Wunder Years

The Old Grudge

2012-01-10T06:00:00.000-08:00

Grow up. Take things personally. Hold a grudge. Is that what it means to be human in the modern era? I don't mean to suggest you go pick a fight or get your heart broken, no, I mean, just live, find your way, and make it your way, or the highway.

That's what it's like living in the world, isn't it? Old legends, archetypal struggles, being held for multiple generations without thought to the consequence, defended with techno-armaments designed by brilliant minds. Protect the parties perspectives that pursue planetary dominance by plaguing the plebeian proletariat. How is that?

As a young immigrant, I came to San Antonio Texas, the prodigal Pollack, loved by the Catholic Missionary sponsors in the mixed Mexican-Polish Parrish that gave my father a start in today's "Amurca" [sic]. Now, many of the immigrated prefer to prevent it.

I managed to find bigotry and racism within myself, reflected off the faces of neighbors near our second home in Georgia. A slough of hateful commentary and fascist gesturing toward myself made me question the fabric of our future in the US, but moreso, planted the seeds of the realization that grudges weren't those of my 10 year old friends at the time, but their parents. Later, several of my friends deeply apologized after realizing the narrowness of their actions.

I'm not exempt. Adults in my own culture were guilty of the quietly labeling Jews, Russians, Blacks, and just about everyone who fell out of their comfort zone of cultural neutrality (read: sameness). I had to fight to stay outside of that. Even at my own peril.

Now that I am father to four kids, ranging from fourteen to one in age, the truth is still a reality in observation. But it's not staying that way. I didn't buy into it. Others didn't either. I sought out the difference...

I found dark corners, clubs, alleys, events that brought esoteric archetypes into the material plane, and gave them inflated egos. The music matched the limit of their collective desires for freedom and liberation. Accelerating the biblically prophetic course of archetypal maturation. House, Hip hop, Trance, and Dub invaded the universe, and millions followed into the extra-terrestrial and psychotropic. Vibrations manifest in reality. We became Spirits in the material world. The external face of human order, the color of skin, and the look of naked flesh disappeared. We found freedom.

Back in reality, where cars, couture, and conformity symbolize the success of the social, the velour gives a facade to the deeper realm, all the former giving rise to protection of our fragile souls, fearful of turning up alone. The function of marriage becomes an exit from loneliness on film, and has lost it's merit as a binding of souls, mirroring the fires raging throughout thousands of years of human revolution. I was lucky. I found my angel of mercy, my demon, my love. We dug our heels in, and became human together. It all started with a courtship of dance at the edge of the sea.

Every week, a podcast broadcasts pulsing beats in the ears of 30 million listeners. The pulsing beats deliver a message of unity and a rhythm of life. Like the waves on the ocean, the minds and hearts of millions surf through the poetic symphonies, letting go of grudges, realizing we've been under a trance around the world, and it's time to go above and beyond.

Fun Impossible

2011-12-22T09:40:00.000-08:00

Someone put a stop to making life fun. Someone can be blamed for this. No, that someone is not myself, but a force of nature that wants all the humans of the world to behave; someone boring and monolithic. Maybe a God. Why would I take responsibility for it? Then again, why not?

After recalling a tale about a young man who skipped every test and practically all assignments in a freshman level college course, only to receive an above average grade thanks to a clever use of technological prowess, conversation, and careless collegiate beer drinking, a bizarre truth emerged.

Maybe my kids *will* do just fine. I did, despite making some unwunderous design choices, and falling from my "platinum nest among the eternal branches of divinity".

Maybe, somewhere along the way, I took a wrong turn. I became serious. Narrowed my focus. Decided subconsciously that I had my mind made up that this way is the only way, and logic prevails with total certainty. I don't think boredom falls far from this domain of experience. Not only for myself, but my family.

No one is making me do this. No wind, force of will, or God is responsible for my choices. Yet somewhere inside I'm crawling around looking for the switch that dimmed the lights in my funhouse. In the corner next to the daredevil watching Oprah reruns, a dancing bear sits sobbing, his unicycle tire deflated by a clown wearing black wool chinos, an oxford shirt, and leather sperry topsiders over gold toe socks.

Frankly speaking, if I can't get them back in the circus, I'll risk losing myself in the dustbin of eternal mediocrity. Time to light the cannons, feed the animals, and tune up the clown car for the greatest show on Earth: Life.

