Monday, February 27, 2006


This weekend I attended Georgia International Leadership Conference (GILC) at Rock Eagle 4-H center in Eatonton, Georgia. For those of you who haven’t heard of Eatonton, it is near the uncle Remus Museum. (that’s a joke.)

At the conference I was able to interact and become friends with students from All over the world. I danced with a Nigerian, shared a cabin with Vietnamese, ate lunch with Chinese, and learned the general ins and outs of Hinduism from an Indian. There must have been at least 50 countries represented at the conference. It was fun learning the different facets of cultures that people rarely realize; the uncommon way that someone from Korea might count on their fingers for example.

Through various sessions and activities, we learned lessons of toleration, cooperation, leadership, and awareness. Although the weekend was fun, there was an underlying message of a world mission. We talked of poverty, famine, and more specific things, like the state of Russian orphanages.

I was in an atmosphere of very intelligent people, and I was inspired. I want to “be the change I wish to see in the world”, but I don’t know what to do. I feel that, with the knowledge that I was given, in the scenerios that I have been in, I have a new responsbility to act. JFK said "For those to whome much is given, much is required"

“Its easy to think. It is hard to do. But the hardest thing in the world to do is to act accordance with your thoughts” --Johann van Goethe

Here are some numbers that we went over:
cost of basic education for everyone in the world: 6 billion
spent on cosmetics in the U.S.: 8 billion
cost of water and sanitation for everyone: 9 billion
spent on ice cream in Europe: 11 billion
cost of basic health and nutrition for everyone: 13 billion
spent on pet food in Europe and US: 17 billion
spent on Japanese business entertainment: 35 billion
spent on Cigarettes in Europe: 50 billion
spent on Alcoholic drinks in Europe: 105 billion
worldwide military spending: 780 billion

It would take and estimated $19 billion per year for ten years to eliminate starvation and malnutrition.
$19 billion is 32% of what the U.S. spends on candy each year; 55% of what the U.S. population annually spends on weight loss programs.

The list goes on: Illiteracy could be tackled with the money that the U.S. spends on video games in 14 months.
All landmines could be removed for 0.25% of annual military expenditures.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

I thought Hanadi (and Pickle) would get a kick out of this article.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

new link

I have to share a website that has captivated my attention as of late.
Visit for amazing footage of the human race. Witness everything from fainting goats, to card tricks, to a firework factory explosion. I recommend "Japanese Talent" in the "cool" catagory.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Mac and Me

Monday, October 03, 2005

One afternoon, a wealthy lawyer was riding in the back of his limousine when he saw two men eating grass by the road side. He ordered hisdriver to stop and he got out to investigate.

"Why are you eating grass?" he asked one man.

"We don't have any money for food," the poor man replied.

"Oh, come along with me then," instructed the lawyer.

"But, sir, I have a wife and two children!"Bring them along!" replied the lawyer.

He turned to the other man andsaid, "Come with us."

"But sir, I have a wife and six children!" the second man answered.

"Bring them as well!" answered the lawyer as he headed for his limo.

They all climbed into the car, which was no easy task, even for a caras large as the limo. Once underway, one of the poor fellows says,"Sir, you are too kind. Thank you for taking all of us with you.

"The lawyer replied, "No problem, the grass at my home is almost a foot tall."

more ranting

Every other commercial these days is an advertisement for prescription drugs. Isn't it great to be in such a medically aware environment? No, it isn't! Those delightfully floral Allegra commercials sneak in an do their damage with a smile by constructing a necessity for themselves. It is harmful when people go to the clinic and, rather than asking the doctor (who has spent years in medical school) what the problem is, do as the commercial advises and ask for a certain medication. People should not go to a doctor asking for a medication after being won over by a clever commercial. Endorsements from pharmaceutical companies and pressure from patients should not be problems that doctors should have to deal with. It seems like our entire country is on some kind of pill these days, especially for psychological reasons --which is another can of worms.

I can’t stand it when I see people reduce the brain to a mass of chemicals and hormones that can be manipulated and tricked to “fix” one’s personality. I submit that, in most cases, one’s brain should not be tampered with. Because of all the drugs, people are beginning to think that sadness in the presence of loss, anger in the presence of conflict, etc. are problems which need correcting when they are in fact important and natural aspects of human character. One day not far from now, there will be very happy people who never get too mad or happy or sad because they will be doped up on a cocktail of prescriptions that keep them riding the line, and they will never know what sort of person they really are. I think therapy --someone to talk to, should be implemented before handing out pills for personality problems. People today always love to hear that they have problems that can be fixed by new innovations --which is another can of worms.

For those of you that don’t know, 50 years ago life was a living hell. Everyone was constantly dying of bacterial infections because Lysol had not been invented, and everyone under the age of 12 was stark crazy, and mentally and socially underdeveloped because they were being spanked. I’m not a germophobe, I support the 5 second rule and I haven’t died yet --maybe my kids will have better immunity than yours. As far as administering spankings (I listened to a 45 minute lecture in my Psych class about how it is harmful to a child’s growth), I just don’t see the evidence about why it is bad. I guarantee that Edison, Einstein, Jesus, and President Roosevelt were all spanked when they were kids. How our professor had the gall to tell 80% of the class that statistics show they must be somehow defective because they were spanked instead of given timeout, I can’t fathom. Anyway, I am in favor of change and a progressing humanity, but progression is not defined by making pansies out of our species.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

updates on picture page.

permit me to rant

It’s funny how some little things that occur can sour your outlook on a day. For example, I walked my usual course to Landrum after class so that I could grab a quick bite before Anthropology. After I had ordered a large smoothie, I took it to the counter and discovered that I was deficient of funds. Now it is one thing to be so financially destitute as not to be able to satiate my belly with a liquid lunch, it is quite another to be sassed about it. Ohhhh I have had it up to here with that gaggle of curs. Were it possible to burn people with my eyes, that ugly little tootsie roll of a woman would be toast right now, her charred remains sizzling over the register. My stomach is rumbling as I now type this, and my mind’s eye is focused solely on that sweet, sweet manna, still turned upright in the trashcan as if to mock me. I shot her a few more eye beams as I walked out. I don’t suppose there is much that could be done, but sass did not have to be an option. On the bright side, at least I’ll have food sometime today. I know there are some that are not as fortunate. That fat, eye rolling register lady could sure go a few days without hurting.

Monday, September 26, 2005

a biker story

The sounds of GSU... Girls giggling, cell phones ringing, wind in the trees, bicycles whizzing past you at insane speeds causing you to freeze up and hope they make the best decision to go right or left. It is a widely shared fear that these bicycles will one day tear into any unfortunate student without bias, and thus ruin an otherwise perfectly good day. Well I've been to the edge and back, and I can tell you that it wasn't so bad.

Around 11 on Mondays and Wednesdays, I catch the bus with Heather to meet our friends for a $5 lunch at the Pondhouse. Unfortunately, I have class at 12 and am forced to get in and out as quickly as possible. Today when Heather and I were approaching the already filling bus, I set my mind on getting aboard. Heather was determined not to be in a hurry because she believed that it would depart before we could get to the stop. I told her goodbye and rushed on alone towards the bus. About 5 paces away, and about 3 seconds later, I would find myself on my back in the grass.

Immediately after my takeoff, I became aware of a bicycler equally as much in a hurry to get in the opposite direction. Realizing that the course we were taking would find us intercepting, I decided to slow down and give the cycler the afore mentioned option of choosing his route around me. This particular bike happened to be manned by one who was either none to swift or simply indecisive, because we came together --hard.

I had always been wary of such a collision, namely because bicycle tires tend to fall at about crotch level, and in any case, the rest of the bike is metal. I am at lost to describe the actual details of the accident, but somehow, only our bodies came in contact. My chest knocked the rider clear off his bike. As he was sailing backwards, his bike kept rolling onward and I was sent on my back.

It all happened in a flash too quick for human comprehension, only the feeling of impact to my chest (which I am still feeling the effects of) seemed to tell me what had happened. The feeling was not pain, however, but rather an intense refreshing feeling; a sensation that reminded me of boyhood wrestling matches and "kill the man with the ball" sessions. I quickly assumed standing position with a mouth full of laughter. All around me I heard the exclamations, gasps and expletives that let me know I had just been a part of quite a show. My victim (or perhaps the culprit, depending on how you look at it) did not seem to take it so well. He quietly rose to his feet, assuring me that he was okay, albeit a little disgruntled at the subsequent laughter. It was quite an experience, although one I don't recommend you go out looking for.

dead cicadas

It’s that time of year again… Gentle breezes begin to carry away the harsh and forbidding heat of summer –or not (as in the case of last week). Plans and whispers of festivals and fairs begin to surface. The pumpkins begin to ripen, the décor begins to come out, and freakish Halloween costumes replace the school supplies on Wal-Mart shelves. The colors make it evident. Without the red, orange, and yellow leaves, one might not delineate from late summer. Steinbeck describes the calendar-esq autumn scenes as having not only color “but a glowing, as though the leaves gobbled the light of the autumn sun and then released it slowly.” There is one other characteristic of the season that often goes unnoticed –dead cicadas.

