Camel Cash

I guess smoking does pay off, in its own weird way.

About three or four months ago I signed up for the Camel Lights mailing list, and RJ Renolds has been bombarding my mailbox with advertisements ever since.

I really don't mind. I actually look forward to them. They're really clever little pieces of mail-art. It's hard to explain. You can tell some petty hip advertising execs spent a lot of time coming up with this "Roaring 2000's" ad campaign... They ads themselves are printed on heavy stock, with paintings that lushly depict 20's era swingers as they drink, gamble, and enjoy fresh, delicious Camel cigarettes. Several of the ads came in trifold, with flaps that opened up to reveal a hidden treasure, like a 100 free C-notes or coupons for $1 off two packs/$4 off a carton. One ad came in the form of an old 20's era newspaper. Another announced a grand prize trip to see Velvet Revolver in Miami. Yet another ad offered you your favorite pack of regular smokes, as well as a second box of exotic blends, for free. All you had to do was put a little sticker representing the pack you wanted onto a postcard and mail it back (postage paid in the U.S.!) I should be getting 2 free packs of smokes in the mail sometime near the end of next month.

But then this morning I decided to check out the rest of their Camel Cash catalog on-line. I clicked onto the November '04 section of the catalog, and when I saw it, I HAD TO HAVE IT.

A 100% suede mocha jacket, with interior zipper, and a pocket for your cell-phone. It only comes in large, but that's okay, I can still look damn cool in it. I have to use Hello! to post an image of the jacket, so I can't include it here in the text, but you can see it in the picture immediately proceeding this post (or by clicking here).

Only 800 C-notes and $6.00 S+H!! I hurried upstairs and pulled out all my C-notes in a massive frenzy of greed and impatience. I counted them out. 100... 200... 300... 400... 500(!)... 600(!!)... 700(!!!!)... plus the free 100 C-notes from the ad... made 800 C-NOTES*.

I only have $1.48 to my name, but I work tonight. One of my tables dooesn't know it, but they're going to buy me a SUEDE JACKET! WOO-HOO!!

I'm mailing out the form tomorrow. I already printed it out and signed it. I should expect delivery within 10-12 weeks, which would put it right around February. I'll take some pictures of me showing off in it and post it here then!

I can't wait!!

* Minus the 100 C-note I received in the ad, I own over 700 pieces of Camel Cash. That equals 700+ packs of cigarettes. That's 14,000 cigarettes I've smoked in the past seven years. 700 packs, at around roughly 3.50 a pack... that's $2,450...I think I've bought this damn jacket twice over... Besides, I'm paying them big bucks to kill me slowly and painfully. I think I deserve a little something in return.

100% suede mocha jacket. Only 800 C-notes and $6.00 S+H from RJ Renolds. AND I'M GETTING IT!! 

Black Friday

What a grim name, huh? I wonder how many cups of coffee the managers at Best Buy have drunk so far.

I thought about calling up a few friends of mine in retail to laugh at them. Could you imagine being the poor schmuck who unlocks the doors at Target first thing in the morning?

HEADLINE NEWS: Sales associates all across America were trampled to death today by hordes of screaming women as they scrambled for the sale racks.

There's absolutely NO WAY you could drag me to the mall on Black Friday. I'd rather poke holes in my head.

Although Outback shouldn't be any less busy. It's easier to put up with the idiocy of the general public, however, when you walk away at the end of the night with a fat wad of cash.

Drinks are on me!

Maleea and Paige put up Christmas decorations today. We wanted to get a real tree this year, but things have been a little tight, so she hauled out the fake one from the attic.

Paige is at the perfect age for Christmas. I couldn't help but catch a little bit of holiday fever from her... She had so much fun decorating the tree, hanging up the bulbs, stringing the lights. Everything was magical. Her eyes lit up when she found the little snow globe at the bottom of the box. I would be lying if I said I wasn't just a little envious... To be a kid again...

neogreat.net

Here's an entry from the blog I share with Matt Dyer (writedamnitwrite), hosted on his server; this is what he wrote:

Holy crap what a story I heard
Filed under: General — matt @ 8:40 pm

I talked to Jeff yesterday and he told me the story of the week from the high school.

There was apparently a kid handing out hundred dollar bills to people who would do stupid stuff for him. He had people running full speed into walls, yelling embarrassing things, and all sorts of stuff like that. And he was paying lots of people.

