Hello all!
For my true final post, I offer up the Best of Summer '05. Adios summer and adios blogland!
Jessica
Patrick
Dirk
Emily
Claire
Esther
Foley
BC
Scottie
Allison
Clint
Sarah
Bishop
Truth
Lauren
I laughed, I cried, I learned, I hung onto every word. Goodnight, you princes of Maine. You kings of New England.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Thursday, August 11, 2005
My twenty-second year
A Summary:
Yesterday, my mom called to wish me Happy Birthday. She said she was proud of all that I've accomplished this year. She said I should be proud too. She said I've done more things and been to more places at 22 than most people have by the time they're 50. I'm not sure about that, but as I thought about the last year of my life, I had to admit to myself that, at least, it has been an interesting 12 months.
You always hear about how going away to college can be a frightening, confusing experience. I think the real test comes when you're standing at the edge of your educational career with all that you've learned and experienced, and then having to take that next step away from what is comfortable and familiar.
The last year of my life has offered me a glimpse into what my life will be like for many years. There is no doubt that my career has taken a front seat. I'm happy about it. I'm a different person than I was a year ago when I walked the blocks of downtown Erie, PA with a few friends and had my first legal drinks. Since that day I've had six different roommates in five cities in four different states. My bedroom windows have opened to drunk college parties, a forest with a stream, a congested highway, my dog in the backyard and palm trees with exotic birds swaying above sparkling pools. I've made new friends, strengthened previous friendships and watched as others faded away.
I've been to sweaty Congressional steroid hearings, a lavish dinner with the President and cramped Supreme Court cases. I've watched movies with poor, rural families at the local drive-in, explored a treehouse with a lightning victim and went fishing on the Atlantic with inner-city kids. I've interviewed racecar drivers, senators, political refugees, beauty pageant contestants, movie stars, Holocaust survivors and a punk band. I got an email from Clint Black (bad grammar... HA!) I've watched a corpse on a gurney roll across a parking lot, marched and rallied late into the night with right-wing Conservative Christians, joked with Condoleeza Rice while drunk, stayed up all night during a Presidential election and helped an elderly veteran get his rare WWII rifle back from local police.
But there are other things that I remember most — true milestones in my life: walking my mother down the aisle at her wedding, carrying the casket of a close friend, having the first beer with the father I hadn't talked to in two years.
And as a plethora of things have changed, a few things have remained the same and helped me through the tough times: an understanding and supportive girlfriend, my family and close friends, the ol' Silver Bullet with the windows down, a Killians and a Parliament.
This will be the last real post. I'm heading back to East Lansing in a week and I really can't wait to get back into the swing of things, see my friends and family, shotgun a beer on the balcony, write my first State News byline since May 2004 and order up a Rodeo Burger and Blue Moon at the Barrel. It's high time that journalism took a back seat and let other aspects of my life take shotgun. When people have asked me over the last year questions like, "so how was Erie?" or "did you enjoy DC?" the answer has always been just a slight variation of the same statement: "I really loved it, had fun, and met great people. But I still missed home."
Yesterday, my mom called to wish me Happy Birthday. She said she was proud of all that I've accomplished this year. She said I should be proud too. She said I've done more things and been to more places at 22 than most people have by the time they're 50. I'm not sure about that, but as I thought about the last year of my life, I had to admit to myself that, at least, it has been an interesting 12 months.
You always hear about how going away to college can be a frightening, confusing experience. I think the real test comes when you're standing at the edge of your educational career with all that you've learned and experienced, and then having to take that next step away from what is comfortable and familiar.
The last year of my life has offered me a glimpse into what my life will be like for many years. There is no doubt that my career has taken a front seat. I'm happy about it. I'm a different person than I was a year ago when I walked the blocks of downtown Erie, PA with a few friends and had my first legal drinks. Since that day I've had six different roommates in five cities in four different states. My bedroom windows have opened to drunk college parties, a forest with a stream, a congested highway, my dog in the backyard and palm trees with exotic birds swaying above sparkling pools. I've made new friends, strengthened previous friendships and watched as others faded away.