Dead cicadas line the walkways on the Southern campus. They appear in droves and perish within a week or so. Thankfully they do not tend to stink.

I am fascinated with these creatures --they are so unique. Upon being hatched, a newborn cicada immediately drops into the ground and burrows. In a soft, delicate, nymph form, these insects just eat root juices and lay in the dirt for about a decade and a half waiting to grow up. Between 13 and 17 yrs, the young cicada begins to wonder if there is more to living than wallowing in the dirt, and generally tunnels his/her way to the surface. Once the cicada has clambered a few feet up the tree that has dutifully fed them since birth, the creature molts, dries, and heads out on the town looking for “a good time” in much the same way as sailors who have been in prison for 17 yrs. So driven are these creatures to procreate that they chase and sing and carry on to their hearts content without stopping to eat. Eventually they collapse. If successful, their legacy will consist of a few hundred eggs waiting to bury themselves for 17 yrs or so.

I wonder if there is some life lesson we can learn from cicadas. I guess maybe that a week of having a good time is worth more than a lifetime in the dirt –the juice is worth the squeeze.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

The Life of David Gale

The movie “The Life of David Gale” is about two people, adamantly and hopelessly opposed to capital punishment, whose lives have desperately drained from them, one because of debilitating leukemia and the other because false rape accusations claimed from him his wife, child, job, friends, and social status. Because these two people have little to live for other than to further their political cause, they decide to take radical action. Rather than allowing the leukemia victim’s death to be slow, painful, and pointless, they formulate an elaborate plot to make her suicide appear as a murder, only to reveal the true nature of the horrible event via video tape after the accused murderer (our supposed rapist) had been extinguished from death row, thus proving in the eyes of the world that capital punishment kills innocent people.

This desperate final act, crafted by two people with such bleak lives, accomplished so much more through death than would have been possible in a lifetime. Every cause needs a martyr. Death is more poignant than life. Make those closing remarks strong, because there is no time for rebuttal.

I post this because my sister asked me to. She thinks that the movie is completely implausible, far fetched, and stupid. I disagree. What say you, audience?

P.S. If you plan on seeing the movie, don't read the previous paragraph. It'll ruin the surprise.

What a mess!

I hear that Germany, Spain, Italy, Britain, Belgium, and even Sri Lanka are sending aid to the Katrina disaster. Not to be snobbish, but what can they offer that we don‘t already have? Belgium is about ¼ the size of Texas. It’s embarrassing that this problem can’t be handled better than it is. It’s just a big mess. Follow this link:

I’m also very curious about Cuba’s offer. What will become of that?

I know it’s a little past time for this, but I’m confused. Someone clear this up for me. Who exactly are we fighting in the desert? “Terrorists” and “Insurgents” is too vague for me. It seems to me that we are not fighting any army or confederacy of people, but rather just random citizens who are opposed to our invasion. I work with a girl whose boyfriend is in Iraq. Every week I hear bragging about how Ricky blew up a barn with a man in it or something like that. A man in his barn, shooting at strangers walking on his land. What is our goal? Will we shoot until they stop shooting back? I want some answers.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

A thing or two about words/palabras/wörter/woorden

Last week in my Native American History class, we briefly discussed the Tlingit (clink-it) people of the Sub arctic. The Tlingit people are known for their language, complex both in grammar and pronunciation. Unlike every other people in the world, the Tlingit people use whirring sounds to form their words. Their language is unspeakable to most modern people. Amazing.

Today I attended a seminar by Mr. Frank Seifart. Mr. Seifart has spent much of his adult life in South America, where he studies, classifies, and documents endangered languages. It is estimated that by the end of this century, 50% of our world’s some 7,000 languages will be extinct. Mr. Seifart has seen this first hand. One of Mr. Seifart’s keenest interests lies with Bora language, of which there are currently three speakers. This language will only exist on video tapes in a matter of decades.

Mr. Seifart explains that documenting these languages is important because each language represents a culture. Each language is accompanied with lore, songs, and traditions. Understanding another language is getting into the head of another person. The way sentences and words are formed give a clue to how the people actually thought.

So why are these languages dying out? It is only practical for languages to phase out. For a people to grow, the must cooperate with those around them. Cooperation means compromise, and compromise means giving something up. In this scenario, languages die, or fuse and form new ones. Dialects suddenly become unintelligible to outsiders. In places such as the Amazon basin, where languages are numerous and linguist groups intermarry, it is not uncommon for a family to abandon their indigenous language for common ground --usually Spanish.

When a powerful nation rises up, it will be that nation who calls the shots. In order to communicate with the power for economic, diplomatic or other reasons, the language of the power holders must be learned. It was not a majority of American pioneers that learned Iroquois or Cherokee, just as Romans did not make it their business to learn Hebrew, and the British did not learn Indian. It only makes sense.

Should I be sad, sentimental about lost languages? It is sad to lose any aspect of human development. Yet perhaps that 50% of the world’s languages actually does belong in the museum and not on the tongues of mankind. Languages divide people, and any division impedes the progress of humanity.

Yet we must ask how progress is measured. By inventions? By global unity? Surely this is a trigger for opinions. Should we quarantine the speakers of dying languages and keep them for display, or should we accept lingual evolution and merely make notes as they disappear? What is right?

kinda weird

Often I find that certain life themes are brought before me repetitiously within a short time frame. I feel sometimes that lessons approach me as if my life is really a plan... I’m doing a poor job explaining.

What I mean to say is, suppose I never talk about cocaine. Then suddenly I have a conversation with someone about it randomly. It has been my experience that I will find myself in various conversations and situations that revolve around cocaine in the following weeks until ultimately I leave with some sort of knowledge that chages my veiw. I suppose I could even separate my life into the strata of ‘lessons’ that I’ve undergone. Maybe that’s just me.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Dr. Gabryszewska-Kukawa

It was after noon when I returned to the Math/Physics building. I made my way through the maze of turns until I reached the same door that had been locked earlier this morning. The door was plain save a name plate at eye level that read: Dr. Alina Gabryszewska-Kukawa. I rapped lightly on the door, which was only slightly ajar. “Da… uh, yes” responded the female voice from within.

A week or so earlier, my friend and co-worker Tommy had told me about his new Russian neighbor who taught at the school. I was naturally excited and inclined toward anything Russian, so I asked to meet them. After it was not arranged due to schedule matters, I opted to meet her on campus. Which is just what I did.

Dr. Alina invited me in graciously. She is amiable lady with a kind face of about 30 something years with slightly graying hair. She is Polish, not Russian, although she was made to learn Russian in school. She gave me the entire narrative about why she was in Georgia and how she was adjusting. She finds the regional language much different than any she’d heard previously and describes it as “musical”, ever flowing with “ma’am”s and “thank you kindly”s. They are somewhat stationary for the moment, having only a cheap car for grocery’s that was given to them by another local Polish family. It is the dream of she and her husband to see the Ocean at Tybee. If only all dreams could be so attainable!

Somehow in the conversation, she recruited me to teach her husband English. How exciting! Her husband is not faring well with the language, and he is concerned about his future (getting a job and so forth). I am eager to begin, but am not sure how. I suppose that my best approach would be to construct scenarios. For example, one day we will go over dialogue that would be used in a store, the next day it will be a restaurant. I feel that this would be the most practical.

I meet them at their house at 5:30 on Friday, wish me luck!

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

On the "Other Writings" page, there is a music review of Jushua Jamison --a friend of mine. In order to get his name out, he has posted three songs that can be heard at:

If I Fell: The night that I lost a few inches of perfectly good knee-skin and my hope for human charity

It is a long term goal of mine to some day competitively run in a marathon. It is a short term goal of mine to win the 5k back in Dublin and show those cats just what I'm made of. In order to net these lofty aspirations, I have taken up a rigorous running schedule that has had me on the roads every night since school began.

Tonight was one such night. In order to vary the setting a little, I embarked on a new course that found me beneath dark overhanging Pecan trees, amidst scintillating fireflies, and along side a fence full of goats. I had just run about 2.5 miles when I thought to myself how good I felt. I was trying to hustle as it would be a short run, but I really felt fit. In the near distance, a car with it's brights shining was coming up the opposite side of the road. Even though we were separated by the yellow line, I always like to take the extra precaution of easing off the road altogether. With my head held high and chest out (you have to look good for the cars), I eased over to the right when --OOF!-- I was on the ground. A killer pot hole had seized his unsuspecting prey. In that one instant, my ankle was rendered useless and my entire leg (from knee to shoe) was painted with blood. My knee didn't hurt badly. I actually had to touch my hand to it to prove to myself that it was blood and not mud. My ankle was a horse of a different color all together.

In anguish I cursed and prayed and cursed and tried to get up. For a moment I thought about laying in the road. Quickly I imagined the dreadful scenario of being hit by a car. The injuries of the latter would mask those of my pothole incident and papers would read "Boy Dies After Napping On Road". I recalled the advice of Coach Bruce, my little league football coach. From a broken arm to a cocaine habit, all one needed to do was "walk it off, son". So I mustered up and limped down the roadside.

