you die (you do realize that day is coming, right?)
it's national pi day
it's that fucking ovaltine commercial again.

it's always.... something.






















and it really is. human memory chains us to tradition, to friendships, to dates, to anniversaries, to ideas, to relationships in general.

the longer we live and the more people we engage in, the more we're 'integrated'. the more we're 'connected'. the more we're 'stuck in place' on a social level. the more 'amalgamated' into families and dramas.

i'm not rallying against it or anything. but it happens.














down with society!
down with relationships!
burn the calendar!
kill everyone over 30!!




it's just a fact of life. and it all just seems so fast.

sometimes it's the 'in between' moments i love the best. sometimes it's when i'm alone, unattached to anything or anyone, that i'm free to just 'be'.

in fact, right now, when i'm finished writing this, i'll go for a walk and just smoke a cigar. just chill. jam out some tunes, maybe think a few up. get away from people, and twitter, and the internet, and my family, and my cell phone, and my dog, and my computer chair....

no one. no thing.

and i couldn't do it always. i do love people (sexually, if you catch my drift). and i'm not about to forsake all my human relationships and social statuses (sexual ones, if you catch my drift).














just sometimes..... there's a rhyme in your head. there's a beat under your feet. there's swagger in the air. you can taste the electricity, roll it on your tongue. starlight catches your eye. it's something......

well, you know what i mean.

the Fight Club

every guy lives to bring the brawl.
every man strategizes fight scenarios.
every single male imagines a melee.

every fella in here has:
The Zombie Plan
The Meteor Plan
The Aliens Plan
and The Terrorist Plan.

this is, without question, a matter of fact.
a zombie attack? a meteor will crash into earth? terrorists take over? it's ok, we've got it covered. don't sweat it.

oh, hey, there's that cute young girl Sarah, in the mall with her boyfriend Mark! she's talking non-stop, hanging onto his arm, going on and on about the new girl at your work who totally wears too much eye-liner and-- "Mark, are you even listening?"
no, Sarah, Mark is not listening. he can't.
he's answering to a higher power.

-action jackson thought processes are firing a mile a minute-
he's looking at those two clowns on the other side of the mall.
------30 feet away, about 5'9 and 5'11, both probably right handed, 18 years old, a buck-60-ish, urban dressed, dull-eyed dimwits who aren't moving particularly quickly, the shorter one a few pounds overweight, the taller one probably lighter than mark and less sure on his feet, wearing awkward skater shoes, cant run, he's the quicker target, carrying a lightweight bag probably clothes in it, one park bench heavy enough to hold Mark's weight should he need the hurdle in between, a trash can with a removable lid, heavy plastic, one of those planted indoor trees about 10 feet to the left, a full glass wall, roughly 40 other witnesses in the immediate area/people to break it up if things go wrong, his left leg hurts from that bruise on his shin, lead with the right, tense the knuckles, untense, no other real props, a man carrying a cane or umbrella? 20 feet ahead, Sarah can be kept out of range, the tall one has long pullable hair, take one out first as quick as possible, then concentrate on the other, exits behind me towards the bathroom, no cops, can they ID me, where is......----
"oh, yea. totally. i agree," says Mark.
like fuck Mark agrees.















status of this dbag: fucked


all this goes down in a matter of 2 seconds in some weird T1000 / Terminator mode that flickers on and then back off in a blink of an eye. it's entirely subconscious. Mark doesn't even know the two kids walking by in the mall. Mark doesn't even care, he wasn't really getting ready to fight them...but if for some reason those two fuck-bags turned into zombies or terrorists or just decided to attack Mark and Sarah-- Mark was ready to flipkick those mothers in their dirty zombie mouths, crack some necks, flee to safety, and evade any identification. But they don't. And Mark doesn't care. And Sarah keeps talking about that girl at work.

well guess what Sarah? you're welcome.
Mark just planned on saving your life. and I don't know if anyone's told you, but maybe you wear entirely too much eye-liner. did you ever think of that? did that ever occur to you? did you ever think of that or think about your own survival in the face of cataclysmic and life-threatening disaster? of course not.

you're a selfish, selfish girl Sarah, and I think maybe I'll talk to Mark about finding a girl who really gets him. (and doesn't listen to entirely too much Taylor Swift).
now I know women can think this way, I'm not saying they can't. I'm just saying all men do. all the time.