I've been to sweaty Congressional steroid hearings, a lavish dinner with the President and cramped Supreme Court cases. I've watched movies with poor, rural families at the local drive-in, explored a treehouse with a lightning victim and went fishing on the Atlantic with inner-city kids. I've interviewed racecar drivers, senators, political refugees, beauty pageant contestants, movie stars, Holocaust survivors and a punk band. I got an email from Clint Black (bad grammar... HA!) I've watched a corpse on a gurney roll across a parking lot, marched and rallied late into the night with right-wing Conservative Christians, joked with Condoleeza Rice while drunk, stayed up all night during a Presidential election and helped an elderly veteran get his rare WWII rifle back from local police.
But there are other things that I remember most — true milestones in my life: walking my mother down the aisle at her wedding, carrying the casket of a close friend, having the first beer with the father I hadn't talked to in two years.
And as a plethora of things have changed, a few things have remained the same and helped me through the tough times: an understanding and supportive girlfriend, my family and close friends, the ol' Silver Bullet with the windows down, a Killians and a Parliament.
This will be the last real post. I'm heading back to East Lansing in a week and I really can't wait to get back into the swing of things, see my friends and family, shotgun a beer on the balcony, write my first State News byline since May 2004 and order up a Rodeo Burger and Blue Moon at the Barrel. It's high time that journalism took a back seat and let other aspects of my life take shotgun. When people have asked me over the last year questions like, "so how was Erie?" or "did you enjoy DC?" the answer has always been just a slight variation of the same statement: "I really loved it, had fun, and met great people. But I still missed home."
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Five Deep Thoughts
1) There is this Website/blog that compares college football programs to rappers. MSU is up on that. I'll leave it a secret for y'all to find out. I was a little disappointed. I was hoping for someone a bit more thugly because of the recent run-ins with the 5-0. http://tinyurl.com/dqz54. I actually saw it on allmsu.
2) I wrote the centerpiece for today's edition of the post. But in a sort of yin yang, balance of life deal, I was splattered with blood from a king mackerel fish early this morning and it stained by new linen shirt and a nice pair of shorts. I would have been furious, but it was 38-inches long, and you just can't slap around a fish that size.
3) Is anyone else upset at this no-voucher football ticket system they got running these days? If last year's Izzone revamp was like a Civil War-era leg infection, the new football system is the dull hatchet used to lop off gangrenous limb. It's just one more way that I feel personally screwed and personally offended by the powers that be. I hope they repeal this nonsense.
4) I can't wait to get back to East Lansing. It's not that I don't like it here. I love it here. I just miss my friends. I miss cool weather at night. I miss riding my bike around campus. I can't wait for autumn. I can't wait for sweatshirts and jeans on cool, autumn days.
5) I was pleasantly suprised the day the Indian woman at Dunkin Donuts made my coffee without asking me for the first time. After weeks of ordering my coffee the same way — black with two creams on the side — at the same time — 9:45 a.m. —from the same counter — on S. Dixie Highway near the Post— it was just there waiting for me one day. Needless to say, it made my day. That was about two weeks ago. Then it got worse (or better). Last night, I went to the Subway drive-thru (very common in Florida) to order a sub like I've done almost every night for the past 5 or 6 weeks. I keep a pretty constant diet. I try to be simple with food. Anyway, I start my order... "I'll have a 12-inch ham and turkey on honey oat with..." and I pause for just a second. That's when the girl's fuzzy voice finished my order... "with swiss cheese, lettuce, spinach, black pepper and oregano, right?" I was pretty floored. It was also the correct order of my usual request. She didn't say it in the most friendly tone, but I tried to joke about it with her at the window. I said something like,"Wow, you've got a great memory. I feel special." but then she just turned to me and said, with a twinge of disdain, "well you come here every night." So I grabbed the plastic handles of my sub bag and drove away.
2) I wrote the centerpiece for today's edition of the post. But in a sort of yin yang, balance of life deal, I was splattered with blood from a king mackerel fish early this morning and it stained by new linen shirt and a nice pair of shorts. I would have been furious, but it was 38-inches long, and you just can't slap around a fish that size.
3) Is anyone else upset at this no-voucher football ticket system they got running these days? If last year's Izzone revamp was like a Civil War-era leg infection, the new football system is the dull hatchet used to lop off gangrenous limb. It's just one more way that I feel personally screwed and personally offended by the powers that be. I hope they repeal this nonsense.
4) I can't wait to get back to East Lansing. It's not that I don't like it here. I love it here. I just miss my friends. I miss cool weather at night. I miss riding my bike around campus. I can't wait for autumn. I can't wait for sweatshirts and jeans on cool, autumn days.