I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that I have not a very intimidating appearance. I’m not grown, or muscular, or (just to be frank) even a minority. What more does one want? I wondered how I appeared to the dozen or so cars that passed that tired, bedraggled, disheveled, bloodied, limping young man on the side of the road in the middle of night. Who would they pick up if not me, who clearly needed help?

As I continued to walk, my ankle slowly adjusted and I began to progress with a little more normal of a gait. Coming from behind me, a car slowed down. “At last” I thought, but the fact was that I was very near to home. I was planning on graciously thanking them for the generous gesture, but declining. Suddenly my heart jumped as a rush of caustic vibrations scathed my ear. The dog that occupied the back of the vehicle was berating me for living. The vehicle turned in front of me into a driveway and parked.

I hobbled on to the trailer, walked up the steps and retired to the tub not long afterward. I would have picked me up. At least I would have checked on me. Would you have?

Monday, August 29, 2005

Come back Hopalong

Where have all the cowboy’s gone? Jewel said it first, but I’m wondering the same thing. Years ago, a cowboy was a manly combination of ruffian and gentleman. A cowboy could hold his own in a bar fight and hold the door for a lady. A cowboy was an honorable, hard working American icon that stood for what’s right and didn’t take crap from anybody. Just ask John Wayne or Marshal Dillon, they’ll tell you.

Nowadays, country music has successfully constructed a new cowboy image, an image that conjures up thoughts of raunchy women, parties, and Nascar. Today’s “cowboys” have abandoned their home on the dusty trail and sing about bumming on the beach more often than not. Cowboy’s have devolved into the common redneck.

When Willie Nelson sang that his “hero’s have always been cowboys”, you can be sure that it is not because of all the rides they get from people trying to save horses. Cowboy’s had integrity, but now they are gone, and those who parade around today have no more in common with them than a hat and pair of boots.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

More on buses

The GSU bus system, which I originally dubbed the "G.S.U. Amistad" because of it's tendency to overload with sweaty passengers, is beginning to normalize. Everyone is deciding their best schedule and kinks are working themselves out. The bus drivers are certainly proud of their jobs. Many are the blunt old ladies that I remember from my youth, others are would-be big riggers who use their inter-bus communication link like a trucker CB, dotting the lingo with catchy slang like "10-4","roger", and "I copy that good buddy". They do this with calm, serious faces --they finally have a justifiable excuse to talk like that.

There is a contest to see who can come up with a suitable name for the transit system. The winner recieves a bicycle. So the winner receives alternate transport and has incentive not to ride the bus? I don't know, I can't think of anything good. Send in your ideas and I'll ride you around on my bike once in a while.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

ahhh cell phones

A commercial advertises a new way to impress your friends with humor. A cell phone company will send you a joke a day through text messaging for a small fee. This is the only campaign that I can think of that will fail with success. The actual popularity of the program would cause a collapse. Suppose it catches on and everyone has the same joke everyday, that wouldn't be too funny.

They are also advertising a dating program through text messaging --how romantic! Now you can come closer than ever to feeling like you’re in love with a robot. Maybe I'm too old fashioned.

Cell phones have become physical extensions of their users. They can be modified and personalized in color, ring tone, voice activation, etc. Although a simple beep will alert one of a call, the theme from A-Team seems worth the buy. More than actual function, cell phones are often bought as a status symbol, a bragging right.

Cell phones have worked there way into our lives so slyly that they have successfully infiltrated our every setting. It is not unusual for a cell phone to ring during class. Usually it will be quickly silenced and followed by a few shy giggles, but other times in large classes, people are more brazen. I have seen people texting during a lecture.

Most people have the good courtesy to turn off their cell phones in class or at the theater. However, often times we forget and have to hit the power button only after entering the arena. In our attempts to prevent disruption, the phone undoubtedly always sings out a goodbye tune. Why? Having a charger at home, I rarely ever turn the phone off unless I want to be silenced. If I want it to be silenced, I prefer not to hear the goodbye jingle. Somebody should get on that.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

A lesson from Great Grandpappy --in a roundabout way

On our campus, just outside the student union, there is a rotunda that often serves as an area for various campus affiliate groups to set up station and promote their organizations. I was walking by this very locale when I noticed that there was an empty table between Christian Campus Fellowship and the Rugby sign up booth. Knowing that I was facing an hour and a half of loitering before my next class, I hatched a plan.

My first course of action was to walk away from the rotunda and towards the campus post office. Just outside, the last day of the poster sale was still underway but dying. Picking up a fallen and discarded cardboard sign that read something to the effect of "buy a poster now!", I happily continued on my way. Moments later, inside the nearby post office, I borrowed a black Sharpie and some tape. After quickly surveying my finished product, I marched back to the rotunda with cardboard under my arm...

A student promenading himself to class would note the usual sights of the rotunda: On the left, CCF was handing out invitations and dum-dums, on the far right Student Government was handing out peppermints, in the middle was a Rugby sign up booth and a boy with his hands neatly folded ,sitting behind a desk labeled "Meet Wesley" and handing out both dum-dums and peppermints.

It was a fun little stunt, and by my standards, a successful one. The hour and a half went by quickly, I shook a lot of hands, and gave a lot of people a story to tell. This was just a silly story, but it leads me into a point: knowing people makes you successful.

It is not uncommon for people to be shy, I often am, but when the fear of people keeps you from conduction your life normally, you may have a problem. You should never be afraid to shake hands and make new friends. Granted, not everyone out there is a good guy, but you definitely learn something from everyone, because no matter how much you know, someone else knows something that you don't.

The next paper I write will be about my Great Grandpappy Hutcheson. This man had passed long before I ever saw the backside of a belly button, but I hear a great deal about him from my Ma Ma (grandmother). Living during the Hoover days was not pleasant for anyone, but Great Grandpappy happened to be successful and a socialite. Everyday when he walked the streets of Wrightsville, he would bring home new hungry mouths to dinner. When jobs were lean, he invited workers to live on the farm. These young men, often college graduates, worked for a dollar and two meals a day until either WWII or the TVA came to take them. According to Ma Ma, there were usually 20 people at the dinner table everyday. It is likely that men like he are responsible for the water tower slogan that reads “Friendliest town in Georgia” . Great Grandpappy extended his love for dinner table conversation to all willing ears and stomachs, from hungry roadside strangers to the likes of President Truman (of course the Truman meeting didn’t occur in Wrightsville). Perhaps it is his blood that encourages me to carry on a tradition when I make efforts to meet strangers, or perhaps (as some have accused) I am starved for attention. I dearly hope the latter isn’t true.

Monday, August 15, 2005

My music side has definately taken off lately. I have played at a few parties and was very well recieved each time. It used to be that I was playing all alone, now it seems that I have several playing partners only a phonecall away. I bought a harmonica harness and I even busked river street in Savannah for a while before the rain ran me off. Tonight we had a bluegrass gathering at the Mikulecky trailer, now inhabited by a fella' named Jeff.

Jeff is from somewhere in North Georgia, so he has bluegrass roots. We must have played for about 3 hours, and we had a pretty good time. Although I started off with guitar and played a little mandolin on Freebird, I was toting the banjo most of the night. This was both unusual and great fun for me. As a banjo player, I matured a lot during the course of our session. I am looking forward to playing with Jeff again.

GSU, I like what you've done with the place.

While slowly paddling my way down the misty dream river, my eyes were suddenly jarred open prematurely. With the aid of my trusty alarm clock, I was up and at 'em on my way to the cereal bowl. Today is a school day.

By 8:30 I was in the RAC parking lot, walking up to the highly anticipated bus stop. After seeing two of my buds walking, and not particularily eager for the wait to be crammed onto a bus, I decided to put the experience on hold.

Walking on campus, I am pleased at this year's decor. Along the autumn color scheme, we have several new orange plastic fences lining the enormous piles of dirt and rubble. That library has come along way over the summer as well. The smell of learning is in the air, and I am glad to be in the company of so many peers. My classes seem alright and this year is definately looking up.

My Psychology class is enormous and is taught by two people, a man and a woman, who seem overly focused on achieving "cool professor" status. Going over the rules, they interjected several times that they were not like our other old and boring teachers. When the woman flicked a bird to show an inappropriate signal for "time to go", the intending rise from the students filled the room. To the collective student fascination, the professors gleamed that there would be discussions about sex and drugs. Teachers can be "cool" without putting everything out like that. I thought they were cheap, but the class seems interesting and easy.

Group piano is very neat. We are in a room with 12 pianos. All of the pianos can either play aloud for everyone, or the sound can be channeled through headphones. We will be given keys to the room so that we can practice to our heart's content.

Between classes, I took a visit to my old comp. 1 teacher. We chatted for a while, and then she returned my portfolio. I was a little dissappointed in what I found. The letter A was marked on the front page, but what I found missing is what troubled me. Immediately after I recieved my folder, I sat on nearby steps to look through it. I expected all sorts of red ink that would criticize and mold my work. There was none. I felt neglected.