it happens every day. it usually happens every hour.

we plan ahead--not for our weekend at your parents house in June, SarAh--but for the inevitable. we hone our minds to become strategic, precise, killing tacticians. it's not just killing and fighting. it's running to the gun shop if there's a zombie outbreak. it's planning on stockpiling food, sexy lubes and weapons in the event of any kind of survival scenario. it's hotwiring that camaro with the top down in the parking lot if the government moves in to take him down.

maybe it's some leftover human survival instinct--born of territorial and/or self-defense mechanisms. i don't know.
maybe it's a product of violence in media --our glorification of the dominant, aggressive, explosive power of man. could be. right?
and maybe it's just boredom.



places it happens the most:
-anywhere with girlfriends/wives
-church
-supermarket
-walking in public places
-school
-prison (visiting)
-driving
-your mother's family dinners
-the shower
-in dreams
-on the toilet
-on the Septa bus
-at work
-on the phone
-in the city
-boarding airplanes
-crashing onto desert islands
-working in morgues
-watching men in black II
-when breathing
-7:30 pm (everyday)





and that's just a handful. it's a constant motion in there, Sarah. an urge to kill, to brawl, to remove the head from the body (zombies), to survive. we can't then be expected to listen to every.
--single.
---word.
------you.
---------are.
----------saying. zzzzzzzzzzz.....

we have to stay sharp. we have to stay focused. we have to save your life.




















they could be anywhere




so yes, Sarah, Mark is listening. listening to his heart. and right now his heart is measuring the number of steps it takes from here to that park bench, to the launch-off, to the angle he should drop that elbow in the face of that old lady carrying her groceries (seriously favoring her left hip) on the way out of Super Fresh. i mean, if that bitch decides to turn into a body-snatching alien and open her jaws up wider than her head and try to swallow you Sarah, boy is she totally fucked.

this is man's curse.
this is man's gift.
this is his baptism into a nightmarish, delicious world of violence and glory.



this is the real-life Fight Club.















and we all totally want that body.

this is it.

this is all.

blogging. it's gay.

blogging is gay.

gay, you say? like, dude-on-dude gay? oh yes, it's incredibly gay. that's why i never get around to it. i'm usually knee-deep in women's vaginas and plowing my way through hot virgin sluts (yes, virgin sluts).

that being said, i may one day need to become a world-famous writer (if my plan on becoming a world-famous shark-watch salesman doesn't pan out). and i may need to keep writing. and while i don't think my writing will be anything like this, i assume it does help to slap together a few paragraphs like this, have no one read them and then do it again on occasion more to keep my fingers used to using a keyboard than anything else.

and i guess if i hit a low-point in my life and i'm strapped for cash (because i bought a mike green Lamborghini) i can always write porn? right?

lastly, i go onto youtube and type in 'funk' or 'metal' or 'badass jam' and look around until i find something that catches my attention every time i write on this site. and.... all i can say is japan.










http://www.greenlife52.com/
4lyfe!!!

my god, looking at this, i realize i could write an entire blog dedicated to how gay mike green actually is. if only i wasn't busy doing anything else.

new gig

Sometimes i think everything is fine. And sometimes i feel like i need a new gig.


is it weird i feel like i should have been famous?


i'm not sure how. or why. but i can feel it in my bones.
i should be the one on tv.
i should be the topic of discussion.
i should have my own clever t-shirt slogans.

things i could be famous for:

-genius
-serial-killer
-rock star
-writer
-Truman Show (you're all watching MY life)
-invent an infomercial product
-spokesperson for infomercial product
-badass athlete
-silent athlete
-4th string quarterback (NFL)
-really good at chess.... and banging girls
-terrorist hunter
-super villain that never dies and is integral to the show
-astronaut
-date celebrity
-made for tv movies
-got off for murder because i'm white
-hold my breath for 10 minutes
-owns 5,000 snakes (appear on oprah)
-am god.


again, i don't know what i was meant to be-- but chances are it could have been one of them. i need to look into it. i just never seem to have the time.

-sigh-

where the funk?

Where DOEs funk come from really?


