In what I hope is my first of many weekend excursions around the state of Florida, I spent a couple days in Orlando this weekend with my high school buddy Mike. We don't get to see each other as often as we'd like since I went to State, but he just moved to Orlando to start school in the fall, so we jumped at this opportunity.
He had a couple tickets to DisneyWorld left over from a family vacation, so we spent Saturday at Disney's MGM studios. But before we got there, we had a minor setback. With suntan lotion and full wallets in hand, we left Mike's apartment only to find that the Silver Bullet had vanished. I thought someone must have stollen my magnificent machine, but then Mike suggested it was probably towed. I guess that made sense. We went to the leasing office, and Mike's guess was right. It would be $110 to get it out, plus cab fare since Mike has no vehicle besides a 10-speeder mountain bike.
In the cab ride there, the driver was being a punk. I asked him how much it would be and he told me around $18. The place was only 5 miles away! So anyway, I complained a little bit about how in DC it was so much cheaper (probably sounded arrogant) and he said to me, "Well, life isn't cheap." After spending $130 in a half hour for nothing, I know that. Jackass.
But we got the car, drove to MGM and had a great time. It was Star Wars weekend, and a lot of people were dressed up and walking around. Chewbacca was available for pictures. Jedis were fighting in the streets. It was a good time. But even more excellent was the Muppets in 3-D show, which featured Sam the Eagle in a quite prominent role. At first, I figured the 3-D would be pretty lame, but it was actually amazing.
At a Checker's restaurant (like Rally's), Mike and I also saw an add for a Swamp Safari in the Everglades. From what I could tell, it was run by Seminole Indians and it didn't look too touristy. It's about an hour and a half from WPB, so I think I may check it out. You can spend the night there in these straw and palm huts for pretty cheap and take a night-time tour of the Everglades in a swamp buggie! There ain't nothing wrong with that!
Monday, June 27, 2005
Thursday, June 23, 2005
bah humdinger
"I used to like Christmas, but it just got too religious."
--a straight-faced co-worker on why he doesn't mind working around the holidays.
--a straight-faced co-worker on why he doesn't mind working around the holidays.
It's Time to Go to Work
"Yeah, they had the Cristal ready for tonight, but we'll be the one poppin' it Thursday," Rasheed Wallace, after winning Game 6 to tie the series at 3-3.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
The Call of the Wild
... the resilience of a boy caught in nature's clutches ...
That's what was discovered within a Utah 11-year-old who spent four days in the mountains with no food or water supply; cold, dark, alone, animals that he couldn'tt see making strange noises all around him. It had to have been a terrifying episode to endure.
Officials said that when they found the boy, he hid from them at first. It was only when a volunteer offered up a granola bar did the kid snap out of it. They called it delirious, but what if it was something much more primal?
I'd like to think that the boy, after four days of no food and water, tapped into his basic, instinctual nature — de-evolving (or perhaps, evolving) into an organism better suited for survival.
I'd like to imagine the boy falling in and out of half-asleep fits where images of wolves tearing apart deer flashed between pictures of his 8th birthday party; his two sides, civilized and animalistic, caught in an epic battle.
I'd like to imagine him standing among a herd of elk just before dawn, with the mountain fog inhaling and exhaling all around him, his crimson jowls stained with the blood of a fresh kill, in total harmony with the natural world.
I have to wonder — was there some small part of him that never wanted to be found; a part that longed to remain among the dense forests, swelling rivers and rocky crags?
I wonder — what drove him to hide from those men on horseback, and for but a fleeting moment, turn away from a world made of plastic, metal and glass?
And lastly, I wonder if he'll ever feel that yearning inside of him once again, that push to return to the same dense fog that once held an animal and brought forth a boy.
That's what was discovered within a Utah 11-year-old who spent four days in the mountains with no food or water supply; cold, dark, alone, animals that he couldn'tt see making strange noises all around him. It had to have been a terrifying episode to endure.
Officials said that when they found the boy, he hid from them at first. It was only when a volunteer offered up a granola bar did the kid snap out of it. They called it delirious, but what if it was something much more primal?
I'd like to think that the boy, after four days of no food and water, tapped into his basic, instinctual nature — de-evolving (or perhaps, evolving) into an organism better suited for survival.
I'd like to imagine the boy falling in and out of half-asleep fits where images of wolves tearing apart deer flashed between pictures of his 8th birthday party; his two sides, civilized and animalistic, caught in an epic battle.
I'd like to imagine him standing among a herd of elk just before dawn, with the mountain fog inhaling and exhaling all around him, his crimson jowls stained with the blood of a fresh kill, in total harmony with the natural world.
I have to wonder — was there some small part of him that never wanted to be found; a part that longed to remain among the dense forests, swelling rivers and rocky crags?