I ended up riding the bus later on in the day. It was a very unique experience. Southern is an ever-growing establishment and when I see things like the small, young oaks, new buildings, and (most recently) the buses, I can't help but imagine how engrained these things will come to be in the future of GSU, even though they are new to me. Riding the bus, I felt like I was witnessing the dawn of a new era. I know the buses will one day be an integral part of the transportation system of the university, much like at UGA. As for now, the system needs a little time to work things out. My ride (an unnecessary one) from the bookstore to Newton would have been faster on foot because of traffic matters. A fellow rider told me that in the morning, the buses were crammed tight. Things are not yet perfect, but at least for now, the buses are clean.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

A word to the wise from Jack Handy:

"Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them, you are a mile away and you have their shoes!"

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Georgia's honorable state reptile is the Gopher Tortoise. Unfortunately, since the late 70's, this noble beast has been in serious decline. It is now on the endangered species list throughout the Southeast.

Just so you know: Gopher burrows can be up to 40 feet in length and 10 feet deep, and can house up to 360 different animals species, from crickets to rattlesnakes. The Florida Mouse cannot exist naturally without Gopher burrows.

Unfortunately, since about 60 million years ago, nature has been working against Tortoises. At that period, there is thought to have been about 23 species in North America. Now there are only 4.

The reasons are these: Although the Gopher Tortoise is thought to have a life expectancy of 60+ years, they often don't mature until 21 years (depending on enviroment), and it is a difficult path to that age. Even though a mature female may lay from 3 to 15 eggs per year (in one mound), nest predation is extreme and an individual female may only produce a successful clutch every 10 years. Coons, foxes, and the ever strong Armadillo population feed on the rare eggs. Once the eggs hatch, the baby tortoises are vulnerable until about 6-7 years before their shell hardens. Once an adult, the tortoise has little to fear, unless something unnatural happens...

As I was driving home from Statesboro, just making my way outside of Swainsboro, I saw a large gray bump in the road. After passing the bump and identifying it as a Gopher Tortoise, I turned around and stopped the car in an effort to save the creature from relentless traffic. As I neared the animal, I realized that I had not come soon enough. Enrique (his name) had been somehow grazed by a vehicle. In the middle of the road was a small, warm pool of freshly spilt tortoise blood. The red was in stark contrast to the dull gray Enrique. I acted fast. Scooping him up and getting back in the car, I quickly called the Georgia Southern Wildlife department. Delighted that I had called, they advised me to bring him in as soon as possible, which would be Thursday morning. Enrique was no longer bleeding, but was mostly still. Once home, I placed him in a box with spinach and lettuce, wiped his sanguine stains with a wet paper towel, and began to assess his wounds. The damage was minimal, but to crucial areas. The top right portion of his jaw was broken and part of his sinus cavity was exposed. Enrique was reacting to touch and seemed able, but I knew his fate was eminent. His eyes remained closed during the entirety of our contact. I knew that even though his wounds didn't look bad, the kind of force that comes from a moving vehicle would have to have cause some sort of internal damage. Even if his wounds weren't mortal, his jaw could not heal in time for him to eat. I knew this immediately, but I was banking heavily on the GSU wildlife team, who had saved many would be road kills in the past...

Holding Enrique reminded me of my childhood. Not more than a decade and a half ago, Gopher Tortoises (or Gophers as they are commonly called) were much more numerous --especially on the farm. It was not uncommon to see one, or at least a burrow. Before it was banned, we used to see Gopher races on the 4th of July. It was surprisingly great fun, and one year we thought we had a prize winner. When I had spent probably about 6 years alive, one of the amazing animals moved in with us! A giant tortoise, who I named "Gopher" (because I was 6) burrowed under our porch. Repeated failed attempts of riding are what probably prompted the animal's decision to relocate by night. Even though he left, that is a very fond memory --even better than when Buzz (a wounded vulture) took up residence on our front step.

No more than half an hour had passed when Enrique went limp. His powerful and tough features, his scaly skin and brick hard shell, could not save him from man's fury. I once heard someone say that fish are not dumb like we suppose, but the fact is, they already know everything (or at least everything important) and don't need to think. I couldn't help but think of that when I looked at dead Enrique. It's just something that owls and tortoises have, they seem to know something. I took him out to the woods and laid him to rest. Although I have always wanted to taste tortoise, I couldn't bring myself to cut Enrique.

A Fun Coloring sheet:

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

An excerpt from the book I'm reading about Castro

To understand the references, know that earlier in the chapter Fontova cited instances in which Jimmy Buffet, Bonnie Raitt, and Carole King all sang for and praised Castro. “Bonnie Raitt visited in March 1999 and stopped hyperventilating just long enough to compose a song in Castro’s honor, “Cuba Is Way Too Cool!” Among the lyrics: “It’s just a happy little island!” and “Big bad wolf [that’s us, folks, the United States] you look the fool!” This book is all about liberals who are under Castro’s apparent charm and think Cuba is somehow great.

“His regime banishes AIDS patients to "sanatoriums" in the countryside, where they are basically left to alone to die. "Left alone" is the key phrase here. Think about it, in the words of Kris Kristofferson himself, "Freedom's just another word for" being left alone.
Or so it seemed to some of Castro’s subjects. Word got around... AIDS suddenly became the disease of choice in Cuba.

In a film titled Curse Be your Name, Liberty, Cuban exile Vladimir Ceballos exposes this grim and almost inconceivable episode. Back in the 1980’s, young people in Cuba who listened (or tried to listen) to American rock music --to Bonnie Raitt, Carole King, and Jimmy Buffet-- were called roqueros and were special targets of the police. They were constantly harassed, beaten, and jailed. Ceballos’s film documents how more than one hundred of these roqueros deliberately injected themselves with the AIDS virus.

It sounds stupid, crazy, and horrible, I agree. But to these people, banishment to AIDS sanatoriums was a taste of freedom. One scene shows a roquero AIDS victim holding a small, crumpled American flag. With trembling hands, he scrubs it clean, then drapes it slowly across his emaciated chest. The man preferred death by inches, a lingering death of suppurating sores, constant pain, and eventual dementia to living under the rule of the man Carole King warmly serenaded with “You’ve Got a Friend.” He gave himself AIDS because it brought him a few years of life in the equivalent of a U.S. federal prison. On Bonnie Raitt’s “happy little island,” he reckoned this as freedom.”

Way too cool, indeed, Ms. Raitt. And Ms. King? You’ve got a helluva friend”

Always Room for Improvement?

Once again, this is an entry brought about by something I caught on television while at work. I glanced at the television to see a Commercial advertising a new lotion from an old company, Oil of Olay. Now we all know that lotion has been around for quite awhile. I use lotion more in the winter when my skin is dry and it works. I have never found myself wanting more from my lotion. How could their possibly be so many new innovations in lotion? I see new commercials all the time? How are these lotions getting better? I think it is all advertising. I think they market very similar concoctions in different bottles. But even if I’m wrong, how good could the improvement be?

Which brings me to the next set of commercials. How much can a toothbrush improve? Toothbrush companies are constantly fighting each other for new ideas of toothpaste design, and everyone buys into it. Realize that a stick with bristles will clean your teeth --any basic toothbrush is just as good as another. Have you ever been given an angled reach electronic 5000 toothbrush after a visit to the dentist? If you are like me, you have been given the usual no-name flat plastic brush, and it hasn‘t given you any trouble.

I also see advertisements for fat free mayo and fat free drinks that purportedly taste the same as regular. Well if they taste the same, which is all anyone cares about, then put one in for America and quit making the fatty variety! If they really DID taste the same, there would be no need to supply “Lite” (which isn’t a real word) or “Diet” on the bottle. They would simply rejoice in the discovery of a new formula, and start making America a healthier country.

New products hit the line everyday. My guess is that about 10% are actually good for something, and the rest are just preying on people who are sold by flashy new labels.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

true story

Juan the Smuggler

Juan comes up to the Mexican border on his bicycle. He has two large bags over his shoulders. A guard stops him and says,"What's in the bags?"

"Sand," answered Juan.

The guard says, "We'll just see about that. Get off the bike."

The guard takes the bags and rips them apart; he empties them out and finds nothing in them but sand. He detains Juanovernight and has the sand analyzed, only to discover thatthere is nothing but pure sand in the bags. The guard releases Juan, puts the sand into new bags, lifts them onto the man's shoulders and lets him cross the border.

A week later, the same thing happens. The guard asks, "Whathave you got?"

"Sand," says Juan.

The guard does his thorough examination and discovers that thebags contain nothing but sand. He gives the sand back to Juan,and Juan crosses the border on his bicycle.

This sequence of events repeats every day for three years. Then one day, Juan doesn't show up. The guard meets up with him in a cantina in Mexico.

"Hey, buddy," the guard says, "I know you're smuggling something. It's driving me crazy. It's all I think about. I can't sleep. Just between you and me, what are you smuggling?"

