I Wonder

So far in the blog, I have featured a little bit of everything. I have divulged to you my poetry, my super short narratives, my own personal accounts and my commentary on whatever the hell I'm thinking. I've noticed more people are fans when I decide to let loose and let my words type along with my thoughts rather than when I try to plot something down more carefully. This makes me wonder if I have a skill for improvisation. Somebody! Quick! Give me a location, a type of fruit and the title to a Tom Selleck movie!

No, I'm not prepared to go on stage just yet. But why can't my free thoughts translate well into written word? When doing presentations in class, I find that I'm actually disabled by having notes set in front of me. I can't have boundaries. I have to be able to pick and choose what to say as I go along. 

Now, my dream in life is to be writer. I want to pen the novels you read and the movies you watch. Since I have trouble sticking to things that I write down, is there a way for me to come up with a movie on the fly? I mean, as we film? Sure, I'll have a basic premise for the whole thing but I want to be able to just do what strikes my mood at the time. If I was a comedian, I don't think I would have a set of jokes. I think I'd just go up there and I say whatever I'm thinking about. 

I think that my maverick style of doing things is certainly a gift. (Can I say maverick or has the McCain/Palin campaign copyrighted it?) I'm trying to figure out how I can apply it. So, we faithful two readers, what am I destined to do? Television Personality is the answer. Mo Rocca is doing it. I'll make sure to apply the same place he did. 

Me & Dr. Jones

They never did tell us where Dr. Jones was the entire time.
I was excited to be starting my college career. Both of my parents had gone to the prestigious Barnett College. When I got the acceptance letter, I started dancing with the family dog until my dad called me a homo. Then, he grilled me about what I would choose as my major. He wanted me to go into business and mom wanted me to be a doctor. Either way I was going to let one of them down. Luckily, I let both of them down so they could loathe my career choice together. I chose to go into Archaeology. Dad didn't quite understand what it was considering he pumped gas his whole life. He thought it had to do with finding dinosaur bones which would be blasphemy considering God only put those on Earth to test our faith.

I wanted to do more than find dinosaur bones. I wanted to uncover lost civilizations and use that knowledge to improve human kind. I had no interest in these "intro" courses. Why should I waste time learning all that jargon when I could head out there and pull the skeleton of a long dead Incan out of the ground?

I signed up for Lost Tribes and Sunken Continents my very first semester. It was a lucky thing that I got in there. It was taught by this faculty member that everyone seemed to love. Dr. Henry Walton Jones Jr. walked into class on the first day and I fell in love with him. Not in a homo way like my dad would probably think. He told us anecdotes that I'm pretty sure he exaggerated. Talks of an Ark, a Thuggee Cult, a Sankara stone, the Gestapo and a grail. Despite his hyperbolic stories, I adored him. I wanted all of his knowledge.

One day Dean Stanforth came in and told us that Dr. Jones wouldn't be returning for awhile because he was called away on business. His leave was unpredicted so Dean Stanforth tried letting the TA run the course. The only sunken continent he could think of was Atlantis and he showed us the same National Geographic special three times because it was the only one available at the library. Dean Stanforth tried teaching the course himself but he considered Oompa Loompas as a lost tribe. When final exam week came around he had forgotten that it was his duty to write up an exam. He asked everybody a true or false question on the Oompa Loompas. I picked true on a guess and was granted an A for the whole semester. I was ready to take on more courses in the field and become just as great as Dr. Jones.

The Strain of Sleep

Dear heavenly father, I have terrible terrible dreams. I wish they were those bizarre dreams where I'm being castrated with a rusty railroad spike or falling into a pit of something horrible. No, what makes my dreams so terrible is how real they are. A dream where I'm looking into a mirror and I don't know what I'm looking for. A dream where my wife won't forgive and I keep apologizing for something even though I don't know what it is. A dream where I'm waking up from another bad dream only a year has passed by since I've been asleep. You know what has changed? Nothing. There aren't any messages on my machine. There isn't any mail piled up on my door step. No one has been trying to reach me and my life is the same by simply not living it.

Its different to wake up and realize you missed out on something. Sure, you're bummed for a few moments. When you were sleeping, your room mate went to a wild party with the biggest chocolate cake he's ever seen and the girls rubbed it onto there bare breasts to emphasize how much of a dessert it truly was. Yes, it sucks to have missed it but knowing moments like that exist and that had you just been awake a bit later that night, you could've have been apart of it makes you stay awake so you can catch the next one.