5) I was pleasantly suprised the day the Indian woman at Dunkin Donuts made my coffee without asking me for the first time. After weeks of ordering my coffee the same way — black with two creams on the side — at the same time — 9:45 a.m. —from the same counter — on S. Dixie Highway near the Post— it was just there waiting for me one day. Needless to say, it made my day. That was about two weeks ago. Then it got worse (or better). Last night, I went to the Subway drive-thru (very common in Florida) to order a sub like I've done almost every night for the past 5 or 6 weeks. I keep a pretty constant diet. I try to be simple with food. Anyway, I start my order... "I'll have a 12-inch ham and turkey on honey oat with..." and I pause for just a second. That's when the girl's fuzzy voice finished my order... "with swiss cheese, lettuce, spinach, black pepper and oregano, right?" I was pretty floored. It was also the correct order of my usual request. She didn't say it in the most friendly tone, but I tried to joke about it with her at the window. I said something like,"Wow, you've got a great memory. I feel special." but then she just turned to me and said, with a twinge of disdain, "well you come here every night." So I grabbed the plastic handles of my sub bag and drove away.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Old Men River
Canoeing can transform into a whole different experience when there are number of ways you can be killed doing it. I should have realized that during the drive out to the canoe launch Saturday morning when the driver gave us the top three things to watch out for. They were:
1) Alligators and venomous water snakes — "They are in the water and people see them all the time. If you fall in, just stay calm and bang your oar against the canoe. Usually that will scare away the alligators."
2) Strainers — "These are logs that are under the water that you can't see until you're right on top of them. They WILL flip you're canoe if you hit them wrong." NOTE: These were the topic of my disastrous canoe trip with Jessica last fall.
3) Paper wasps — "There are large nests of these wasps in some of the fallen trees strewn across the river. Especially watch out for one large one that is hard to see around this bend in the river. If you don't paddle hard enough, you'll run right into it."
Needless to say, those first few miles in the waters of the mighty Ocklawaha, too deep to see the bottom, were a bit nerve-racking.
Last weekend, I loaded up the Silver Bullet with outdoorsy-type things and made the decently-long trek — along with buddy Mike — to the outskirts of the Ocala National Forest, two hours north of Orlando, for a weekend of camping and canoeing. The area is unique because of the diverse wildlife. Not only are there the above-mentioned creatures, there are also black bears, bobcats, exotics birds and butterflies and, my favorite, rhesus monkeys that were introduced decades ago to try to establish a tourist spot (which ultimately failed).
It was an amazing way to get away from the city just at a time when I needed a break. After the initial fear of alligators wore off, the canoe trip provided hours of relaxation. The first five miles were part of the protected forest, so we didn't see any people or development or roads or houses the entire time. <
Oh yeah! There was also another thing we missed. Our canoe guide told us that just one night before, about 70 cheerleaders (including a few from the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, see bottom) stayed at the campsite during a summer cheerleading camp. Mike was especially angry when we heard this. I just cried for a little bit. The canoe guide wasn't as happy with it. Although he did seem creepy enough, he said the group overturned 5 of his canoes on a trip and didn't bring them back. Ha! But really, how can you be mad at cheerleaders? It's like punching Santa Claus.
I looked up book prices on the SBS web site today. I think I'm ready to head on back to Michigan soon.
Friday, July 22, 2005
The 'quez
I wouldn't normally strip a man of his private moments, but since Dirk doesn't update his blog nearly enough, I thought I'd offer a small glimpse into the psyche of a poet lunatic, even if it is at my own expense.
This is an email to the beloved, yet cleverly fruity Patrick Walters that I was CCed on. Background: Yung 'Quez and I are moving into the luxurious abode I once shared with Patrick Walters and J. Ryan Mulcrone. Patrick has some left over furniture that Dirk or other roommate Paul may be interested in...
**********************
Hello Patrick,
so lovely to see your written word again.
Here are my thoughts as to your furniture dilemma. I've already relegated the menial task of dealing with the couches to Donald.. he gets anxious and flippant when he feels he's not given responsibility.
My friend Paul, our other roommate, has shown a good deal of interest in the desk, so that should be aight.
As for the other pieces, I could be interested in the bedstand, but I'll need the following information:
1) Cedar or cherry wood? --- though I've always loved the robust, uncompromising scent of cedar, it's not a wood you want watching you all night....shifty eyes, untrustworthy hands.