"Bicycles," Juan says.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Where will the brainwashing end?

Yesterday I was sweeping the floor at Blimpie when my ear was pricked with this slick lawyers bull jive. Here’s the background: Another crazy kid went wild and stole a car. Acting on animal instincts he stole the arresting officer’s gun and killed three men before being detained. The boy was 17 --plenty old enough to know better.

The lawyer advised the boy to plead insanity and built up a case that blames the video game “Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas” for the boy’s wanton course of action. Plum poppycock! Millions of copies of Grand Theft have been sold, why aren’t there millions, or even hundreds of similar reported cases? Ever since video games and movies have become popular, experts have been pinning down a connection between the media and violent behavior. No doubt, I believe everyone is a product of environment, but when have children ever been good? What video games were on the island with the Lord of the Flies? Probably not even “Street Fighter” that story is so old. No, no video game can be named the sole motivation to any person. That 17 year old was empty already.

Nevertheless, don’t allow your kids to get a hand on Grand Theft Auto. It’s the devil’s game. Not only was is morally deficient to begin with, permitting only those who were 17+ to play, but in light of the recent hot coffee mod controversy, the game has been slapped with an 18+ rating. Despicable.

Terrorists are dumb

I remember hearing an interview with an Afghan man concerning the first set of bombings in London. The man did not condone the terrorist's actions, but was amazed at the strength and intelligence of the group for their ability to infiltrate such a city as London. Balderdash! I am not in the LEAST bit impressed with the terrorists. Their actions were juvenile, sloppy and simple --any idiot teenager could leave a bag on a bus. They are neither original nor clever in any way, and what’s more, every action they take is working against them. The London attacks only strengthened the country’s resolve against terror. What disturbs me the most is the fact that these radicals carry Islam as their shield and banner. Such an association forever soils the religion on the eyes of non-Muslims.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

For the purpose of this paragraph, Nike will be known as a shoe manufacturer, even though they are well-known to produce an array of other sport wears (such as sweat bands for your wrist) that do equally as little to enhance athletic ability.

Have you been keeping up with Lebron James? Haven’t heard of Lebron James? Well climb out of your bomb cellar people, because he was such a good basketball player when he was in high school, that Nike handed him a $90 million contract to guarantee that Lebron was always somewhere near a “swoosh” --never mind whether or not he was already wearing one or not. The fact is, Nike spent this hefty check (which undoubtedly barely put a divot in their pocketbook) to enlist potential customers who are too dumb to realize that a person’s skill at basketball comes from what is above their ankles. Honestly, I don’t have a doubt that Charles Barkley could beat the Reeboks off me on any court while sporting cowboy boots if he wanted.

What’s most amazing is the fact that Nike kept tabs on Lebron when he was still in high school, but the truth is, they weren’t the only ones. There is a war waging all around us --a shoe war. When the multi-million dollar companies of Reebok, Adidas, and Nike compete to nail down younger and younger athletes, the athletes don’t always win. While Lebron had his life’s road paved out for him, Nike had Kevin Love cut from his team. Kevin Love is a 6’9”, 250lb up-coming high school junior. Until recently, Love was a starter for the Nike sponsored team called the Portland Elite Legends, a sort of traveling all-star team. Love, however, was not cut for his disorderly conduct or lack of skill on the court. On the contrary, it was what Love did to better himself that found him without a spot on the team. The summer between his sophomore and junior year, Kevin Love signed up for the ABCD basketball camp. The camp challenged Love in new ways by pitting him against talent from all over the country. When the camp ended, Love was named 3rd best player overall. It was on the same day, a few hours later, that Nike called to revoke his team membership because the ABCD camp had been funded by Reebok. How do you like that?


Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Take my advice: Don’t believe that crap that your parents taught you about not talking to strangers. That rule is defunct when you successfully reach the age of 8 (unless you’re a hot girl and it’s dark outside. Sorry, but beauty is a double edge sword.). It seems that I am meant to meet strangers. I often try to approach interesting faces, but just as often I am forced into the situation. You can only benefit from meeting people, because you learn from everyone whether you know it or not.

Just a half hour ago, I went walking around the trailer park to clear my head, and because I felt guilty for staying inside for so long. After work, I was so tired that I just rested until nightfall. Staying inside always gives me a bad feeling. Anyway, I just set out with no direction. I made a big circle, dabbed into the woods for a moment, found a creek, and then headed back homeward. As walked down the road, a boy appeared in my path. At first I dreaded the sight. It always seems that I’m being weird without me realizing it. Sometimes I would rather go unnoticed than to answer questions like “why you barefooted?” and “why you walking in the dark?”. As it turned out, John spoke first. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and learned a little about each other. John is from Cobb county, he spent 2 years in the Navy, and he is almost through with core at GSU. He had just walked outside from a party to clear his head when he saw me walk up.

John is majoring in something technical and boring sounding, that‘s why I don‘t remember the name of it. It seems though, that often the more technical and boring sounding, the higher the potential for money increases. I look at my major --Geography. I still wonder what that‘s supposed to mean. I can draw a map of Europe from memory with countries and capitals. You want to pay me for it? Where are the jobs? I suppose I could be a teacher. This is what I’m driving at: it seems that students either take two routes or compromise between them. Route one is something boring and uninventive with the promise of a paycheck. Route two is something interesting but limiting. It’s like someone who wants to write a song with a powerful message. More often than not, the person is going to compromise the message in order to make the song sound better. Only a truly good song says all that the writer intended, and only a truly successful person can settle on their major (at least within the early college years).

I know someone who is going to college to be an anesthesiologist ---not exactly someone's childhood dream. The motives are pretty overt there.

I know someone else who is a History major, at least he likes history.

International House of Sandwiches

A funny thing occurred at work yesterday: During a very busy lunch rush, our eyes met with horror an entire busload of customers heading in the store’s direction. Had Mr. Richard been present, a distant “ching” would have accompanied the dollar signs in his eyes, but he was still on his vacation, leaving the store in the able hands of Tommy, Zach and myself. As we began to glove ourselves and mentally prep for the impending fluster, we noticed that these were not ordinary customers. This was a tour group from various European countries. One by one, Belgians, Germans, Brits, and others all took their place in the bread line. Various languages dotted the atmosphere as Tommy struggled to take their order. The older people could speak very little English and had to rely on their children --how strange that must have felt. Eventually we had them all seated and settled. Altogether, they filled the entire restaurant. It seemed like such fun having them around. They apparently had a delightful time and promised to stop back by when they were in the neighborhood (which will be never). As they left, I gave them my best “guten tag”.

So why was a tour busload of Europeans in Statesboro? Well, of course Statesboro wasn’t on their tour. They were in route from Atlanta to Savannah when they realized that their stomachs needed a refill. The group is on an eleven day tour of the “Mississippi region”. Stops include Savannah, Charleston, New Orleans, and the like. All very nice places, yet I had never considered the South as an international tourist region. How about that?

Sunday, July 17, 2005

a joke that i heard on NPR

i love the prairie home companion...

why did helen keller only play piano with one hand?
...because she sang with the other!

Rambling sure enough...

About half an hour ago, I got up from the table gorged to the point in which the act of vomiting was a welcome notion. "that's a good feeling" some would say --I'm sure you've heard it around the Thanksgiving table. I feel almost ashamed of it. It is a feeling that was a bit foreign in Russia, where people are most always capable of walking post-supper.

I walked outside and to the grain bin that provided the best perspective of the farm, where i proceeded to climb up and up to the orange and gray sky, prickled only slightly by the brightest stars and still dominated by the sun in the low western horizon. From my perch, i soaked up the sunset a while and thought of a great many things before i decided to take advantage of a rock skipping experience while i was home and light was out.

It took me about five minutes to walk to the Uncle Pink's Pond, picking up rocks along the way. I arrived with five semi-flat stones. I paused for a moment before tossing , relishing the memory of the last time I skipped rocks that still burned fresh in my mind: It was the morning after the farewell boat party in Russia --the night that i had kissed Nika, one of my Russian tutors, and we spent the rest of the night with friends as we walked hand in hand wandering the empty city. when morning arrived, we found ourselves on the banks of the Neva, sitting on the rocks that outlined the perimeter of Peter and Paul fortress. As we talked and laughed and realized the weight of the night, i skipped rocks across the Neva. That is a day that I will continue to glorify in my head each time I think of it, and remain guilt-free all the while, because it was worth it!

Tonight as the sun faded, taking the light with it, I looked at my handful of semi-flat rocks, hoped for the best, and skipped all five rather poorly --not like in Canada where the skipping rocks were abundant and our tosses would render the rocks skidding and testing the water’s cool, silky surface eight or more times before resigning into a sailor’s grave. No, this was more like in Johnson County, Georgia, where I hurriedly selected five rocks from the road (before mosquitoes had their way with me) and gave disappointing three-skip throws.

Do you ever believe things will happen just because “they’ve got to”, that somehow things will always work out for a purpose? Almost subconsciously (and some would say naively), I find myself entertaining such thoughts. Perhaps I attribute such workings to the “hand” of God.