The choice is mine, and consistently un-impossible to change.

The Mind's Fire Works

2009-06-27T00:42:00.004-07:00

What the fuck? (Sorry, but some stories start this way.)

What the fuck? How did we do it? I've been waiting three years to see something positive change in the universe of humanity churning in a massive matrix on the surface skin of this big blue apple spaceship rocketing through space time. Our front seat offers a glimpse into the mega-structures Nature has already created solving all of our problems, and our importance continues to frighten us closer to the cancer we are intending to cure with a synthesis of molecular monkey wrenches designed to chase the serpents tail deep into its own throat until it discovers Life has begun and ended here once and always. We infected her, this big blue pearl of life, with happiness, joy, and war to protect the 'proper' version of the happiness and joy we are here to protect and intentionally enjoy...

...this realm of humanity, a bureaucracy invented by the few human beings that need lines drawn between us as races, cultures, continents, and countries, thinking that in order to reform we need more red tape. The many that made the first transition learned the difficulty of returning to the things we can not love, the machine minds becoming machines that make make make and take the life out of her until we have made ourselves a new pile of embers to warm our wild rabbit hybrids wandering with two tails, blind as bats but seeking truth with their third eyes honed on the holographic world, a 5th dimension where trees, stones, and roots talk many times over the endless tales of creation, re-creation, complexities of living, dreams of better days.

What the fuck have we done with a broad eye vision of large cypress trees glowing in the sunlight, themselves an organism infinitely covered with billions of microscopic constellations of myco-rhyzo-bacterio masterworks, crafted by the Creator from the Source itself pure and raw and true? The time is shifting, the eye continues to open itself wide to the world. Revealing the power of her plunder is painful, but the limit of all that we can attain through her generosity is unparalleled in this time.

First she will strip us of all we need. We will theorize, postulate, dream, and imagine, over countless cycles of induced manifestations, the reality we want in our collective heart mind. This will reveal our collective greed, our forgiveness will surpass our expectations as banks fall under their own incognizance. The mortgages, the jobs, the ideals. The serpent knows to remove it's best assets, replacing them with better tools in the hyper-COGniture of the future machine.

People will get unemployment, their lives will be then stressed under the weight of their consumption. At first, they panic, saving and storing and creating scarcity. Next, comes comfort in the power of savings and relief of financial remedy. They ease the burden with credit cards, then live off the unemployment as the bureaucracies invent more rules for joining the labor force. Credit and unemployment put a strain on consumption, and jobs begin to dwindle. Savings dries up as the nation turns to credit. Creditors can't pay their bills because there's just too much piling up for them. The governments begin to step in. Print more money. No! Just bail the creditors out. Yeah! Until wait, the people cannot afford to pay the creditors and they become excluded from the markets dealing in credit. They can't afford the rent. Entire families hit the streets in an exodus to escape the painfully cancerous cities where the heightened importance of humans separate from nature, our minds tuned to love our pets more than our brothers and sisters.

Then the credit market collapses. Rents aren't paid. The exodus is begun. Those that know to grow their own food, do so and supply the masses, steering the ship tightly around in a full circle. The food production takes root in the small country towns, community gardens in cities, entire communities come together to rediscover the importance of education and live food. The cure to cancer is found. We abandon the legislation and let the flowers bloom in the bounty of our Spring as One. We bloom with the flowers, and our summer becomes a Renaissance, with recreation stemming from open markets of education, our dreams come true as fast as our minds allow it. We look around at the cities and see the unbelievable things the planet can do, using them as triangulation for a contextual future, everything comes into question and we ask "Perhaps the cancer is the city, the consumption of our planet for profit, gain, and war." The planet shows us the way, the light, and the hand of the Universal being sweeps through sending us back into the forest until one day...

...we return to the giant towers, the vast promenades, from the safety of our homes in the trees, we rediscover these hidden ruins and ask "Who were these people that built monuments to the stars, the kings of pop and rock, the sultans of seduction? Who did build this tower into the sky and why oh why but why can't I?"

From the ashes the phoenix rises strong. A cure to the cancer of building tools to augment the master craft of nature, the forbidden fruit of knowledge digested and shat back into the soil for us to see within it our own horrifying reflection of unbound beauty and light manifest for all to see as One natural, illuminated, super-macro-organism, Homo Sapiens Sapiens becomes Homo Sapiens Illuminus. Doctors will no longer be dying of the cancer they are curing with the toys they are maturing, and the soul will rest in harmonic love for what lies within, a balance met and manifest in the lives of all that lay to rest before each line of family, a hope for tomorrow, a dawn, a light so free...