2) Was it varnished in the Parisian tradition, or that of the Finns? It's hard for me to fully respect a piece of furniture that doesn't have a good norse lacquer.
3) What's it likely to fetch at auction? If I'm going to add this sucker to my portfolio, I'll need to be able to guarantee returns.. or at least a good five minute spot on the next Antiques Roadshow.
I would be interested in the chest of drawers, but I've already orchestrated a plan whereby your mother comes to retrieve it and finds me strewn over my bed, naked, feeding myself wild cherries and figs and painting an exact copy of the mona lisa.... watercolor.
Seriously, though, given details I might be down for the dresser, too.
Sincerely,
Baby 'Quez
p.s. I concur with Donald that this semester is bound to be very hyped, what with him going to see plays with jessica on some nights and fighting to kill affirmative action on others.
*****************
This is an email to the beloved, yet cleverly fruity Patrick Walters that I was CCed on. Background: Yung 'Quez and I are moving into the luxurious abode I once shared with Patrick Walters and J. Ryan Mulcrone. Patrick has some left over furniture that Dirk or other roommate Paul may be interested in...
**********************
Hello Patrick,
so lovely to see your written word again.
Here are my thoughts as to your furniture dilemma. I've already relegated the menial task of dealing with the couches to Donald.. he gets anxious and flippant when he feels he's not given responsibility.
My friend Paul, our other roommate, has shown a good deal of interest in the desk, so that should be aight.
As for the other pieces, I could be interested in the bedstand, but I'll need the following information:
1) Cedar or cherry wood? --- though I've always loved the robust, uncompromising scent of cedar, it's not a wood you want watching you all night....shifty eyes, untrustworthy hands.
2) Was it varnished in the Parisian tradition, or that of the Finns? It's hard for me to fully respect a piece of furniture that doesn't have a good norse lacquer.
3) What's it likely to fetch at auction? If I'm going to add this sucker to my portfolio, I'll need to be able to guarantee returns.. or at least a good five minute spot on the next Antiques Roadshow.
I would be interested in the chest of drawers, but I've already orchestrated a plan whereby your mother comes to retrieve it and finds me strewn over my bed, naked, feeding myself wild cherries and figs and painting an exact copy of the mona lisa.... watercolor.
Seriously, though, given details I might be down for the dresser, too.
Sincerely,
Baby 'Quez
p.s. I concur with Donald that this semester is bound to be very hyped, what with him going to see plays with jessica on some nights and fighting to kill affirmative action on others.
*****************
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Blood, sweat and gears
Beyond West Palm Beach, beyond Jupiter Island, even beyond Burt Reynolds Park, there is a land of alligators and exposed palmetto roots. It is a haven where lizards dance with spiders in a sandy, sticky orgy of nature's most unruly characters and emotions. It is an overgrown asylum of thorn bushes and dense palms better suited for beast, not man. And yet someone decided to build an enormous labyrinth of criss-crossing, off-road, one lane bike trails smack in the middle of it.
The third of my planned six weekend excursions was cut short by Hurricane Dennis this past weekend. Of course, I didn't get to report from the field, enjoying the full capability of the storm's thrust. I was asked to come into the office Saturday and edit Web feeds. Ugh. Needless to say, Sunday became my half-weekend and I was planning to spend it bicycling along the shores of Jupiter, Fl.
I packed up Golden Thunder and climbed into the Silver Bullet, but on the way to the paved trail, I caught sight of Jonathon Dickinson State Park. I remembered reading about this place when I first moved down here. It was the homeland for Club Scrub, a strictly bad-ass off-road bicycling club in South Florida. They had built miles and miles of trails through some of Florida's most ferocious terrain. I thought that a spin on the trails would be a lot more exciting than constant beachfront mansions and sail boats.
I paid four bucks to get into the park, left the Bullet nearby, and made by way along a paved path to the Middle Ridge and Osprey loops. The place was like a ghost town, except for the toned, fit Lance Armstrong-looking guy who sprung from the end of the trail as I was approaching. That should have been my first clue.
The trails were intermediate, or so the lady at the front gate said. And c'mon, like I'm going to go to the "beginner" loop. It was called the Tortoise loop for pete's sake. But as they say, pride goeth before the fall... down a steep bank into a swamp. More on that later.