-mistaken time signature 'on-beats'
-intentional emphasis on the '1' and the '3'
-Hans Gruber
-hip-checking at the blue line
-Aliens (the movie)
-bass guitar
-alcohol
-marijuana
-antifreeze
-THIS guy
-peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches
-the pope (circa 1734 BC)
-dennis chambers (drums)
-black people (who aren't D-Chamb)
-Uranium Bassment



my money's on THAT guy, but all in all, i'll ask----
what is it really?

yearnin' n burnin'

we were driving home from work today listening to mmr's Jackson on the radio. He was reading reports about a huge forum for people 'dealing with depression' after seeing the movie Avatar. oh yes, this was a real thing. an online community for people obsessing over a james cameron movie.

My first thought was 'it's a movie jack-asses'. are people really suffering from bouts of depression and considering suicide because the mythical land of Pandora does, indeed, not exist?

my second thought was, 'oh my god, maybe that was why i was feeling so blah today!'.

my third thought was 'no, it's philadelphia suffer-monday' where we reflect on the weekend in football. ThAt's why i feel so blah. (incredible suffering and depression are to be expected after losing to the fucking cowboys)

my fourth thought was 'what's for dinner?'



--but the real point was, maybe it was a little of everything. and maybe seeing Avatar last night has, in some way, made me feel kind of like i'm... missing something.

the special effects were insane. the imaginary world was complex, rich, deep and believable (as believable as human-kind overlooking a moon of jupiter as being perfect to support healthy, lush and incredibly advanced life can be). and aside from the pocahontas-predictable storyline it was a kickass planet. and a part of me does yearn for something that beautiful and that pristine and that wild and undiscovered.

so i guess, in a way, this movie has affected me in my daily life (for 1 day at least). i'm just like all these jamokes on the avatar forums, i guess. and i better sign up before all the good Navi names are taken!

except it's not a depression per say. this feeling i've had all day-- it's a hunger. it's a self-destructive need. it's a primal force that belies reason. it's an urge to just see what happens when you set something on fire.

it's rooted deep within me and i can't explain it. it doesn't have a name or a face. and little things always touch upon it. they nibble at the edges. no one thing really captures it completely. it's always just out of focus.

it's in that moment the knockout punch lands in one of those epic hockey fights.
it's in the way the guitar note bends just the right way during the monumental solo.
it's in the taste of pain when your body tells you to stop running but you laugh and run harder.
it's in the swell of adrenaline that courses through your blood when you hear a car crash.






it's wanting to escape.






whether it's to a magical beautiful world, or to a place beyond words, or a higher level of knowing, or a different spiritual plane. it's the will for release.

i am by no means suicidal. this should be clear to anyone who knows me. but i do feel the pull from time to time. the pull towards chaos. i want to watch the speedometer needle press all the way to 140 and break. i want to dive headfirst over a cliff thousands of feet above the jagged rocks and crashing waves. i want to be launched into some spiraling supernova sunfire. i want to be twisted in some grand cataclysmic celestial event. i almost need it.

i long to be devoured in flames and beauty, to be set ablaze and unfurl across a dull, grey sky. some sort of escape. i mean, we're trapped inside these bodies for oh so long sometimes. how many days in a row do we wake up in the same world? how many weeks in a row have we drove through the same traffic? how many times do we look in the mirror and see the same person? life is awesome and all, but.... what is out there? what am i missing? what facet of living is yet to be discovered? what happens on the other side of life? is this step 1 of a 40-step program called 'Life, Death, and Beyond'?

i know most of us play it safe, myself especially (living at home, working for my parents, girlfriend up the street). it's tough for people to burn, burn, burn in this life because, frankly, it could be that this is it. no second chances. no start-overs. and that scares people and i understand why. it scares me, too.

but i just wonder what happens when you shake things up. maybe it's not so much about escaping 'life' as it is just escaping 'predictability'. escaping 'immobility'. i not only want to live, i want to live to the fullest. i want to taste every one of life's flavors. i want to punch random strangers in suits, i want to donate all of my money to a country musician i've never heard of, i want to climb a corporate building wearing a nixon mask, i want to have sex with the pope on a nationally televised episode of Oprah.

i want to do any and everything i can outside of 'normal'.

the repetitive nature of our lives just wears on the brain. my conscious can only take it so long before it needs change. maybe it's some inner, hopeless life-version of ADD. maybe it's a deep-rooted Fruedian obsessions with weiners. maybe i'm totally nuts and i really do have some serious self-destructive depressive urge towards suicide. but i think it's something else.