We are not a crystal becomes frozen in time. We will never freeze as we mature and transform through our prior selves. Then our understandings unfold, and we become more than we ever thought that we could become, because it was all that was ever taught and we lived all we could stand to live before we lost the will to feed our minds with living foods, the fruits of the trees of the earth and sky and sea.

And the tree of knowledge blossoms into bearing fruit, which this time we observe and enjoy, never again to taste what we know grows upon its tender limbs.

Chuck Norris Settles Arguments with a Kick to the Groin

2006-03-05T15:39:00.000-08:00

Lee Morris was a motherfucker in 4th grade. You know the kind. A little shit that does everything possible to act like a prick at recess. He also looked like an asshole. Really. Once, I saw Lee hit some dweebish redneck kid in the face with one of those red rubber kickballs.

Lee was a douchebag. Trust me.

Mind you, I was a skinny little punk with an "Uncle Jessie" mullet, big teeth, and tinted aviator glasses--my mom insisted i needed the tint to prevent macular degeneration. I got along well enough.

One day, Lee hit me with that red ball. I went apeshit. Before he could say dodgeball, I'd delivered the swiftest groin kick in the history of mankind.

Instantly I felt bad. Lee was on his knees crying. No one noticed the exchange.

What's worse, after a minute, the gym coach caught on to us and asked what happened. Because Lee couldn't speak, I answered for him.

"He accidently knocked the wind out of himself with the kickball."

The coach said, "Lee, why don't you sit out the rest of the game."

Oh man, that was looooow.

So many stories, so little life...

2006-03-05T13:44:00.000-08:00

Geek this...
Once upon a time in a city far in the southeastern continental United States, there live a young man with a propensity to spend countless hours wandering the streets with a camera. The stories of these adventures are many. One about two Pakistani men named Rehan, who had in's at exclusive night clubs. Another about Michael A. and his bohemian underground elite. Some crazy, some sad, some about love, friendship and some experiences too surreal to be believable. Oh, those were my weekends, my nights, and my days once. Long ago in that city of Atlanta.

Now, I live for food, creating cool software, and time with my friends [mostly cooking or enjoying humor]. A foolish imp would call me a geek, a dork, or a nerd. At face value I admit this to be a likely label stemming from an oversimplified and narrow minded analysis of my lifestyle.

Devolving Doors
What ever happened to those days in Atlanta?

Let's face it, I am controlled. Whether by my convictions, morals, ideals, hopes, fears, or wildest imagination, I am controlled. I am also controlled by the convictions of others in a collective sense. Freedom, to me, doesn't have anything to do with taking comfort in my being controlled. The world has spent centuries developing institutions that are meant to protect and control us in a constructive, rewarding way -- and recently I've been feeling more uncertain about our civil infrastructure.

I love my country, and my freedom to question authority, however, I can't help but feel a little overwhelmed when I think of how far we have to go with respect to how far we've gone through history to get here, not to mention the possibility that our civilization is still as frail as any other that's fought long and hard to survive in our history as a species. The great waves of conquest grow in amplitude and period only bear down upon uncertain shores. As individuals, if we can't learn to embrace the freedom we afford ourselves, nor the opportunities our freedom affords, can we evolve or will we keep repeating the cruel lessons of our past?

Does it excite anyone else out there that we as individuals are not obligated to anything? We, our reality, may just be a chaotic bubble in the fabric of space? It popped up out of something and may return to something else, and we could be gone in a cosmic instant.

So we have to pay taxes, stay clean, paint the house, walk the dog, buy food, shit, sleep, eat, and survive, but have you ever considered that you don't have to do most of that? Will not doing it make your life better? Perhaps not.

So what of emotions? Warring, fighting, arguing, stealing, cheating, killing, and conversely loving, kissing, living, helping, and fucking? Can we control those things to the point of choosing our obligations? Is it that the more we let our lives be controlled, the less we can control the few things we could possibly have control over in our lives?

Sometimes I can't control my passions. Other times, I know when to back down quickly and accept others' control over me. The mechanics fascinate me. As I get older, I try to impress less control over others and more over myself, but my vice is my curiosity and indulgence in tempting fate. I don't ever want to catch myself standing in line waiting for something to happen; for life to become opportune; for a chance to realize my dreams.