But to wake up and realize you've missed nothing, you might as well go back to bed. At least in a terrible dream, you've got something to live for. Yeah, I'm dreaming that my wife is leaving me for Salvador Dali but at least I have something that means a damn. While all I have is the pain of the dream, I can fill in the blanks. Its a bad dream because I love her. Its a bad dream because we use to dance naked in front of the mirror together. She would take me out in the middle of a busy intersection and kiss me there to make sure I'd remember it. This bad dream is a result of good memories we have. I might not know who she is but I'll be damned if I don't love her. She's my wife after all.

So, heavenly father, I'll take any dream whether I'm a bottom feeder or at the top of the food chain. I just don't want to wake up and realized I've missed nothing.

Mr. Palmer Logan

Outward Appearance

Young but with a grizzled look. Hair like a rat's nest. Very simple wardrobe. Blue jeans and a wife beater with a black coat to cover up his arms. 

Inside Information

Palmer is a former amateur boxer. His ring name was Kid Gorgeous. He went into semi-retirement to care for his ill father. He hasn't fought in the ring since his father's eventual death. Now, he works as a bouncer in a titty bar to pay the rent. It also allows him to pick fights he knows he can win. 

What he is thinking

Palmer wonders why his brother didn't show up to their father's funeral. Having him there would've made it so much easier to deal with. Instead, he was left alone to arrange the burial site, put the wake together, greet every single guest and hear everyone's deepest condolence. Why wasn't he there?

Palmer remembers the post-it note clung to the ceiling just above the bed. It hangs there for him to read each morning when he wakes up. It reads 'Don't Kill Yourself.' It first appeared the morning his girlfriend left him. Without a doubt she's the one who put it there. She had balls to think he would do such a thing without her. Even if he wanted to before, doing it now would only prove her right. Fuck that.

The local boxing circuit is going gaga over this guy, Darius Moss. The guy calls himself the Perfect Specimen. Palmer could turn his face into hamburger meat. He could easily dissect that specimen. 

One For The Bartap

I'm a guy who loves to sleep. I look forward to sleeping. I get upset when I can no longer sleep. Sleeping is peaceful for me. No one can piss me off when I'm in my sleep. Lately, sleeping is looking like more of a luxury than a nessicity. That's thanks in part to syllabi from certain professors that make no sense to me. Do I have less than 24 hours to read an essay, write a paper and write up discussion questions Prof. Burt? That course list isn't helping.

I will look at the silver lining. I'm busy. Since I've been busy I've had no time for my fits of depression. I'm also thankful for the little annoying things that drive me up the wall. Like how the other day it took me nearly 25 minutes to find meatballs at the grocery store and no one could help me. I felt my IQ dropping each minute I spent staring at the frozen food. Dealing with that has been nicer than dealing with other things. For instance, receiving my 2nd traffic ticket in 2 months. Also, the incredible cost of college tuition and how I can't motivate myself to do enough with my life.

I think about what James McAvoy said to me at the end of Wanted. Yes, I say me because he looked directly at the camera and made his address to no one else. He said "what the fuck have you done lately?" I truly wonder that sometimes. I tell myself I'm 20 and still got lots to stretch out and do things but last year I was saying the same thing, only claiming that I was 19. Will I be saying the same thing when I'm 29? My film professor had has PhD at 29. Will I watch it all fall in place or watch it all fall down?

Instead of doing that I think I'll just go get lost in the gorcery aisle again.

This Island America

You know what's great about this semester? All of the time I am forcing myself to kill. My visits to campus are made into all day trips since I moved into my apartment. I get to come into the library to snag computers away from students registered under the name "Old Man River" and watch them seethe at me. They've got lectures to cross reference and research to do. Me? I'm talking shit to everyone in my fantasy football league and looking up answers to the USA Today cross-word puzzle clues. Anyone want to tell me what they mean by Barcelona Bear? That's all they're giving me to work with.

I liked Obama's pick for VP in Joe Biden. It's about time he started fighting fire with fire. "Old white guy, meet my old white guy." I didn't quite expect McCain to be doing the same thing. He almost made his selection like it was some kind of dare. "Obama thinks he's young and experienced? I'll show him," then viola, meet Sarah Palin. Both of our VP candidates are representing the two most boring states in the country, Delaware and Alaska. What sort of issues has Palin been settling up there and I mean her politics not her at home junk. Her down syndrome son and unmarried, pregnant teenage daughter are surely enough as it is. I also enjoy how their using her daughter's pregnancy as a pro-life stance. Good going, strategist.