life, literally, is literally too short, literally. (to use a cliche').

and while yes, sometimes i do want to die flaming in an indy stock car hurtling off the Golden Gate bridge while listening to 'In Flames-The Hive' there are other things i want to do while alive as well. Like wake up an hour early and smoke a cigar and go for a walk before work one day. Or take a train somewhere west of West Chester (I've never been farther west). just, escape the mundane. and maybe that's how it happens--just one simple step at a time. maybe i'll do hundreds of simple, tiny side-steps in life before i finally go covered in gasoline into the night air, free-falling from a plane without a parachute, hurtling down towards the earth like some shooting star, aimed directly at Freddy Hill.

so here's to those avatar goons, here's to those that read this, here's to the kids who dress up like superman, here's to the pope and his sweet ass, and here's to the hope that we all burn out bright into the night, raging, uncontrollable unconsolable infernos because --fuck it, that's all that's left to do in the end. and i want it.

yearnin' and burnin'.




PS - i'm telling you-- i'm going to go to europe alone in the next year. and oh, i'll DO it.
i'm inSANE.















my avatar name woulda been:
AgroCrag

Primal Grooves

i was searching youtube for some sweet-ass bass and/or drum jams and i happened upon a real gem. one of those low-down grooves that soaks you all the way to your toes and you hear it echo in your head, in your fingers, in your dinner and in every other song you hear.

you have to go back and listen to it even if it means risking further addiction to the song. And i did. And it did.

and it was enough to drive a man mad...... or write a poem.







so i listened to this song on repeat like 400x while i wrote it and edited it. to get the full effect you have to open the song up and listen while you read it. they just 'have' to go together for some reason. give it a shot.

(couldn't figure out how to get it to open in new window, right-click and do it yourself)

Sei Bass Jam


Primal Grooves

yes, the subject is fresh.
yes, it leaks out of skin.
-it branches itself out.
.it comes from within-

until this whole tree-
until these veins whole-
blend in \ to one earth
bleed in \ to one girth

a tone, like our sun,
bright woven jaden silk-

-hiding under in-time,
skewed all in off-rhyme-

the low-down grunge "growl".
decibels, dripping on down.
Listen these sounds full-swell
warmth:
of the color brown.

it is what it will was--
cooling hotness gone 'wry.
fingers rip harmonic vines,
tearing up in frett'd lines

the oct*ave power 8,
blue shift: to s l o w down time.
love lost's lusts create.
nature's thump, a groove divine.

it reaches branch to branch
swinging tendril till enhance
the core. the breath. the dance.

you groove 'full in
you groove 'half out
don't stop. don't think or care.
do it with unwavering flare_

[it's alive. it's inside.
glowing growing groots]
it's spiral-synapse shaded green.
this vel-vet touch, yet still unseen.

eternal unconstant,
the black behind our space,
a million heartbeat journey,
this call: to 'Funkin' bass--

dEAR DiArY

So i was walking along out front of my house yesterday, minding my own business, reflecting on life and how I could better children's lives and shit when I found this diary. I mean, there's snow and shit everywhere from the 'Blizzard to End All Blizzards' last week and my foot just sorta hit something hard sticking out of the snow.

I bend over to pick it up and it's this flowery pink mini-book that just reads "DiArY" (with the caps just like that) and a broken lock on the side. I look around, pick it up and hey--why not look inside? Maybe it's got a name or an address or something inside.

Nope, nothin.

I kinda read a couple sentences, it's all done in green pen and the pages all have faded gay flower backgrounds. Cursive. Alot of underlining and bolding. Loopy L's and hearts over random letters. What do I care about some teenage girls diary, right?

I'm about to throw it as far as I can behind these houses in spite (I am, after all, a dude) but during the wind-up-

CRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

I am a dude. And it was only 7pm. But that was the biggest, blackest, loudest crow I'd ever heard in my entire life. And we don't get crows here in Lansdale. Some shit was definitely going down. I froze and watched that sucker perch on a tree across the street and just look at me.

Again, I am a dude. And I am NOT superstitious but... I don't know I just felt like going home right quick. And it was getting cold and everything. And in my surprise I guess I put the diary in my coat pocket and forgot about it--even though, it's weird, I don't remember ever putting the book in my pocket.