Will someone out there join me in feeling we are vulnerable? If so, here's to both sides of the coin. To getting burned. To the freedom of mistakes, and triumphs, and middle of the road memories.

To the freedom of knowing I got myself into this. To the freedom of pleasure.

I see fear and desperation in the eyes of every person who goes to the gym because they MUST, or go to work because they MUST, or not change careers because they CAN'T.

Promises to no one

2006-03-05T13:42:00.000-08:00

I haven't posted since November. That is stupid for three reasons:

1. Many things have happened.
2. I have a lot to say.
3. I don't think I care if you listen.
4. No reason at all.

Table for One

2005-11-06T21:27:00.000-08:00

"Bartender, gimme singles!"
"Hi--wow--is this your first time doing this?"

Gimme a fuggin' break, bartender, cuz I'm at a singles mixer. For those of you who don't have the balls to try this on your member, please, end yourself. I say that because you haven't lived until you've exposed yourself to the vast ocean of optimism that is known to modern circles of young professionals as 'Speed Dating'.

Girls, get your flashiest lipstick out, leave your skirts at home [the boys are desparate], and gather three of your friends for a night in a meat locker.

Boys, polish off the 'mister' at 6, dig deep for that poker face, don't be late, convince yourself you're hotter than everything else on this planet, and prepare to be amazed by your own vocabulary.

Like I said, it's singles night.

Singled Out
"Fredrick of Hollywood... wha? ...no it's not my real name!"

For Christ's sake, if I never have to explain the origins of my real name to another chainsmoking kindergarten teacher with bags under her eyes, I'll be a better man for it.

[I'm never revealing my real name here]

IF you read this and you reveal my real name, I will be forced to publish something very accurate and inflamatory about you, supported with conclusive evidence, regardless of the rediculousness of my claims against you. [eg. Remember the time you did that Preparation H Ad as a kid? NO? Well I do.] You've been warned.

To you, to everyone else in this world who sees me as a black and lavender web page, my name is Fred Savage. In an event full of ducks, I was a lone goose [note: fuck swans]. I was alone. I was 'Fredrick of Hollywood'. A social experiment.

The minute I walked in and saw three Craig's and two Dave's, I knew it was my duty to be the cynic and piss all over the alluring concept without hitting the seat or dribbling on my hands.

Laid as in Single
Every guy has that mid thirties thirst. Its seeds are planted in the third grade. Our foxy school teacher, Ms. Grundlebumper, [foxy cuz we're 3rd grade hornballs and know no better] piques our interest. With time, the idea is aged and ferments into a fantasy of being with that HOT spanish lady at the end of the bar who looks like she could be a kick shy of 38.

So what will it take? C'Mon gents, you know what I'm asking. Money? [Not unless you are really rich and buying Louis Vutton for the broad, otherwise you're buying a hooker] Smooth talk? [You can imagine me, a regular Brando, I am. Right.]

Who knows? [I do.] So what says the wise ass? Answer: who knows?

I'm getting older and wondering if it's really true about those thirties? I suppose I'll be in my thirties in a little while, but I also think that by then, I will have figured out the whole thirties riddle, and I'll be in the company of very tasteful women in their twenties...otherwise known as arm-candy.

So I'm looking forward to my next letdown, the next dose of disallusion, the next moment of clarity... when I realize that I still have two hands... and the confidence of youth.

Stay single, bitches.

Hey See, DC

2005-11-06T21:14:00.000-08:00

So, you wake up and decide to pedal down to the waterfront for some daylight time at the end of a runway. You watch the planes tear the sky over you. You feel good.

You ride home the way you came, but stumble upon an opera on the National Mall. You decide to sit and watch the live operatic simulcast of Porgy and Bess. The sweat on your skin dries as you take on the odor of a gym bag. You eat a half-smoke during intermission.

You fart during the last movement and two old ladies next to you [down wind] cover their noses with their shirts. You laugh at how they look doing this.

Nearly 3.5 hours later, you ride home whistling 'Summertime' by the Gershwin's. You've lived one day of my life. You've lived in DC.

Don't Dis' Honest Abe

2005-10-22T20:35:00.000-07:00

Abe Lincoln
A great man. The 16th president. Despite being clinically diagnosed with depression, he is remembered for many noteworthy achievements. He has a memorial in Washington, which is my new home. [The city not the memorial.]