A tremendous bearing has been on my mind lately --I have been deconstructing things that I long held as true. i am trying as of late to funnel all my beliefs into one truth that will somehow solidify what I know has to be (I know this is way too coded). But the days are moving much faster now --partially because of work --but I feel that I hardly have time to finish the thought that I wake up with. I almost feel like cursing the night when it comes so fast, or cursing my
body for demanding sleep from me. I always feel that I’ve wasted yet another day.

Yet, from every side, 24 hours is a bulk of time. If only I could focus my energies into getting the most of each minute; if only i could be permitted to leave everything and sit alone in the woods for a while, I would like to think that I would arrive at some incredible and obvious secret. Still though, I bet the days would slip away just as slyly as they always do.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

is it in me or is it real?
is it just something that i feel?

i can't be sure anymore.
and i wonder what i wonder for.

because if truth can only hurt,
i'll believe the lie for what it's worth.

there's magic in your mind,
and if you look you'll always find

what you're looking for.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Rambling from the land of the Czars.

click here for my russian journal.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Everything's better in Russia... I think this is a 7-11. Posted by Hello

That last picture... I guess this is what they'll put on the news if I get marooned. Posted by Hello

The swing at Hillbridge... I will write an entry about it when I return from my trip. Posted by Hello

Friday, May 27, 2005

the monkey stands for honesty
giraffes are insincere
the elephants are kindly
but they're dumb
orangutans are skeptical
of changes in their cages
and the zoo keeper
is very fond of rum
zebras are reactionaries
antelopes are missionaries
pigeons locked in secrecy
hamsters turn all freak with me
what a gas for you
to come and see
at the zoo.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

 Posted by Hello

the time of heros has gone

I watched House of Flying Daggers the other night with some friends. After it was over, someone commented that it was "unrealistic". I have two things to say about that.

First off, movies are art forms. When the romantic period of art came about, no one complained that romantic art was unrealistic, it was beautiful. Movies are not real, and occasionally (not always), I think it's beautiful when someone doesn't pretend that they are. At first I rejected the over-choreographed fight scenes and the extensive use of computer animation, but it can look great. This new technology is not "cheating" as some might say, but in fact, it is a more precise way for a visionary to fullfill his dream. If I wanted something to look a certain way, I would use all available resources to make it happen.

Secondly, I was reminded of the old epics from Lit. class. Such works as Gilgamesh, Beowolf and the Odyssey could never have happened. Some of these Japanese movies can be equated to them. The need to search for larger than life heros seems to has dispersed from our culture. It is in our way of thinking to dispell such stories because they could not actually happen. However, the Japanese celebrate it for that very reason. When the Trojan war took place, most were not niave enough to believe in the Odyssey, yet they told it for the sake of the story. I can't see that happening now. We are too obsessed with bringing people down, with finding the faults in people, with dishing out the pangs of reality rather than the glow of dreams. It seems that our time, in our part of the world, is no longer a place of legends.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005


Yeah... Internet's been down. I will try, but not guarantee that updates will be frequent.
I plan on opening a page to deliver my Star Wars review very soon --maybe tomorrow.
for now, a quote:

"If not for Venetian blinds, it would be curtains for us all!"
--anonymous wisecrack.

There it is! Posted by Hello

What are they for?

Philtrum. I think that's what it's called, and how it's spelled. Everyone has one. Your philtrum is that little sort of ridge connecting your nose and upper lip. But what does it do? Whether or not we need a philtrum, we can't do a whole heck of a lot about it. Years from now, human children will continue to be born with philtrums. Let's focus on something within our hands.

Take a look at your vehicle. Chances are (unless you drive a mini-cooper), there is some sort of horizontal marking that runs along the car's exterior. I call this the vehicular philtrum. I can only assume that is it is for aesthetics, but I am hard-pressed to find one without it. Cars, trucks (even industrial), vans, and school buses all possess these VPs. They come in various disquises. Often come in the form of a black line, other times the line is the same color as the car. Sometimes it is in the form of a depression, other times it is a protrusion. Sometimes it is high, sometimes it is about mid-door When it seems that a vehicle was made without one, you can be sure that the manufacturer painted a strip of color beneath the window. What's the deal?

Monday, May 23, 2005

Yeah it's 2005, so what?

T'was a dark day for midgets,
for this was no cowardly lion.
It chewed off all their digits,
and slew them --barely tryin’

Gallantly they fell,
stubby arms and legs of might.
These Cambodian Oompa Loompas
had never seen such a fight.

In ancient Roman fashion,
42 men took on a beast.
As 28 took their final bow,
one had a glorious feast!

I know this makes no sense... I am having a heap of trouble adding the corresponding link. Check the list of links in the left column for "Midget Story".

Thanks to Uncle Jon Huffmaster for the article.

"A tiger cannot live by woman breast alone"... or so they say

the tragic conclusion:

An amazing story that beat all odds.

bless his little green heart. Posted by Hello

Geico, I salute you.

Geico has a great advertising committee, do they not? It is no secret that humor appeals to the American home viewing audience. That is why so many companies pour money into commercials that will spark a grin from the potential customer. More often than not, however, these commercials are flawed.

How often have you heard someone tell you about a funny commercial only to be followed up by those cutting words, "I don't remember what they were advertising". Yikes, that commercial proved to be useless to the company, despite it's entertainment factor. Geico has surpassed that. Geico has managed to put out a slew of great commercials and verbally mention the company name in each one. There is never confusion, and rarely a disappointment.

Aside: I like the crazy glue parody commercial.

The face of villiany! Posted by Hello

Every day is an adventure, and beavers are the scourges of the earth.

This evening I decided to do my duty as an American by ridding this world of a few more of those heinous destroyers of property known as beavers. As I reached out and choose the cold, steel 30/30 from the corner, a wry grin accompanied my visions of the furry beasts sinking down to their murky, watery graves. With three bullets in my pocket and three in the weapon, I eased my way across the dam of the Old Pond as quiet as a seasoned indian. There was murder behind my eyes as they searched the placid water, but in front of them there was nothing to prey upon. Only the activity of insects and frogs that danced around the lilly pads disturbed the water. Hardly a minute had passed when a movement caught the corner of my left eye. Imagination told me that a grandaddy beaver was tromping in clear range of my Winchester Super-X CXP3 power-point game load. Reality told me something else. What I had supposed was a large beaver turned out to be the head of a much larger animal. It was the presence of this laviathon that had prevently me from seeing any beavers upon arrival. In a flash, the five-foot reptilian sprang from the brush and exploded into the water with great speed and noise. It had long been fabled that an alligator was living in the and around the Old Pond. Both Papa and uncle had warned the grandchildren of it's existance, but we had all assumed that they had been pulling our legs. It is now clear that they weren't.

So no beavers in that pond. In a race with sunset, I hurried over to the Uncle Pink Pond on the hunt for more of the vile dastards. I was hoping to at least get a shot off before it became too dark. As I approached, two of the vile varmits were swimming back in forth --clearly up to mischeif. By the time my gun was up, another had poked it's head out of the water. Three shots roared and echoed down through the branch, easily carried by the still night air. The gun gave a satisfying kick and the water came to life --jumping, splashing, and bubbling around the shot. As the deep red sun sank beneath the field, leaving just the purple clouds to give it's last warning of darkness, I peered over the small pond for evidence of a dead beaver. Would they float or sink? It was warm enough, and I was curious enough, so I decided to give a more extensive search for the kill.

I slipped off my clothes and eased into the cool water tucked away in a corner between a field and the trees. The water felt so refreshing after the 90 degree heat of the day. The frogs and crickets were beginning to sing, the fireflies were just making their presence known and the red-purple sky was completing the perfection. I almost felt that if I stood still, I would become a Norman Rockwell painting. It's times like these that I am so happy to live in the country. City dwellers can have no understanding of the magic that fills each day out here. Yesterday I discovered a new beehive, today an alligator. Every day is an adventure.

Oh, by the way, I didn't find the beavers. But the shooting was good sport. I'll give 'em hell tomorrow too.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005


New pictures in the gallery and the appearance of links in the left column.

Tigers suck.
You'd do the same, right?

Thursday, May 05, 2005

New Page

My new addition:
please excuse the rediculous name, blogspot is so crowded that all the good and reasonable names were taken.

The Ivory-Billed Woodpecker, long thought extinct, was recently discovered in Arkansas.
 Posted by Hello

Wednesday, May 04, 2005


Thanks to Reed Waldrep for the article.

Roughing It?

Two weekends ago, me and my dad set out on a highly anticipated camping experience. We had planned to drive to the north Georgia mountains and spend the weekend. Visions of fishing, hiking, campfire watching, and above all seclusion filled our heads as we made the last minute reservations with Moccasin Creek State Park. We left early Friday morning for our two night stay and drove for hours across the state. The ride was nice --good conversation, a lot of singing, laughs, and water bottles-- and we were expecting that all would be well and right with the world, if at least for the weekend.