Anyhow, later that night I found the book on my computer desk. I guess I took it out of my pocket and put it there. And I started idly leafing through it and trying to get a feel for who's diary this was.

Was she a nerd? Could she be a hot 20-something year old? How was her grammar? (I really, literally, actually thought that. English major disease.)

I decided I just had to share what I found. For fun. I'll try my best, but I don't know that I can manage all the bold, italics, underlining, misspellings and emotion she really put into it.


Here's a cute little part:



















dEAR DiArY,
i know its been awhile since we talked. its been like ages, am i right? (or am i right!?) and ive done soooooo much at school it's like crazy!!! ive got homework from mr. cadmere again, can you believe it? i mean THAT for starters. than there's all sorts of THINGS been happening between kara and me again but its totally not true i like jimmy stiffle -- he totally blows his nose practically allllll the tiiiimeeeee. maybe if i was a giant tissue box. hahahaaa shes so retarted sometimes it's like duhhhhhhh kara, but i need her for the dance her dad is gonna get us like a limo or a escalade or a something really expensive and i dont want her to just go with jules and sarah and them without mEE. and did you know fishes can not swim backwards diarY? HaahHa i learned that today in school and then totally was BoRRReeeeddddddd for like 10 strait hours for nothing. but i feel good again today diarYYYY!! except sometimes my nose it still has the pain. it still comes and my head starts to hurt and it's like someone is squeezing in my brain and there are dark clouds everywhere. my mom says maybe its migrains and the hay and everything but i dont like it. i just wish it would stop the red the RewD RED red the red [note: there were splashes of dark red on this page but the girl apparently ignored it and kept writing over it] reddddDDdd ..... <3>kill my family especially my brother dillan who's the most retarted in the family. tHe whole family thinks he's going to go to a smart high school and that's all they talk about and he'll run for preSiDenT and it's like i dont even exist anymore. weLL DiArY i probbly have to go lay down and do homewOrk or something my head is starting to KIlllllll again and my stomach hurts and the stupid bird is outside my window again i hate that bird i hate it HATE IT HATE ITTTTTTT that bird i want to kill it i want to KiLLll it i hate IT its looking at me that crow. it crWWW its aLWAYS looking at me and I need to kiLL trhe PResident kill the bird Fcckkkk theFFFF the PRESIdent I need kiiiiiiiiii- [note: there are strange symbols and markings I can't recreate with the computer etched into the page here] -to lay down i don't feel good no more but it was good to catch up and i guess ill prob write in you again before the big dance next week and i dont even know if i want to ask anyone, especially not jimmy stiffle and i dont care what kara says i Don't Like Him!!! i know jules is going without anyone so ill prob just go with herr and it'll be so much fun!!

PS - totally hate homework today!!! :-# !!!!!










I figured the grammar wasn't too hot, probably your stereotypical 7th grade teeny bopper girl. Spelling was a little off for her age group but kids these days are ruined by the internet and text messaging. It's only a matter of generations before we writers are heralded as either a) gods among men with doctor-like intelligence or b) archaic useless paleontologists who might as well sign up as trash collectors.

Whichever it is, I've still been reading more into this diarY to try and get a read on something I can't put my finger on. Something is just a little 'off' about these entries and I can't quite figure it out. I'm sure it's something stupid or as simple as 'she doesn't use apostrophes correctly.' Ahh the youth of today. Bunch of crazy little flip-a-shits. I should throw this stupid diary out but I just... can't. It's weird.

Anyway I'd transcribe another entry but my head is fucking kiLLing me. Maybe I'll try to get my hands on some perks and pop some of them suckers and sip on some Sailor Jerry's--that's mother nature's cure. I hope it doesn't have to do with these damned nose bleeds I've been getting. Until next time, my bLoG....



PS - I did the math. Even if the Flyers won the rest of their games and all the top teams lost over 50% of the rest of theirs, we'd have about a 2% shot at capturing the PresiENts trophy.

Hair --- i have it.

this is what i have.


it's thick.
it's luscious.
it's creamy.
it's metal.
it's mine.

Sucksin A. Dixxx

+ Pronger for Prez + Cannon for Vice +

Ohhhhhhhh Wuss Hapn'en Capn'en!
(i so wanted to put a picture of Sami Kaps here)

Pronger Steppin' On Richie's Toes
Teammates Love the Richie

It's only a couple of games in a row.
It's only a couple of quotes.
It's only talk in the media.