Don't take this as purely anti-McCain/Palin material. I just don't know that much about Biden. Which either makes him boring or riddled with a dark past. I hope its the latter. Him and Obama would then know how to go through even when you're low. America does end up voting for anyone open about his drug use. Marion Barry wasn't even about it but he still got re-elected and Bill CLinton liked a little weed every now and again. But maybe America is done with people with substance abuse problems. Obama did smoke a lot of crack and Bush did do a lot of drinking and driving. That kind of substance abuse will get a man elected and then re-elected.

The McCain campaign is now boosting his leadership credentials. You know, because service time means so much to us. What with John Kerry getting shot at on a river boat in Vietnam. That sprung him into the...oh, wait. We've been given the war hero thing already and we didn't like it. Hey, Obama has never been to war just like Bush. So zero service time and prior substance abuse means odds on favorite. I'm liking Obama's chances.

Well, I'm getting daggers stared at me all over this place. I'm also guessing that by Barcelona Bear they mean the Barcelona Teddy Bear who would be Ted for short. Anyway, if you need saving, look no further then your next door savior.

This Past Week

Lately its been tough finding time and material to write. I moved into a brand new place and got my junior year ready to go. I've also been developing strange homosexual crushes on my film professors. (Any attention they give me makes me melt.) I decided to do everyone a favor and catch you up on the news this week. Not the headlines, though. Mostly the small bits you may have overlooked. 

Fidel Castro went on the record this week saying he backs the actions of the Cuban athlete who kicked an official after a disqualification during a tae kwon doe match at the olympics. I myself back the actions of Michael Phelps' 10,000-12,000 calorie a day diet. Looking at the way most Americans eat, I think we all back it. 

A nine year old kid was banned from pitching in his youth league for being "too good." He throws at 40 mph and none of the other kids can hit off him. Other teams were forfeiting games this kids started. Coach: "Don't bother, kids. You can't beat him. Let's just eat the post-game donuts and go home."

The town of Hoschton, GA is trying to break the world record for most scarecrows in one location. Their goal is about 4000. There most have been a lot of downsizing lately. 

A 21 year old mother of two survived five whole days in a car after she crashed it. Plan a better suicide next time.

Lesbian activist Del Martin died at age 87 months after marrying her partner. No joke added here. 

We all that Obama is accepting the Democratic nomination tonight as I write this. I keep thinking about that word that begins "assass" but I dare not speak it out of fear that by saying I will have killed him. Doesn't help my nerves that they keep comparing him and the event to JFK. 

Architect/Demolitionist

Now it seems all along I was always the bad man.

An architect and a demolitionist

found foundation to build on

just so they could destroy it.

They're in business together.

One in the same.

The architect shows up with smiles and hugs.

He shows his design and

sells a young woman a dream to come true.

Over a glass of champaign,

the buyer celebrates the dwelling

she now has to live with.

Once settled in,

the walls start tumbling down.

The material used was flimsy.

Leaky ceilings and stained floors.

Then she's begging for someone to obliterate the mess.

In comes the demolitionist

with wrecking ball and dynamite.

With nothing but apathy

he dismantles the once happy home.

She weeps sadly on a stoop.

They seek out a new client.

Dreamscape

I walk out to climb the trees at dark. I listen to them sway. I taste their bark. Despite the weather, they stick together. They watch each other live and die. They're silently kind but I still act shy. I take a place in the tallest one. I thank the tree and wait for the sun. I think about the future and the before. I think about the ghosts that keep knocking on my door. I don't want to see them. I want to dream them away.  I can no longer help them. There's nothing else for me to say because I'm no longer sorry. I want them to decay. They lay down and cry on the bathroom tile. Tearless eyes with upside down smiles. They cry for the home land but you can't make a movement without taking a stand. The night is always darkest before dawn. The record isn't over until you've heard the last song. 