The countryside began to change as the Appalachians thrust themselves up through the fields and trees providing beautiful panoramas. As we saw the ridges, waterfalls, and the lookout points, we eagerly awaited becoming apart of them during our weekend of the land. The miles closed in and we finally arrived at the Moccasin Creek check-in station. They laid down the rules. We joked about leaving because they would not allow skateboarding. After talking to a few rambling old men, we headed for our campsite. I looked around, utterly shocked. The campsite was directly behind us --behind the check-in station --along side 50 other campsites. A gravel bed, bordered by wood planks and flanked by a water pump and fire area, was our wilderness. Being a boy scout, I was all too familiar with camping; this was not camping. We went back to the check-in and requested a more remote location. "Ahhh, you want the honeymoon sweet!" the old men laughed, their yellow teeth inches away from our faces.

The "honeymoon sweet" is NO place for a honeymoon, by any standards. Heaven help me, the children in the RV 30 feet away would be scarred for life. I was appalled. Is this what people do when they claim to be camping? Despite this complete disillusionment of what the reality of camping in a state park is, we decided to set up and make the best of it. After walking about a mile or so of trail and eating sandwiches by the fireside, we bedded down.

The next day, the weather gave us a slap in the face. the sky was overcast and the wind was getting it's money's worth. It was cold. Due to the wind and weather, we cut fishing out of the agenda. we checked the map for local sites and decided on Brasstown Bald, the highest point in Georgia.

Cars upon cars were lining the roadside as we neared the peak. From every direction, people in skintight, synthetic blues and reds and greens were walking towards the mountain. These people had tried hard to be trendy --they had specialty items like "protein paste" and the like. We saw their license plates from New York and Oregon and all sorts of distant places. There was a definite buzz among them. Something was going down, or up for that matter. we felt like chance winners to a Trekie convention --completely out of our element, not understanding the excitement around us.

As we got out of out car and walked up the road, things began to become clearer. "he's number one" people said, "that's his number". "I hope I get a picture" said others. Nearly every vehicle was accompanied by a high priced road bike. We were in the midst of the Tour de Georgia, which was scheduled to finish, with Lance Armstrong in the lead, atop Brasstown Bald. What luck. Everyone has a certain thing that they are crazy about. Sometimes it's food, sometimes it's a girl, sometimes it's God. Yet still, when I see people who have taken something and molded their life around that something in such a way that is so obvious and one-dimensional, particularly financially, I have to cock my head a little bit. These people could ride bikes perfectly well without skin tight suits and protein paste, but in order to fulfill their inner biker spirit, they felt compelled to buy everything that their specialized magazines told them to. In effect, they looked both ridiculous and picture perfect.

Being that the road had been blocked off, we had to either wait for a shuttle bus or climb the 3.5 mile trail up the mountain. We decided to take the scenic route. 3.5 miles vertical is something entirely different than 3.5 miles here on earth. Aside from that, the weather was horrible. I wrote a short poem about the mountain experience:

climb the mountain
charge the hill
you stop and tell me how you feel

panting breath
windy cold
you tell yourself that you're too old

at last a break
from the trees
at last a place to rest your knees

what is the vista
that we got?
a lousy asphalt parking lot.

Turns out that 3.5 miles is half the trip. Our trek led us to a parking lot filled with more bicycle enthusiasts who were selling junk and making noise. There was a huge screen advertising the race and Dodge trucks. Apparently when people that ride bikes aren't riding bikes, they drive Dodge trucks. ba duh ba duh ba duh dah (the current Dodge theme).

Clear from the trees, the wind was a force to be reckoned with. We quickly made our way into a gift shop. Outside, a 100ft line awaited overpriced coffee. I took a few pictures as we waited for the shuttle bus to take us back down. A nearby thermometer read 34 degrees... KELVIN! no, not Kelvin, but 36 degrees is not what one would expect on the 23 of April. We crammed into the bus and headed down. The driver, who was somewhat less than chipper, narrowly missed a dozen bikers walking up the road. I sat beside a girl named Samantha who was reading "Samantha Saves the Day". It was her favorite.

We walked the mile back to the car and headed for camp. I let Dad listen to the Beatles on the way. We had to drive a good distance out of the way because the entire highway had been shutdown so people could ride their bikes. We were thrilled. Considering the weather above all else, we decided not to stay another night. I had a pretty rough headache and was ready to get away. We ate some more really good sandwiches and headed out. On the way home, we made a stop at "Fred's Famous Peanut Stand", the place where I had once bought my favorite shirt (a picture of me in the shirt can be seen earlier in the website), and ate some fried nuts washed down with peach cider.

We made it back to Statesboro around 9 and a half o'clock. I showed Dad some things on the telescope, we talked awhile, unloaded, and he headed home. All in all, it was a fun trip and the mountains were beautiful. However, next time I go camping, it will be on the Appalachian trail or private property, not a gravel bed placed between a public restroom and a family of 6.

Popcorn Mountain Lookout Posted by Hello

Monday, May 02, 2005

Interesting Conversation

The following is an account of the conversation betwix Heather Hikox and myself at work Sunday night while veiwing a commercial that featured a diaper jingle sung to Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik:

me -- I wonder what 'ol Wolfgang would think if someone told him that his music would sink to being on a diaper commercial.

Heather -- he would probably say, "what's a commercial?".

me -- ha... well, I think it would be the ultimate insult.

Heather -- that his music has survived for centuries?

What a beautiful perspective. Here I was, not seeing the forest for the trees in a huge way! Way to go, Heather.

Friday, April 29, 2005

Matthew Stephen Crosby, we hail you! This is my cousin Matt. This week he was officially proclaimed Valedictorian of his high school. Congratulations Matt. This isn't the most recent picture, but he looks about the same. It looks like a he had a little trouble finding eggs... Posted by Hello

Fact of the Day: Before he was infamous, Adolf Hitler was an aspiring artist. Had he been accepted to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts after applying the second time, he may have lived out his days as a not-so-well-known painter of flowers. Posted by Hello

Tuesday, April 26, 2005


A valued contributor to the website expressed concern about the posted links, claiming that they were found “weird” in nature. Please note that I have not explored the majority of the material found on the sites, and thus cannot guarantee a pleasurable read. However, there is some pretty cool stuff on there.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005


These are talented and intelligent individuals who apply themselves in nonconventional ways. They do the kind of things that I wish I were a part of. <--these guys were featured on NPR.

Monday, April 11, 2005

Guess the blender missed that one...

Sunday, April 10, 2005

Ketchup, a condiment shrouded in mystery...

One might suppose that with all the news in the world today, I might have more important topics to write about. Well One is wrong if he does suppose that. My web site is often a fresh breath from dead Pope’s and the like, and right now I want to talk about ketchup. And so I will…
If I were to ask you to close your eyes and envision ketchup (catsup, catchup), most everyone (93%) could do this without any difficulty. With your lids still tightly down, you would imagine the trademark red bottle with the white cap; the smooth tomatoey sauce filling every inch of the container as it tilts to one side, ready to smother your fries… There isn’t much debate over the issue, anyone will tell you that ketchup is a form of tomato sauce. If this is such common information, why is it that nearly every bottle you come across will be specially marked “tomato ketchup” as if there were another variety.

For clarification, I checked According to the site, Ketchup will be defined as “A condiment consisting of a thick, smooth-textured, spicy sauce usually made from tomatoes”. Note that the word “usually” is not very concrete. Yet no matter how hell-bent the consumer, he is not likely to find watermelon ketchup or anything close. Lets examine the other attributes of ketchup. Many sauces are thick and smooth-textured, why are they not fortunate enough to be dubbed “ketchup”. Why do we say “mustard” rather than “mustard seed ketchup”?

Further research yielded interesting results. I discovered that originally, ketchup was of Chinese origin and primarily made of fish brine. Sailors brought the mixture to Europe where it was produced with locally available ingredients such as nuts and mushrooms. In the18th and 19th centuries, ketchup was a generic term for any sauce which contained vinegar. Apparently somewhere down the line, tomatoes just became the most popular.

Say hello to Tucker (not mine), isn't he just as cute as an $800 dollar bill? Some people certainly think so. Personally, I've seen more meat on a Krystal burger. Posted by Hello

Small Dogs

Personally I feel that “toy” dogs are a travesty to the animal kingdom, and what’s more, a crime of inhumanity. I think that it is atrocious that we should breed such things to be completely dependant on us. Like Dr. Frankenstein, we mix until we concoct a creature with proportions so small that it can only be for the use of entertainment. We use small dogs for circus freaks as we pretend to love them, yet ironically, their mere existence is proof that we care more about ourselves.

Crude Humor Posted by Hello

Sunday, April 03, 2005


During my work hours at Blimpie, I inadvertently soak up countless commercials. Many are silly, but there are two particularly which I will write about tonight.