I started out on the trail, and immediately realized I was in very unfamilar territory for Golden Thunder. The trail was about a foot and a half wide, with "walls" of shrub and brush on either side. Since I'm in Florida, it was mostly sand. Huge palmetto roots shot up around every corner. And then, just to make things fun, random logs were thrown in to really scare the hell out of me. There were a couple fun additions. There was about a 3-and-a-half straight drop once where I caught some air. There was another pyramid-type structure made out of wooden planks that I rode up and then down. But mostly, it was pure hell. If you looked away for a second, you were smashing your foot against a hidden tree stump or getting whacked in the face by a dead, hanging branch.
At one point, I rode alongside a murky swamp. I had once asked a co-worker how you can tell if there are alligators in the water. He said if it's fresh water, there are always alligators. So I looked over to spot a pair of eyes or a tail, lost footing around a patch of sand, and flipped sideways and upside-down, down a bank into a thorny shrub. Golden Thunder was pinned on top of me, I was caught in the thicket, and I wasn't sure what type of animals could be sneaking up around me. I realized that the water was only a few feet away. I saw these reddish ants climbing up a stalk a few inches from my face. I had already seen all sizes of lizard on the ride. So, I flipped out, started struggling violently to get out, and about a minute later, I was upright and standing on the trail. There was sand and bits of plant stuck in places on my hand where skin had been. My right leg was full-flow bleeding from a couple of long cuts around my shin and calf. I checked myself for other cuts, found a few, and then jumped back on the Thunder.
An hour later, after stopping once because I thought I was going to puke (ok, I'm in decent shape, but this trail was insane), I finally popped back out onto the paved trail. In a strange way, it felt invigorating to finally finish it, with my shirt soaked from top to bottom and blood rolling down into my socks and smeared on my bike frame. I thought of Club Scrub and whether they'd be laughing or applauding. I told myself I'd try it again before I left Florida, only with a helmet next time. I loaded up the sand-caked Golden Thunder, hopped in the Bullet and drove to the nearest gas station to get some hydrogen peroxide.
It was a good type of sting.
The third of my planned six weekend excursions was cut short by Hurricane Dennis this past weekend. Of course, I didn't get to report from the field, enjoying the full capability of the storm's thrust. I was asked to come into the office Saturday and edit Web feeds. Ugh. Needless to say, Sunday became my half-weekend and I was planning to spend it bicycling along the shores of Jupiter, Fl.
I packed up Golden Thunder and climbed into the Silver Bullet, but on the way to the paved trail, I caught sight of Jonathon Dickinson State Park. I remembered reading about this place when I first moved down here. It was the homeland for Club Scrub, a strictly bad-ass off-road bicycling club in South Florida. They had built miles and miles of trails through some of Florida's most ferocious terrain. I thought that a spin on the trails would be a lot more exciting than constant beachfront mansions and sail boats.
I paid four bucks to get into the park, left the Bullet nearby, and made by way along a paved path to the Middle Ridge and Osprey loops. The place was like a ghost town, except for the toned, fit Lance Armstrong-looking guy who sprung from the end of the trail as I was approaching. That should have been my first clue.
The trails were intermediate, or so the lady at the front gate said. And c'mon, like I'm going to go to the "beginner" loop. It was called the Tortoise loop for pete's sake. But as they say, pride goeth before the fall... down a steep bank into a swamp. More on that later.
I started out on the trail, and immediately realized I was in very unfamilar territory for Golden Thunder. The trail was about a foot and a half wide, with "walls" of shrub and brush on either side. Since I'm in Florida, it was mostly sand. Huge palmetto roots shot up around every corner. And then, just to make things fun, random logs were thrown in to really scare the hell out of me. There were a couple fun additions. There was about a 3-and-a-half straight drop once where I caught some air. There was another pyramid-type structure made out of wooden planks that I rode up and then down. But mostly, it was pure hell. If you looked away for a second, you were smashing your foot against a hidden tree stump or getting whacked in the face by a dead, hanging branch.