Up in the branch, I slip into a dream about twilight in August and banshee screams. Coming through the twilight is a yeti with teeth like razors and long fur like spaghetti. Maybe it won't see me if I get real still but I stick out like a plane crashing into a hill. It scoops me up with one single fist. It exhales in streams of mist. I recount the moments that led up to this. I came to the forest to clear my head. To forget about the friendships I had left for dead. I didn't want to pick out caskets or attend the wake. I wanted to celebrate and eat birthday cake. I didn't feel grief. I didn't feel guilt. I didn't feel attached to anything I built. In its claw, the yeti pulls me closer to its jaw. I see the ghosts waving because I must not be worth saving.

Now awake, back in the tree. The ghosts are no longer looking for me. They walk to the horizon with backs turned. All the old bridges have been burned. I ponder the lesson I've learned. Not until the sun has risen do I realize that the worst can be forgiven because good people do bad things and bad people do good things. You just have to get it right before your swan sings. I climb down from the tree and thank it for its safety. For cradling me in its arms like I was its baby. I pick up the pace to catch up with the ghosts but they've disappeared once I've cleared the forest and reach the coast. Maybe they've gone to Avalon. When you expect the worst, anything else feels like the best. 

Guard Your Sheep

I'm the stubborn little kid who ruined all your make up

Played ball in the house so that I could break stuff

Wouldn't eat the peas and threw away the carrots

Always talked back like I was a jungle parrot

Threw a fit in the store so you would get embarrassed

Had to bribed to take a vitamin

Made you use all sorts of discipline

Still wouldn't change as I got older

Told all the neighbors that I was bi-polar

You and I are only getting closer

You're stuck with me like you are an ulcer

I stuck to my lies and stuck to my disguise

And hoped every night you wouldn't get wise

Could you imagine if I were multiplied?

Better hurry up and get me sterilized

My mistakes are tough to memorize

Considering how they exponentially rise

Doing some good just to equalize

Is like plucking each cloud out the sky

So I see no sense to even try

Instead of changing, better hope I just die

Me

I don't really know what to say in this entry but I need to write something down. I read today that Viagra is actually helpful for women as well. Studies are showing that women with depression anxiety can gain benefits from taking Viagra. One of those benefits being increased success of an orgasm, whatever that means. With that, I say the men and women go half on a bag of those blue pills. 

We all battle depression. A large part of that is because we think that there is something wrong with us. Some of us feel we're not achieving anything substantial. Some of us feel like there's a void in our lives that can't be filled. To get more specific, it can come from being hurt or feeling like you've hurt someone. Someone that you hold dearly. That's just the "why." There other part is "how." How did things things get like this or how did they get like that? Even when the worst may be over, there are still aftershocks. There's that guilt but what does that guilt mean?

It could mean that you can't let things go. It's the past. It is impossible to move backwards through time so we might as well move forward. But does that guilt show some kind of character? Does it show a sincereness to yourself that you are truly sorry? Does it serve as a remainder to not do that wrong again? I make mistakes that keep me company. I expect the worst out of a situation and when it doesn't come, I still expect it to loom. It's like waiting for the guillotine to drop. 

I also have a hard time keeping my problems to myself, as you can see. I poll advice from just about everyone. Does that make me weak? I get the idea that realizing your mistakes and correcting them within your own realm should be enough. I think I try to force sympathy out of people and they'll throw me a bone. It's like I'm no good at figuring myself out or I can't relieve myself. 

My friends are great. They really are. But when I look at myself, I see someone I'd really get sick of. I can't help but think maybe they're getting sick of me. I guess chalk it all up to fucked up self-image. The only thing I need to look in the eye is my own reflection. The mirror looks dirty right about now. Maybe because that's just the surface. Looking into my heart, I think I'm doing the best that I can. If anyone thinks otherwise, I'm sorry.

Less You Know

Look for things that take away the sting

Of what being a young man brings

If only to shake away the bad dreams

Caused by committing more penalties than a whole hockey team

His lack of fortune is enormous

He makes it into art and you can call it gorgeous

What he needs is a gas station cigarette

His head phones turned up

So he can't hear himself rap the words in gibberish

To forget he upset that beautiful brunette

And he dealt himself into karma's debt

Ask him what's wrong and get only fragments

Bug him too long and he'll issue empty threats

He treats it like a contest

Of how fast he'll get locked up in the cuckoo's nest

There Goes My Hero

We all know that tomorrow marks the release of the Dark Knight. I'm sure we all can't wait to see our favorite crime fighter dawn the bat wings once again. Unfortunately, Batman is a fictional character. Even if he was real he lives in Gotham City and can't speed around the globe like other heroes can. So ladies, use the buddy system, remain in well lit areas, and no short cuts through alley ways. I would say rely on your local police force but they seem to be more occupied with harassing your next door savior with traffic school. (William Falik has got my back folks. Doesn't qualify as a crime fighter though, considering he's fighting the cops. More of a law fighter.) So where are all the true crime fighters? I know of one. 