“We need to make it [bleeping] happen on Thursday,” Pronger said. “It needs to [bleeping] happen now, so we can get over that hump and get this ship headed into the right direction.”


But once I read that quote I started thinking:
Holy shit, Prongs is a bona fide bad. ass.

It wasn't just the '[expletive]'s either (they were nice.) It was just.... it was just 'it'. So simple and to the point and strong. It's exactly what a captain should say. And it's exactly what Richards would never say.

I love Mike Richards.
Unhealthy unequated man-love.
I know his birthday (Feb 11, 1985 -- 23 days before me)
I know his birthplace (Kenora, Ontario)
I remember Richie (then on the Kitchener Rangers) fought the balls off Corey Perry (then on the London Knights) during a playoff game.
I know he was drafted 24th overall behind --ughhh-- Jeff Carter.
I remember his first goal was a slapper inside the blue line against the Rangers.
I remember most of his goals (all of his shorties)
I remember almost all of his straight-up nasty hits.
I remember most all of his fights.
I was just at the Caps game this year where he got that Hat Trick.

I have a custom jersey that reads CANNON (his nickname as accidentally appointed by hockey geeks on HF Hockey Boards) CANNON!!!










(oh, there's a tie-down fight strap on that bitch, too. i'm 200% L-E-G-I-T)


I'm not really into knowing his favorite snack or anything (although I know Jeff Carter's is Dorito's apparently) but I know and follow the guy (from a career perspective).

So yea, he's my favorite athlete and I super-love him and was calling for him to be the captain since day 1. But I finally think I'm ready to say Cannon might not be the answer for captain.

Maybe he is, I don't know.

Some guys lead by example.
Some guys are real vocal.
Some guys are scary quiet.
Some guys rip their own teammates throats open.
Some guys set their hair on fire and go insane.

Every captain is different and every team gets captain'd in different ways. I don't know what makes this team click or not click recently.

I can't see what goes on in the dressing room. Is it a captain issue? Is it injuries? Is it a coaching issue? Something's not right with the Flyers and I'm not going to sit here and guess until I get it right. All I can tell you is what I see and I sorta kinda watch Mike Richards more than anyone else on the ice.

and ever since my boy became captain....














Captain Credit:
-been a major piece on the PP and the PK
-gets in the refs ear during the game
-leading the team in points (for the most part)
-still lays those nasty hits
-watches over his flock and his stock
-makes everyone around him better

Captain Critique:
-making blind passes to the middle
-tries to dangle and do superstar moves instead of the simple play
-doesn't drop the mitts anymore
-hasn't been as grindy in the corners
-doesn't seem to yell (at teammates, opponents, or anyone)
-boring boring boring interviews




He just doesn't seem entirely comfortable with the position off the ice. Almost like he doesn't want to say anything stupid or contradict himself or anyone else on the team so he plays it safe. He's going the 'silent leader' role to appease everyone. Like he wants to 'play it cool' -- not because he thinks his shit doesn't stink anymore-- but because he's taking his role almost 'too seriously'.

On the ice he seems to be doing just the opposite. He's acting like his new mega $ contract makes him mega-dangles Cannon machine. He's trying to fit passes and shots through miniscule windows. He's not just dumping the puck in the corner and chasing it like a madman -- he's got a new 'always got to make something happen' mentallity.

And it's almost like he's torn between fighting for everyone on the team at once and not fighting at all because he thinks his team can't afford to lose him for 5 whole minutes. And I get alot of that attitude, you don't want your best player getting thrown out of a game for getting into a fight because that'd be just selfish but.... eh, it just seems the whole 'Captain' thing is awkward for Richie.

Don't get me wrong. He's a great leader. He doesn't take a shift off. He plays with as much heart and determination as any single player in the entire league. He lays his body on the line. He blocks shots, he lays the lumber, he has a fucking wicked slapper and he can thread a needle through rush hour traffic with the best of them.

And again, I don't know if he's an 'in-your-face-badass-expletive-hurling-quote-machine-mother-fucker-who-sets-the-locker-room-on-fire' guy behind closed doors. Maybe he's perfect, the team is just sucking it up and I'm imagining things. He just looks kind of 'hand-cuffed' by himself and maybe needs to see a guy who kind of wore the C on a Stanley Cup winning team. A guy who kind of won the Norris trophy. A guy who kind of won the league MVP years back. A guy who kind of is one of the most feared and dominating men in the NHL. Sure, Richie may be the guy down the wire, let's just add some more NHL 'seasoning' first.
