I wonder — what drove him to hide from those men on horseback, and for but a fleeting moment, turn away from a world made of plastic, metal and glass?
And lastly, I wonder if he'll ever feel that yearning inside of him once again, that push to return to the same dense fog that once held an animal and brought forth a boy.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
As I type, a massive beast of an American bulldog named Lucy slumbers at my side. In my first two weeks at the Palm Beach Post, I earned enough trust to dog-sit for a sports reporter for the entire weekend. It's a decent gig: pool in the yard with a dophin fountain that shoots water out of its... you know... mouth, cable, Internet, handfulls of honey-roasted peanuts I keep stealing out of her cupboard and, when I'm done, 80 bones (get it? HA!)
The bad part is that I'm allergic to dogs. I thought, "hey, I like dogs. Maybe I'm not allergic to them anymore. Maybe I can fight through its tangled web of shedded fur, and just "get over" this allergy" Well, I was wrong and I've been sneezing the whole time. It really seemed like a good idea at the time. But the pooch is pretty nice and it doesn't bark too much. It smells a little funny, but I need to get used to that before I move in with Dirk (ZING!).
So for the last two days, Lucy and I have spent a couple hours at the dog park. We've layed around the pool and watched the dolphin do its work. We've played poker in our underpants. AND, we've both slept a ton. Just yesterday I was looking up movie times on the Internet and she mosied on over and rested her head on my lap. The touching sight brought a tear to my eye, but soon I realized the tears were a result of my allergies.
In the few instances I've been able to step away from dog-sitting this weekend, I've enjoyed some of Palm Beach's fine luxuries. I went to the beach Friday morning and got a wicked sunburn, but it was worth it to bask in the sweet sunshine and dive down between the Atlantic's rolling waves. I was so inspired that I bought full snorkeling gear the next afternoon (an adventure for another time). Last night, I went with a couple of young reporters to a house party that a photographer was throwing. After that, they took to me O'Sheas, a pub in downtown WPB that is to the Palm Beach Post what the Peanut Barrel is to The State News. We sipped fine Irish lagers beneath a canopy of stringed lights on the bar's back patio. They told me of some great spots to try my new snorkeling gear. I got a bit drunk and had a great night.
On the way home, I stopped by the bay to say goodnight to Manny the Manatee. He was feasting on a bed of lush green seagrass with a comely female manatee. He shouted "Ahoy, young Jordan" and sent over a wave with his blubbery flipper. I didn't want to intrude, so I wished them both a good night and returned to the apartment where the dog slept.
The bad part is that I'm allergic to dogs. I thought, "hey, I like dogs. Maybe I'm not allergic to them anymore. Maybe I can fight through its tangled web of shedded fur, and just "get over" this allergy" Well, I was wrong and I've been sneezing the whole time. It really seemed like a good idea at the time. But the pooch is pretty nice and it doesn't bark too much. It smells a little funny, but I need to get used to that before I move in with Dirk (ZING!).
So for the last two days, Lucy and I have spent a couple hours at the dog park. We've layed around the pool and watched the dolphin do its work. We've played poker in our underpants. AND, we've both slept a ton. Just yesterday I was looking up movie times on the Internet and she mosied on over and rested her head on my lap. The touching sight brought a tear to my eye, but soon I realized the tears were a result of my allergies.
In the few instances I've been able to step away from dog-sitting this weekend, I've enjoyed some of Palm Beach's fine luxuries. I went to the beach Friday morning and got a wicked sunburn, but it was worth it to bask in the sweet sunshine and dive down between the Atlantic's rolling waves. I was so inspired that I bought full snorkeling gear the next afternoon (an adventure for another time). Last night, I went with a couple of young reporters to a house party that a photographer was throwing. After that, they took to me O'Sheas, a pub in downtown WPB that is to the Palm Beach Post what the Peanut Barrel is to The State News. We sipped fine Irish lagers beneath a canopy of stringed lights on the bar's back patio. They told me of some great spots to try my new snorkeling gear. I got a bit drunk and had a great night.
On the way home, I stopped by the bay to say goodnight to Manny the Manatee. He was feasting on a bed of lush green seagrass with a comely female manatee. He shouted "Ahoy, young Jordan" and sent over a wave with his blubbery flipper. I didn't want to intrude, so I wished them both a good night and returned to the apartment where the dog slept.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Cheap imitation (actually, more expensive)
Despite their flashy commercials, catchy jingles and high-falutin demeanor, Fanta's Strawberry soda, in absolutely no way whatsoever, compares to the delicious, thirst-quenching taste of Detroit's own Faygo Red Pop.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Hooligans
http://www.metrowestdailynews.com/localRegional/view.bg?articleid=99174
When I was in 8th grade, I played on the St. Peter's Lutheran soccer team. We were pretty bad ass. One time, in the middle of a torrential downpour, we defeated Trinity Utica 1-nill. It probably means nothing to you, but Trinity Utica was the New York Yankees of the Lutheran league soccer world. We ran into our locker room, soaking wet, and started banging the lockers and screaming like banshees until our coach came in and yelled at us for banging up school property. Of course he was just joking, because it was a shitty lutheran school, so he started banging on the lockers too and shouting to the high heavens. He's actually a Lutheran minister now, which probably sucks compared to being a soccer coach.