If Frank Melton is running for office anywhere in your local or national government then vote for this avenger. Frank Melton is currently the mayor of Jackson, Miss. and he is tough on crime. He cruises around his town in a "mobile command center" with his private bodyguards and plenty of artillery. Only until recently has he gotten in trouble for his "unorthodox" techniques. He only kidnapped some suspected gang members, held them at gun point, and forced them to break into a suspected crack house with a sledgehammer. He then proceeded to destroy the private residence. I know, I love him already. 

Apparently Frank did something wrong because he is now indicted on criminal charges. Something about not having a warrant or authority. No Authority? He's the mayor. If you can't do that then what's the point of being mayor. I remember the mayor of my home town, mayor Mishcon. All you did was attend neighborhood events and fell asleep at board meetings. He even appeared in a documentary for friend's high school video project. This was a guy with too much time on his hands. I'd prefer a mayor like Melton. If he says the crime rate will drop, it will. Not because he's increasing police funding or starting a neighborhood watch. It's because he's grabbing some shot guns and going to blow holes in doors and bodies until everyone cuts this shit out. 

I hope the charges against Melton get dropped because they may hurt his chances of ever becoming president. If he were to say there were nuclear weapons in a foreign country, it would be because he went over there himself with Kimbo Slice and DMX and came back with the weapons to show us. You're my hero, Frank. Keep fighting the fight. 

You call that a Gangster?

I always like taking a look at the sort of problems that are sweeping the nation. One issue at hand is the popularization of gang culture in the mainstream. It's no longer confusing the heck out of grandma and grandpa. It has even the police fooled now. The San Diego Tribune reports that clues as to who is a real gang member are less reliable. Cops are hard at work keeping up with all the customs. 

As few of you may know, I was the leader of one of the most notorious gangs in North Miami Beach. Rizzolo and I ran the streets of NMB for seven solid years. We grew up on the block and no one could take a thing from us. College came knocking so I left Rizzolo as sole leader but I stop by every now and again to make sure everything is all good. Basically, as a former gang member I'd like to offer a quick tutorial on how to spot an actual gang banger. 

STRANGE VERNACULAR:

Gang members don't speak standard english to each other. They use slang terms to discuss their misdeeds so no one is the wiser. If you happen upon some kids talking about "trees" or "grass", no need to cross the street. These are not gang members. Gang members always refer to drugs as sexual organs. Be more wary of the ones who claim "they could suck on a fat dick right about now." Also, gang members usually use the titles of Joseph Gordon-Levitt movies. They'll say, "I've got 10 Things I Hate About You right here." The more popular phrase is "Angels in the Outfield blew that man apart."

UNIQUE FASHION SENSE

The gangster life style has long forgotten about sagging pants, white tees, and baseball caps for teams in which you can't name a single player of. Gangs are bringing back an 80's revolution. It's all bright pink bath robes, slightly teased hair and those tank tops that guys wear that are cut off just above the belly that are making a comeback. Monocles are the sign of the gang leader. If you see someone with two monocles (i.e. bifocals) then he has most likely killed a rival gang leader for it. It's not about how much ice is around your neck. It's about how much glitter is in your eyes. 

HAND GESTURES

This is the final thing to look for. Gangs look to throw up their sign so everyone knows what set they claim. Anyone from my breeding ground is familiar with the 3-0-5 symbol. These gestures became too popular and gangs had to abandon them. It is awfully hard to get it to mean courage after a successful liquor store robbery when kids are doing the same thing after a 9 hour raid on WoW. These days it is the movement of the tongue that is a great communicator. A slow lapping motion is used by the VP Boyz now. Going from side to side in a hurried motion is employed by the Latin Kings. The Bloods and Crips do a mash up of tongue and hand. They make out with their hands like they would a girl after a drive-by. 

I hoped I've cleared a few things up. Don't fear the kid asking for "crip" by the seven eleven wearing the LA Dodgers cap. Worry more about the man in star framed sunglasses asking for vagina wall acne while licking his arm hair. 