Maybe a switcheroo would be good for both of them.

Maybe Richie can go back to just being badass my-man Richie and Pronger can yell and rant and rave and 6'6", 230 lbs all up in guys faces in that locker room and scare the ever-loving shit out of guys like Coburn and Carter. He also wouldn't have to be 'stepping on anyone's toes' with those size 30 machetes strapped to his feet.

Maybe we have a coup of power and Pronger appoints himself king. I feel he's dangerously close to doing just that and not only is the Prongs experienced, well-accoladed and rich in knowledge and badass-itude... but he's a fucking monster.


Let's ask former Pronger teammate Chris Kunitz. Chris?




























And maybe I'm entirely overanalyzing and I'm dead fucking wrong. So....Let's just fire John Stevens!

saints are going all the way.... to hell.

i have drew brees on my fantasy football team.
you don't.

and for the record -- i don't believe in the Saints.

i know they changed defensive coordinators -- and that explains why they're slightly better on defense. But where is this offense coming from? Are these guys 'coming into their own'? Has sean payton finally 'figured it out'? Is the team of destiny finally ready to claim it's ranks among the NFL elite?

fuck no.

it's god hittin 'em up in reparations for the levee's n shit. just you wait.
The saints will fall. (and I don't even hate them)
























One thing's for sure though.....
i have drew brees.
you don't.

things i want to do by the time i grow up....

all of them.

--Red Button--

there's a darkness in the room. it's deafening.

it presses in from every side, waiting. it leans forward, crowding the little pool of light cast from the desk lamp.

i've been staring at the wood grain in the desk for 5 minutes straight now--not really seeing. i blink a couple times. it's shaped like barbara walters, but less wrinkly.

what the fuck am i going to do for breakfast?

i stare some more at barbara, tracing the darker brown patterns in the desk with my eyes. she stares back with that fake smile of hers. i rub my eyes and groan, leaning back in my chair, breaking the silence for the first time.

the room reacts.

the darkness stirs like smoke, rearranging itself throughout the study. my head, it hurts, and i can't stop rubbing my eyes. the voices begin to whisper on invisible threads and they won't go away. barbara begins chanting something sinister in a language i can't understand. i stare back at the mottled wood pattern, the darkness playing tricks, the soft sensual venom of barbara's lips moving. i'm more annoyed than anything else-

"can you shut the hell up, i'm trying to think for christ's sake!" i tell her.

the darkness is shifting, swirling, stirring to life all around me. something big is about to happen. the voices chatter, the tempo is rising, the lamp's pale light flickers. something big is about to happen. the room is awash in secret sounds and things just out of sight are moving, shifting, reaching because they know--something big is about to happen.

i try and drown it out, but it's growing to a crescendo-- "something big is about to happen..."

"like fuck it is," i say, and i slam my fist down on the red button.

like carbonated soda the room hisses and filters back into calm, vaunted darkness. barbara walters is just a few swirls of wood grain and the curtains are still. a sheen of stillness.

i rub my eyes again and groan. i sit with my eyes closed for a couple minutes in the blissful silence.

"now...what the fuck am i going to do for breakfast," i wonder out loud this time. it's 4 am but i don't have anything else to look forward to until then.

maybe i'll have ostrich. i've never had ostrich.

a small red dot is blinking soft red on a monitor in the corner of the room, affirmative of the launch. tens of thousands will be dead in the next few hours, consumed alive in a fiery ungodly holocaust of flame. entire cities torched alive, burning into the desert night like living effigies--screaming, a crack and a pop, then a constant smoldering stillness.

i leave the office, close the door behind me, lock it, and nod to Jenkins and Robbins. i walk towards the East Wing, the entire White House still asleep in predawn quiet.

the inside voices shuffle and push their way to the front a little with bubbling mirth and vicious laughter. but i tell them to relax. it's Tuesday guys, i got work and shit to do i reason, shaking my head a little. maybe i need some of the pills.

and maybe i'll have pheasant.

it's such a pain in the ass sometimes to be president of the United States.