Every company wants to be able to legitimate the quality of their product with things such as official seals and consumer trials. Perhaps the most puzzling reference to such an example can be found on the Serta Mattress commercial. Serta proudly announces more than once in their advertisement that their mattress was developed by NASA for astronauts. Wow, that statement is bound to carry a lot of weight considering all the home-based necessities that NASA has churned out in recent years. Everyone that I shop with knows that if it was designed with outer space in mind, then it MUST be right at home in your bedroom. It is for very similar reasons that I exhibit swimwear designed by Eskimos.

The second commercial just cracks me up. Now we are all familiar with peanut butter, it’s no new thing. Since George Washington Carver harnessed the secret and made it available to the masses, it’s popularity (creamy or crunchy, mind you) has hardly waned. I cannot speak for most people, but I eat peanut butter because of it’s wholesome peanutty goodness. However, this aspect of the product is just not enough to justify eating for some people. Through the miracle of television, I have found out that, much like Worther’s Originals, the purchase of peanut butter has nothing to do with the actual taste of the product, but rather the sentimental effect that is emitted by it’s presence. If you are dismayed, it is only because you haven't kept with the times. Peanut butter is getting back to it’s roots that are intertwined somehow with deep family values and traditions. Flip on the TV and see if you don’t get dewy-eyed when a man sits down with his daughter to eat peanut butter and tells her how his dad used to do the same thing. Peanut butter just brings people closer, that’s all there is to it.

ahh, the joys of peanut butter! Posted by Hello

Monday, March 28, 2005

I saw this on the internet and thought it was funny. Posted by Hello

Sunday, March 27, 2005

Who is Wesley Huffmaster?

Once again, my inbox has been flooded with requests that I post more about myself. I will deliver, but only in a small degree. The following was was pasted from the World Book article:

"On a mild autumn night in late November of 1985, a remarkable event occurred that changed the world forever. An extraordinary baby boy, like none even seen before, was brought into this world. This child was soon known to be called Wesley Huffmaster. There is much debate among historians to what this name actually means. However, many suggest that it was derived from the archaic "wesh lei huff maystier", which translates "super fly homeboy". Regardless of the accuracy of this assumption, Wesley indeed became quite the super fly homie. Wesley’s early life came to be known as the “bright days” of western civilization, as they were filled with much rejoicing. As Wesley aged, he became very manly, often he was mistaken for a lumberjack. Even though his greatness exceeded the average, Wesley was known for his humility and won many humble contests throughout the southeast. Wesley went on to do a many great things, including the fathering of a breathtaking website, but those are stories for another time. Legend has it that if you travel east of the sun and west of the moon when Scorpio is at equinox and the magnolias are at full bloom, you might catch a glimpse of Wesley riding his giant bull, singing with bluebirds, and planting apple trees with a banjo on his knee."

I hope that clears up a little more of the mystery.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

The "senator prank"

Posing as a 5th grader, this inventive person sent letters to 100 senators asking for their favorite joke. There responses are often pretty good. Learn a little bit more about our nation's politicians through the "senator prank", visit this link:


It's been a while since I have posted anything. I have been neglecting my duties as a blogger and enjoying my spring break, but now I am back on the ball. I posted two new articles and a few new pictures in the gallery.

Monday, March 21, 2005

This guy in the yellow shirt is taking a step in the wrong direction. Can anyone tell me why they think that the words "traffic patrol" are printed in English, while the words "eat a towel, you jaywalking scum" on the towel are not? Posted by Hello

"Jaywalkers to receive the cold, wet slap of justice", claim Manila police

I had heard of this story on the radio a few weeks ago, but I could never find an article on it. A recent re-search has produced this entry on the hilarious cold (and wet) hand of justice in Manila for your viewing pleasure.

I have never visited Manila, but this overpopulated and congested capitol’s reputation has proceeded it. Seeming indifferent to vehicular traffic, pedestrians casually lollygag in the streets to the exceeding frustration of drivers and city officials alike. In the past, jail time and fines have been enforced, but have not been overly successful. Officials have even tried to discourage the offenders by making them sing the national anthem in public. However, no matter what was done, it did not effect the whole population. The solution would have to be a quick punishment that could be quickly administered to a large group of people. The Filipino traffic brigade took the obvious solution, wet towels.

20 trucks roam the streets of Manila, armed with wet towels on wooden poles, ready to strike at a moments notice. To many, this action seems more like a cruel joke, something to be the butt of mockery. One resident observed "Well, I have to give them some points for creativity… but no. This just won’t work. This stuff belongs in a comedy movie, not the news section". In any case, the old saying rings true, “if one does not wish to be slapped with a wet blanket, he does not jaywalk in Manila.”

Read the MSNBC article that is based on my blog entry:

Clearly, as officials have the current upperhand, Manila's jaywalking gangsters will have to devise more clever ways of carrying out their crimes. I have a feeling that the war is far from over

And I present to you, Hogzilla (on the left) Posted by Hello

Hogzilla night at home

Spirits soared last night as the final minutes counted down to the airing of "Hogzilla", a National Geographic special about the legendary 12 foot, 1,000 lb wild boar killed by Chris Griffin, a worker on a hunting plantation near Alapaha, Georgia. It's sounds very... "unrefined" and "redneckish" perhaps, to get so excited about a giant hog from the swamp, but perhaps it was a bit of state pride that kept us watching as well. It isn’t very often that the prestigious National Geographic visits so close to home. Ma' allowed us to eat away from the table and in front of the television so that we could forever remember the full effect of this monumentous occasion.

There was much debate about the existence of such an animal, and whether or not it had been contrived as some sort of faulknerian myth. According to experts who exhumed and examined the carcass, the boar was actually closer to the length of 8 feet and was mixed with a domesticated hog. All of this is still impressive. However, not impressive enough to save the hog slayer from the embarrassment of being caught in a lie on national television:

"I wut'n really there when he, uh, measured it" claims Griffin
"Well me and Chris put the measure on him, we both saw it was 12 feet" says Holyoak, walking up late.

So the hog indeed lived, but the mystery did not stop there. It is no secret that a domesticated hog could be fed to reach monstrous measures. It is not practical, but it is very possible. What was extraordinary about "Hogzilla" was that this feral animal was purportedly roaming the woods, terrorizing nature, and what's more, if this untainted wild beast could reach such a size in the wild, then surely many more (perhaps his siblings), that have not yet been seen or shot at, could reach equal or surpassing sizes.

This was the point that was stressed, not surprisingly, by Ken Holyoak, the only witness and owner of the hunting plantation where the hog was killed and buried in the same day, leaving only a single picture to back up the claim. Because of Griffin and Holyaok’s "luck" in finding such a hog, there has been a recent influx on hog hunters to the plantation area. Serendipity? I think not.

Holyoak suggests a possible explanation:

A few years earlier, on the same plantation, Holyoak achieved local fame for his patented protein enforced fish food, which he attributes to his occasional 5lb brim. To those who are unaware, that is a very large brim. Holyoak suggests that, perhaps, he could imagine that the hog may have wandered into the protein pellets. Skeptics (me) see a less happenstance, more plausible underlying scheme.

For reference, here is our pool of facts:
Holyoak owns a hunting plantation where he wants to attract hunters (customers).
Hunters are attracted to trophy kills.
Holyoak has developed a protein feed that produces trophy fish.
Hogs are capable of achieving incredible size when domesticated and fed protein enriched feed.

From these facts, one might deduce that Holyoak raised a hog for size and then killed it, took a picture, and buried any evidence in order to attract high-money clients. One doesn't need Hardy Boy training to assume such things. Nevertheless, this giant animal, larger than your couch, with 9 inch circular tusks once walked the earth in southern Georgia, and his name was Hogzilla.

**All this buzz is inspiring me to kill myself a hog. All around the farm, they are making trails and rooting up crops. More than a costly nuisance, these potential killers have been spotted pretty regularly in a field near the house. If I get to shoot one, I'll post the picture.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Clara Barton step aside

In recent history, I have always kept a first aid kit in my car. For many moons, the kit just helped to fill the glove box and provided a great store for potential energy. Tonight I finally woke the kit from it's slumber and applied it such a way as to ignite an entire blog entry.

I was conversing at my new friend Scottie's house when Chase (doing heaven knows what) sliced his thumb on an aluminum can and proceeded to bleed in a rapid and profuse fashion. After quickly assessing the situation, I ran to my car to retrieve whatever might be useful. Chase said he thought that I had "just up and deboed after seeing all the blood", and I imagine that is what it must have looked like. I returned with a roll of gauze and a band aid. From the side view of the thumb, a narrow groove could be detected; freshly flowing oxygenated blood marked the area where flesh used to be. We tightly bandaged up his thumb and very well may have saved his life (yeah...sure). Being very glad to have used that kit, somehow I was reminded of the local volunteer fire department back in Dexter. David Bryant, dubbed "Dexter Dave" by the masses, had an uncanny sense for disaster and always managed to be the first on the scene of any wreck, fire, or buffalo stampede. Had he been the exhibitor of a sly-looking pencil thin mustache, he might have been cause for suspicion. Dexter Dave and his volunteer comrades always had an untouchable pride in what they did, and they always found a way to make you aware of their membership in any and every conversation. I guess I felt a little like Dexter Dave last night.