P.S. Your next door savior has hired the help of attorney William Falik. I hope you're shaking Officer Blizzard. 

Didn't Need That

Watching the scooter laid out on the sidewalk with the lights of a fire truck blinding me I thought to how this all started. All I had wanted were some s'mores.

 I was criticizing how Leah refused to eat Hershy's chocolate at our 4th of July BBQ. This installed the desire of chocolate into Rachel as we stood in her kitchen. After she voiced this, Courtney set plans in motion for Rae and I to get all the necessary supplies to make s'mores. I would borrow Courtney's car but this vehicle was very alien to me. I couldn't figure out how to unlock the passenger side door, how to turn on the headlights or how to get the Stereo to stop playing SugarCult songs. After working a few of those kinks, we were ready to roll. 

I've always been a very cautious driver. Never been in an accident and never had gotten a ticket. I was stopped and ready to make a left turn out of the drive way. I looked to my right and saw only headlights in the distance. I was ready to proceed. Rachel pointed through the windshield and yelled "Motorcycle!" I couldn't process her amazement of a motorcycle until a scooter came swerving out of my way. The bike hit the grass and it's rider spilled out onto it. I thought about how I had just killed a man. What was the average sentence for manslaughter in Florida? 19.1 years? That's a lot of rape. I actually considered driving off in my frozen state. I told Rae I didn't know what to do and she advised me to get out of the car. 

His name was Nelson and had delicious intent in mind as well as he left his important. He was going to grab something at Hungry Howie's before returning home to watch the season finale of the Real World: Hollywood. None of us would be making it back in time to see if Joey's cocaine habit had only intensified since leaving the house. A fire truck happened by to see if everyone was alright and called the cops. Nelson wanted a crash report to cover the scratches sustained to his scooter. 

The cop damn near took an hour and a half to arrive and write up his report. I was already vowing to never drive again. After all was said and done I received a citation for $144. I was written up for violation of right-of-way. Which is bullshit considering I didn't hit anyone and wasn't even considered at fault. Nelson apologized, had he known. I told him all was fine. These things happened to everyone and it happened to be my turn. The important thing was Courtney's car was okay. Had it been damaged I would've fled the scene, ditched the car and be writing this blog under the name Palmer Eldritch. 

All that was left was to decide whether to continue on to Wal-Mart for s'mores. Nelson encouraged us. This had started with Rae wanting chocolate and it was going to end with her getting it. Otherwise, I'd feel like I left the house to try and kill a guy and go home. We got the graham crackers, chocolate, marshmallows and some Lemon Berry flavored Hawaiian Punch. We got home and enjoyed the most expensive s'mores I've ever had. Hear this, Officer Blizzard, I'm fighting this ticket. You will rue the day you wrote up your next door savior. 

Let's Make This Money

Hello, friends. It is I, your next door savior, Paul Brawl. There's too much storming about in my head and I've got to let it all out somehow. 

People are their own biggest danger. They go out on an everyday mission to mortally wound themselves and hope to take a few down with them. Thus why talking on a cell phone while driving is so popular these days. Did you know that there's a law in New York City against walking down the street with headphones on? Too many people were bopping down the lanes listening to Miley Cyrus and then getting smashed by newspaper trucks. Most laws are established to keep us from doing stupid shit to ourselves. 

Most recently the city of San Francisco is proposing a plan to make the Golden Gate Bridge less suicide acceptable. Too many people are throwing themselves off it after deciding that making human contact is a wash. The plan requires a 40 foot tall barrier that would make it impossible for people to leap off of and would also cost maybe $50 million. That's a huge insurance policy against self-loathing sociopaths. 

San Francisco should capitalize our their choice spot for the last straw. Offer these people a nice, relaxing spot to dwell in before they dive into oblivion. They can offer work shops for suicide letters, consult with a lawyer on who to leave their worldly possessions to, even a tailor so you're looking snazzy as you bite the dust. Imagine the restaurant industry. Every chef will up the ante trying to provide that great last meal. San Francisco, I know what you need. Give me a call and instead of throwing $50 million dollars at a barrier, we'll double that in profit and I'll finally afford that mink fur coat. 

That's all for today. I would like to thank my good friend Rachel Martin for making blogging stylish and getting me into it. Do yourself a favor and read her blog "On Becoming An Adult" at richweirdos.blogspot.com.