At one point, I rode alongside a murky swamp. I had once asked a co-worker how you can tell if there are alligators in the water. He said if it's fresh water, there are always alligators. So I looked over to spot a pair of eyes or a tail, lost footing around a patch of sand, and flipped sideways and upside-down, down a bank into a thorny shrub. Golden Thunder was pinned on top of me, I was caught in the thicket, and I wasn't sure what type of animals could be sneaking up around me. I realized that the water was only a few feet away. I saw these reddish ants climbing up a stalk a few inches from my face. I had already seen all sizes of lizard on the ride. So, I flipped out, started struggling violently to get out, and about a minute later, I was upright and standing on the trail. There was sand and bits of plant stuck in places on my hand where skin had been. My right leg was full-flow bleeding from a couple of long cuts around my shin and calf. I checked myself for other cuts, found a few, and then jumped back on the Thunder.
An hour later, after stopping once because I thought I was going to puke (ok, I'm in decent shape, but this trail was insane), I finally popped back out onto the paved trail. In a strange way, it felt invigorating to finally finish it, with my shirt soaked from top to bottom and blood rolling down into my socks and smeared on my bike frame. I thought of Club Scrub and whether they'd be laughing or applauding. I told myself I'd try it again before I left Florida, only with a helmet next time. I loaded up the sand-caked Golden Thunder, hopped in the Bullet and drove to the nearest gas station to get some hydrogen peroxide.
It was a good type of sting.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
A writing exercise
I just finished reading a great new story on ESPN.com about Steve Bartman, the notorious Cubs fan who received death threats after he interfered with a catchable foul ball that may have cost the Cubs the NL pennant. The story is written in first person and is more about finding the story than actually Bartman himself. It's a great example of what journalists go through and the emotions they experience while covering a tough story. If you're a journalist, you should read this, even if you care less about baseball.
Foul Play: On the trail of the most reclusive man in sports
Thursday, July 07, 2005
london fog
I was happy to hear that good buddy Sarah Frank was not among the at least 37 people killed and 300 injured this morning in London. What a sad day. It makes me angry.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Winner of California's "World's Ugliest Dog" contest this weekend
This is the most frightening thing I've ever seen. If I ever saw this dog, I'd immediately kill it. It's that fucking scary looking. It honestly looks worse than something out of a Hollywood horror movie. They should sign this ugly beast up for the movies. Just looking into its milky, demon-crazed eyes makes you doubt the existence of God. I'm going to cry under my desk for hours.
Whoever owns this dog should either 1) exploit it for money, or 2) swiftly kill it. That's all that you can do for this freakish canine. Oh my god!
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Ponce, pirate, ghosts and spirits
Juan Ponce de Leon was always my favorite among the 15th-16th century explorers, primarily because he was simply the most idealistic of the bunch. I used to love reading about him in history class throughout grade school and high school. While some looked for gold and others looked for spices, Ponce was looking for the Fountain of Youth. It's hard to imagine the dedication a person would have to risk his own life and the lives of his men, not to mention a fair amount of Spanish capital, to sail across an entire ocean in search of something so mystical. You have to respect that. He never gave up on his dream, even if it meant rough seas, pirates, scurvy, etc.
So Sunday, when I stood at the spot Ponce's ship first struck land, I was envigored by his spirit and determination. As you probably know, Ponce de Leon discovered Florida and claimed it for the Spanish. The spot he discovered soon developed into a city which still stands today. In fact, it's the oldest city in the United States. St. Augustine, FL was the second of six destinations I plan to tour before it's time to pack it all up and head northward.
The Silver Bullet and I made the 4-hour-long trip to St. Augustine early Sunday morning. I love to drive to new places, watch the scenery go by, notice the quirky billboards, so it didn't seem long at all. The hostel I was staying at was in the heart of the historic district, and when the city is 1500s-historic, the roads aren't exactly made for supersonic minivans. I bid a sweet adieu to the Bullet and strolled through the cobblestone streets to the Pirate Haus, appropriately named because of the city's constant problems with pirates throughout history (sacked in the 1800s, which sucked). The staff was dressed like pirates, and one guy with a red bandana pointed out the best watering holes the city had to offer. I took note of the pirate's suggestions and headed out into the city.
I explored mills, courtyards, taverns and an old Spanish cathedral. I toured the San Sebastian Winery and sipped wines made from Floida's muscadine grapes (very tasty). I ate a roast beef dinner at the Prince of Wales Inn (a throwback to a brief era of about 20 years where the British owned Florida right before the American revolution). And then on Sunday night, after downing three pints of John Courage amber ale at the Prince of Wales, I embarked on the St. Augustine Haunted Pub Tour through the historic district. At this point, you may be wondering why I'm doing all of this by myself. But hey, you should try it out. It's nice to explore a new place at your own pace, do what you want to do, and meet people that you wouldn't meet if you had company along for the trip. And that leads me to the women from Tampa.