As a junior high-aged chap, I was much taller than most of the others boys in my class. I grew fast and early, so playing in a soccer league was more like Rollerball to me, minus Chris Klein (or James Caan, if you so choose). I was known as the enforcer on the team, replacing my limited soccer skills with a strong kick and the size to pretty much knock out any forward who stepped into my zone. I'd slam smaller players into the dirt, my coach and the parents would cheer, sometimes I'd get a card, but in the end, I'd be pretty satisfied. Some of the opponents would be pretty pissed, though.
Another advantage to having the height was the complete domination of the header. I could knock that ball with my noggin before any of the other puny soccer children would even get close to it. After a few years, I had the technique down and could guide the ball anywhere I wanted it. I often spent afternoons in the back yard, practicing bouncing the ball off my head until I'd get a bad headache. It was my weapon. So when I read this story (courtesy of www.fark.com), I wept for seasons past and realized that young boys of the next generation will be even more wimpy than mine. Brad Pitt was right when he said we're a generation of men raised by women. There is little, if any, masculinity left in society today.
It must have been nice, in those bygone days of old, when kids could skin their knees, get some stitches, or break a few fingers without prompting some jackass in a state legislature to draft up the Youth Coddling Act of 2005. It must have been nice when a teenager could go hunting with his father without some animal rights group breathing down their necks. And it must have been nice when two boys duked it out on the playground instead of bringing guns to school. Is it no wonder how often you read about underground youth fight clubs popping up at high schools? Years of natural conditioning, whether it is right or acceptable by today's societal standards, is being strangled out of these kids. I admit that I'm no Rambo, but there is still something invigorating about wrestling your buddies or slamming them hard into the ground during a pickup football game.
Anyway, I like soccer the way it is. Add a helmet or ban heading and you're moving one step closer to the emasculation of America.
When I was in 8th grade, I played on the St. Peter's Lutheran soccer team. We were pretty bad ass. One time, in the middle of a torrential downpour, we defeated Trinity Utica 1-nill. It probably means nothing to you, but Trinity Utica was the New York Yankees of the Lutheran league soccer world. We ran into our locker room, soaking wet, and started banging the lockers and screaming like banshees until our coach came in and yelled at us for banging up school property. Of course he was just joking, because it was a shitty lutheran school, so he started banging on the lockers too and shouting to the high heavens. He's actually a Lutheran minister now, which probably sucks compared to being a soccer coach.
As a junior high-aged chap, I was much taller than most of the others boys in my class. I grew fast and early, so playing in a soccer league was more like Rollerball to me, minus Chris Klein (or James Caan, if you so choose). I was known as the enforcer on the team, replacing my limited soccer skills with a strong kick and the size to pretty much knock out any forward who stepped into my zone. I'd slam smaller players into the dirt, my coach and the parents would cheer, sometimes I'd get a card, but in the end, I'd be pretty satisfied. Some of the opponents would be pretty pissed, though.
Another advantage to having the height was the complete domination of the header. I could knock that ball with my noggin before any of the other puny soccer children would even get close to it. After a few years, I had the technique down and could guide the ball anywhere I wanted it. I often spent afternoons in the back yard, practicing bouncing the ball off my head until I'd get a bad headache. It was my weapon. So when I read this story (courtesy of www.fark.com), I wept for seasons past and realized that young boys of the next generation will be even more wimpy than mine. Brad Pitt was right when he said we're a generation of men raised by women. There is little, if any, masculinity left in society today.
It must have been nice, in those bygone days of old, when kids could skin their knees, get some stitches, or break a few fingers without prompting some jackass in a state legislature to draft up the Youth Coddling Act of 2005. It must have been nice when a teenager could go hunting with his father without some animal rights group breathing down their necks. And it must have been nice when two boys duked it out on the playground instead of bringing guns to school. Is it no wonder how often you read about underground youth fight clubs popping up at high schools? Years of natural conditioning, whether it is right or acceptable by today's societal standards, is being strangled out of these kids. I admit that I'm no Rambo, but there is still something invigorating about wrestling your buddies or slamming them hard into the ground during a pickup football game.
Anyway, I like soccer the way it is. Add a helmet or ban heading and you're moving one step closer to the emasculation of America.
Monday, May 16, 2005
BC in DC or DC in BC
The following post is about:
a) Brian Charlton visiting me in Washington, DC
b) Me travelling to a era "before christ" by way of Silver Bullet time travel
c) A night of sexual exploration after one too many cosmopolitans
The answer is A!!! ...and c... but mostly A!!!