Just last night, after a night out on the town, I was voluntarily robbed by a diabetic homeless man who strangely resembled a black Abe Lincoln. Normally, I do not support the homeless economy, but Abe had proof of his diabetes, which is no laughing matter.

That's not to say it wasn't a laughing matter, generally speaking. [Ah, here we go, you say..]

I admit I was a little intoxicated, so my judgement was a little impaired. Reflecting on the experience today, I gave the guy 10 bucks, and he asked to look in wallet to verify I had given him everything I had. I laughed at this, citing the rediculous nature of his request to which he replied, "C'mon man, look at me. Don't I look like Abe Lincoln?"

What I did: Keyed into my building and went home.

What I should do next time: Ask "Abe" for a photo op. [I'm not kidding, the similarity was uncanny]

More is on its way, once I get my money back from Abe.

Mooned by NASA

2005-09-19T20:24:00.000-07:00

Tugh Siht
Did anyone out there ever have any difficult with a subject? Yes, Maxwell, PE counts. I found English to be about a bitch when I was in school. [Later in life, people will continue to tell me that it IS, after all, my SECOND language. Great.] I think it was that I had a hard time concentrating on what I was writing about. Maybe those really boring topics we had to choose from got the other kids on track, but not me. I had an attention deficit naturally protected from a surplus of higher learning.

One Giant Heap
So two fellas at NASA are rifling through some old drawers and they find, among slide rules, dehydrated ice cream sandwiches, and backissues of popular science, the plans from the apollo missions. After a few minutes of careful study, one mutters, "Damn, we were good!"

T-minus 91 minutes
During my senior year of college, I could write a B+ paper in 91 minutes. By the end of my tenure, I had one stretch of papers that smashed even my brightest records in papercraft. I remember only losing 3 points once because I didn't read the instructions regarding cover page formating. It was perfect otherwise... Yes, here it is next to some back issues of Maxim, some false teeth, and my diploma. "Damn, I was good!"

There's Only 1 Strike in T-Ball
In the last weeks of my Junior year, I realized I had logical flaws in my work. I was losing points with the pedagogs, crashing to earth because my thougts had a hard way of not finishing themselves. Or was I not finishing my thoughts.

Then there was the first time I got it right. Boy, I got it right on the nose. And I wore that one out. Every paper until my last had the trademark thought-flow that tore a hole through the page, captivated the reader, and came in at just over 120 minutes to complete. I stopped losing, but was I winning?

Break It and Fix it
With the paper in his hand, he turns and says, "I have a great idea."

"Oh?" replies the other.

"Yeah! Remember how much fun we had with those Apollo missions? Maybe we had it wrong, maybe the 80's really got to our heads...?"

"You think..?" says the other.

"Yes. I say we bring back the Apollo... This time with leather seats, a 6.1 million pound chassis, moon orbiter, vacuum toilets, dehydrated ice cream, and a 600 million hp dual solid-rocket booster engine that we have to rebuild every time we take it around the block. The purpose...why, to prove we can spend a lot of money to send people to live on the moon for 6 months. Why else?"

"Hell, if it works for college papers, why not space programs? Who's going first?" asks the other.

"That's easy. A special chimpanzee named Bubbles."

"Brilliant!", declares the other.

It Ain't Plagerizing if I Copy Myself, Right?
And you know what else, it's worked for Volkswagen, Ford, and even Nissan got in on that action.

Let's face it.

We're going to realize many more times that we had it right a long time ago. It seems as if it was only our irrational, imaginative will to overengineer that got us our fastest stike outs up at bat.

It's nice to see we're making progress.

Just get it right...

2005-09-17T10:22:00.000-07:00

Drug Use
For serious. Why do drugs when there are so many odd things to make humor of. Example: I saw a homeless guy pooing behind a large real estate advert in a bad part of town the other day. While I think poverty and homelessness are hardly a laughing matter, pooing behind a real estate advert is.

In from the Outside
How many Polacks does it take to empty a trash can? Three. One to tip the can, one to hold the bag, and one to pick the trash off the floor.

Before you jump to conclusions and call me an asshole, realize first that 1. I am Polish and 2. I invented this joke after I saw my parents trying to empty the trash bin for their paper shredder. I was the one picking up the trash off the floor.

My parents didn't like the joke after the fact either.