On the pub tour (really more of a pub crawl), I met Patty and Linda, two middle-aged women who admitted to having children around my age. They were old friends who went on trips alone every summer to get away from their families and let loose. It turned out that they were to let loose on me. After they discovered I was the only one of the tour who was alone (I was perfectly happy talking to our guide, Tom, about ghosts, ghost hunting, ghost sightings, etc., because that shit really gets me going), they promptly insisted that I was now with their group, which was fine, I suppose, except for that these women were the kind you'd see half-hanging off a pontoon boat in Lake St. Clair with a Milwaukee's Best poking out from their beer coosy and a Newport dangling from their lower lip. Oh well.
We went to four pubs, learned the stories behind them and had a lot of beer and coconut rum to drink (a lot). We smoked cigars, talked about ghosts and took a lot of pictures (to come later). After the tour, we hung out on the patio of one bar with a journalist couple we met from Lakeland, FL., and drank until closing time.
After Linda (or was it Patty?) gave me her number and address in Tampa, I stumbled back home through the cobblestone walkways to the Pirate Haus, climbed to the top bunk of my bunk bed and immediately passed. Arrr, matey, what a fine eve-nin.
So Sunday, when I stood at the spot Ponce's ship first struck land, I was envigored by his spirit and determination. As you probably know, Ponce de Leon discovered Florida and claimed it for the Spanish. The spot he discovered soon developed into a city which still stands today. In fact, it's the oldest city in the United States. St. Augustine, FL was the second of six destinations I plan to tour before it's time to pack it all up and head northward.
The Silver Bullet and I made the 4-hour-long trip to St. Augustine early Sunday morning. I love to drive to new places, watch the scenery go by, notice the quirky billboards, so it didn't seem long at all. The hostel I was staying at was in the heart of the historic district, and when the city is 1500s-historic, the roads aren't exactly made for supersonic minivans. I bid a sweet adieu to the Bullet and strolled through the cobblestone streets to the Pirate Haus, appropriately named because of the city's constant problems with pirates throughout history (sacked in the 1800s, which sucked). The staff was dressed like pirates, and one guy with a red bandana pointed out the best watering holes the city had to offer. I took note of the pirate's suggestions and headed out into the city.
I explored mills, courtyards, taverns and an old Spanish cathedral. I toured the San Sebastian Winery and sipped wines made from Floida's muscadine grapes (very tasty). I ate a roast beef dinner at the Prince of Wales Inn (a throwback to a brief era of about 20 years where the British owned Florida right before the American revolution). And then on Sunday night, after downing three pints of John Courage amber ale at the Prince of Wales, I embarked on the St. Augustine Haunted Pub Tour through the historic district. At this point, you may be wondering why I'm doing all of this by myself. But hey, you should try it out. It's nice to explore a new place at your own pace, do what you want to do, and meet people that you wouldn't meet if you had company along for the trip. And that leads me to the women from Tampa.
On the pub tour (really more of a pub crawl), I met Patty and Linda, two middle-aged women who admitted to having children around my age. They were old friends who went on trips alone every summer to get away from their families and let loose. It turned out that they were to let loose on me. After they discovered I was the only one of the tour who was alone (I was perfectly happy talking to our guide, Tom, about ghosts, ghost hunting, ghost sightings, etc., because that shit really gets me going), they promptly insisted that I was now with their group, which was fine, I suppose, except for that these women were the kind you'd see half-hanging off a pontoon boat in Lake St. Clair with a Milwaukee's Best poking out from their beer coosy and a Newport dangling from their lower lip. Oh well.
We went to four pubs, learned the stories behind them and had a lot of beer and coconut rum to drink (a lot). We smoked cigars, talked about ghosts and took a lot of pictures (to come later). After the tour, we hung out on the patio of one bar with a journalist couple we met from Lakeland, FL., and drank until closing time.
After Linda (or was it Patty?) gave me her number and address in Tampa, I stumbled back home through the cobblestone walkways to the Pirate Haus, climbed to the top bunk of my bunk bed and immediately passed. Arrr, matey, what a fine eve-nin.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Orlando Black Magic
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!
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!
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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