Ol' Ed and I got a welcome suprise when BC decided to visit us this weekend in DC. Things are slowly winding down here (I'm counting down the days), so seeing an old pal again really made me wish I was back home in the EL, or the E.P., which is Eastpointe, or even the WPB, umm... West Palm Beach.
We had a pretty good time. We ate. We drank. We perused watercolors and turquoise jewelry at a local art fair (Ed's new broach is FAB-ulous). We sucked down lime squares at Eric Morath's fiance's party. BC almost threw up on the red line Metro because he had "motion sickness." We snorted coke with the Bush twins. We visited with the Australian-enriched Bethany Chismark in Alexandria, Va. for the Pistons game. AND we watched the 3-hour finale of Survivor Palau, which was awesome because NY firefighter Tom won and Ed, therefore, owes me a brew.
It was one of those "good ol' days" sort of weekends that are great when you're away from home. To check out some pictures of us with the likes of Wilbur and Orville Wright, check out http://www.briancharlton.blogspot.com/. I'm sure BC will put them up soon.
I, like soooo many other bums, am going to try to keep this thing going throughout the summer while I'm gone. Others should too. It's a great way of staying abreast of everyone's going-ons without the messy "talking on the phone" or "writing emails" or "visiting."
a) Brian Charlton visiting me in Washington, DC
b) Me travelling to a era "before christ" by way of Silver Bullet time travel
c) A night of sexual exploration after one too many cosmopolitans
The answer is A!!! ...and c... but mostly A!!!
Ol' Ed and I got a welcome suprise when BC decided to visit us this weekend in DC. Things are slowly winding down here (I'm counting down the days), so seeing an old pal again really made me wish I was back home in the EL, or the E.P., which is Eastpointe, or even the WPB, umm... West Palm Beach.
We had a pretty good time. We ate. We drank. We perused watercolors and turquoise jewelry at a local art fair (Ed's new broach is FAB-ulous). We sucked down lime squares at Eric Morath's fiance's party. BC almost threw up on the red line Metro because he had "motion sickness." We snorted coke with the Bush twins. We visited with the Australian-enriched Bethany Chismark in Alexandria, Va. for the Pistons game. AND we watched the 3-hour finale of Survivor Palau, which was awesome because NY firefighter Tom won and Ed, therefore, owes me a brew.
It was one of those "good ol' days" sort of weekends that are great when you're away from home. To check out some pictures of us with the likes of Wilbur and Orville Wright, check out http://www.briancharlton.blogspot.com/. I'm sure BC will put them up soon.
I, like soooo many other bums, am going to try to keep this thing going throughout the summer while I'm gone. Others should too. It's a great way of staying abreast of everyone's going-ons without the messy "talking on the phone" or "writing emails" or "visiting."
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Going Home Eve
A day before the men's basketball team hits the Final Four court, I'll finally be heading back to East Lansing. It seems like I've been gone for eons, and the excitement is almost overwhelming. I had to take a walk just an hour ago to release some of it.
It's a strange realization, but East Lansing is my home. It's where my girlfriend and all of my friends are. It's where I know the best restaurants and bars and the quickest routes to work. It is all so familiar and so comforting. I know I won't want to leave.
D.C. has its upsides: it's fast-paced and exciting, there is so much going on, the city has a beating pulse you can feel every time you ride the Metro or grab a morning cup of coffee in a crowded cafe on your way to work.
But sometimes you want to get away from all of that. I haven't found that place yet in D.C. In East Lansing, those places surround you: The banks of the Red Cedar River, the Peanut Barrel patio on a lazy weekend afternoon, the balcony on a cool, fall night.
I can't wait for the honking horns and screeching subway trains to be replaced by cheering college students and cheesy Al Green sing-along songs at the bar. I can't wait to tell the same old jokes and reminisce about the same old stories.
I can't wait to be home.
It's a strange realization, but East Lansing is my home. It's where my girlfriend and all of my friends are. It's where I know the best restaurants and bars and the quickest routes to work. It is all so familiar and so comforting. I know I won't want to leave.
D.C. has its upsides: it's fast-paced and exciting, there is so much going on, the city has a beating pulse you can feel every time you ride the Metro or grab a morning cup of coffee in a crowded cafe on your way to work.
But sometimes you want to get away from all of that. I haven't found that place yet in D.C. In East Lansing, those places surround you: The banks of the Red Cedar River, the Peanut Barrel patio on a lazy weekend afternoon, the balcony on a cool, fall night.
I can't wait for the honking horns and screeching subway trains to be replaced by cheering college students and cheesy Al Green sing-along songs at the bar. I can't wait to tell the same old jokes and reminisce about the same old stories.
I can't wait to be home.
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