Bolognese
I'm hungry. I want some Bolognese lasagna. I saw a sweet balding italian lady making the dish on the tv and it looked damn good to me.

The Ladies
Why can't you make up your mind? And what's with all the rambling?

Why Old People Smell: And how to prevent Fetid Geriatric Syndrome...

2005-09-12T12:17:00.000-07:00

Wandering through the annals of memory, I recovered the distinct pungency of fear: getting older...

..And smellier.

The Closet
Inside a linen closet in my parents' house I found the secrets to the aromatic mysteries of aging. Additionally I believe to have uncovered an obvious correlation between age, junk, and smell.

Bear with me. You thought once, when you were seven, that grandma must be substituting mothballs for deodorant. At one point, I personally thought old people keep those smelly little white pills in the caskets they must be sleeping in as the ocean of time that was once vast dries up before them.

Obviously it didn't take medical science to disprove my assumptions. So where did that smell come from? I looked everywhere for answers: armpits, old socks, used adult diapers, but alas it came to me when I noticed, on a recent 'visit' to my parents' home, the volume of useless junk that people collect as they get older holds the key to fetid geriatric syndrome.

Mounds of Crap
When I was in high school, I lived in the basement. The well-earned privacy afforded by adolescent basement dwelling belies any sense of adult autonomy. However, the basement was a sanctuary for jaunts through pubescent life-learning both alone and in the company of members of the opposite sex. Anyone who's ever lived in the basement will never look at pool tables, bar-tops, or hanging-ceilings the same way again.

More than half a decade has passed since I graced my basement abode, and upon my return I was shocked to find a massive ton of crap emitting the pungent odor of age in my old home.

I wanted to vomit.

Back In the Closet
I pulled a towel --a towel crammed in with possibly hundreds of square yards of various textiles-- to dry off after a clean shower. I am reminded at this point of the little sadistic bear in those creepy 'Snuggle' commercials. The little bastard sits and sniffs laundry all day persuading you to use its chemicals to 'soften the load' so to speak. In the commercial, he sniffs a towel and is reminded of days long gone; before the little shit got poached, stuffed, and turned into a marketing tool.

With the towel over my mouth, I sniffed deeply and thought of days long gone; and mothballs -- wait ...

The towel smelled like moth balls. I wanted to vomit. I wneeded answers.

Sniffing Crap
I did my laundry. It smelled like mothballs. I checked the mail, it smelled like ink but when I came back in the house, it smelled like mothballs. My room: it smells like mothballs so I put an air purifier in it. The pile of crap in the basement smells like mothballs. I swear if I look out of the corner of my eye, the pile glows with a yellow-orange haze for an instant after I turn the lights off down there. It's creepy.

Mystery Solved
After digging through a little history, and carefully plotting an unsubstantiated analysis of the subject, I reached the following conclusions.

Old people smell old for at least three reasons:
[Difficulty in avoiding this outcome explained in blocks.]

1. Old, miserly fogies make miserly, and often unconscious efforts to preserve everything they've ever owned and the putrid smell of slowly decaying clothing, books, and god knows what else is closing in upon them faster than the final day's of their own blessed lives. Its called hording syndrome and occurs as a result of lasting boredome and inactivity, but is easily treatable with a regimen of medicines and therapy.

[EXPLAINED: Stop collecting useless shit! Even if it is on sale for $2 and it costs $60, don't buy it unless you have a red, white and blue badge on your vest that has WAL-MART printed on it in fading white letters ... seriously.]

2. Old people suffer from incurable incontenence.
[EXPLAINED: Physiologists will agree that time fails all sphincters; but factor age and a faulty digestive system into the picture, and you'll be mixing brown paint in the wrong pan in no time.]

3. Old people believe mothballs and excessive amounts of calcium guarantee immunity from modern pathogens including the West Nile Virus, Ebola, and AIDS.
[EXPLAINED: No suggestions]

In closing, I want you, the reader, to seek out the future and consider investing in those air freshener companies that queef the sweet smell of lilacs into out homes. After all, remember that your house smelled new before you moved into it, and it will smell new when you move out.

ps. Your car smelled new when you bought it, butit will smell like ass when you leave it. That's because the adhesives degrade in the heat of the car and as the car gets older, the released fumes become fewr in parts per million.

A New Dawn

2005-09-01T13:23:00.000-07:00

A new day for me. I have a blog. My first in what I imagine will be a series to end all series.

These are the The Wunder Years.