Rumors began to fly. Nobody could really ID the kid; he was a nobody loner type. Most of the rumors were based around the source of his money. His grandparents, some said, were billionaires. Others suggested his dad had made millions in the porn business. Jeff said it must undoubtedly fall somewhere in between, possibly with his dad becoming a billionaire in the porn business?

The truth came out toward the end of the week. The kid had sold his pokemon card collection on ebay for $3,500 and was spending his money by getting only the “popular” kids to do stupid stuff for him.

I can respect that.

I just wanted to put this here because, damnit, there’s a story there somewhere!

Amazing. Utter genius. This kid should be lauded, given an award on Senior Day or something.

I love Rhea County High School.

Happy Thanksgiving!

"This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it." - Psalms 118:24.

What another glorious day. The whole family met at my grandparents' for a sumptuous feast. There was about 15 of us there, although were were lacking a dozen or so more. We snacked on fresh veggies, Mediterranean cheese, and cocktail shrimp until 2 o'clock. For dinner, there was turkey, ham, stuffing, mashed potatoes & gravy, baked sweet potatoes, green beans, crab souffle, cucumbers & onions in vinegar & oil, and cranberry sauce. For dessert we had pumpkin pie and banana nut cake topped with whipped cream. Not twenty minutes after the meal I promptly fell asleep on the coach, book in lap.

Paige had about four or five accidents today. She's three years old and she's in love with life. You can't stop her from dancing and jumping and running around from sheer joy; and 99.999% of the time she ends up bumping her head, scraping her knee, pinching her finger... One time, at her Baba's house, she was crossing the living-room and waving at him and walked straight into the wall. Poor poor child. She was practically covered in band-aids when we left my grandparents' house today. (NOTE: only band-aids can heal pain, since they hide the wound from the eye, and are applied by grandfathers.)

I talked to my friend Claudine just now. I don't know....... And here's where I let out a big sigh of confusion..... She's in the California desert right now, 2 hours outside of L.A., smoking weed with her friend Kelly (from S. Carolina). Claudine's parents live in Dayton, Tennessee, a world away; and it breaks my heart to know that Claudine, my French-Haitian Bon-Bon, the only woman smarter than my ex, a stunningly-beautiful and amazing young woman, is spending her Thanksgiving alone, in the desert, with a South Carolinian to keep her company.

There's more to it than that, but that's another post entirely...

Well, it's only 10:36 right now. I still have... an hour and a half to give thanks...

WHAT I'M THANKFUL...

1. ...For being born a male in the United States of America, in the late 20th century.

2. ...That I have no diseases, deformities, afflictions, or ailments.

3. ...For the fact that even though I'm a despicable person, God still loves me.

4. ...For Jesus.

5. ...For Joy Electric, and electro music in general.

6. ...For rockabilly, Britpop, surf rock, classic rock, alt-country, indie, and Top 40 (1987-1992) music, in general (see profile).

7. ...For low-priced turkey, ham, and grocery items throughout the United States. Praise God for American wealth!

8. ...For $4.78 6-packs of Bud Light.

9. ...For the U.S. soldiers spending Thanksgiving in Iraq and other perilous locations (and their families.)

10. ...For the current President (altho I didn't vote for him, the man God intended to be President is now President.)

11. ...For Dayton & Chattanooga, Tennessee, and Yellow Springs, Ohio.

12. ...For all my friends, everywhere, the artists, the musicians, the writers, the lovers-of-life...

13. ...My sister, Maleea, and my neice, Paige.

14. ...My whole freakin' family. All 8 billion of 'em... (it seems like).

15. ...You, for reading this blog!

Well, folks, time for bed. I hope each and every one of you had a wonderful Thanksgiving.

God bless.

I'm in Love!

When Outbackers Attack!

Wow, what a crazy weekend.

After two and a half months of out-and-out, undiluted boredom, I finally got out of the house and had some fun.

Carl's graduation party was on Saturday. The man pulled all the stops: he rented a bar, hired a DJ, organized a few games. I paid $25 for a little bracelet that let me drink for free all night long. The bar was a Sunday afternoon buffet, three-people thick, and the poor bartenders had to dart back and forth like bees to keep the thirsty masses at bay.

I drank whiskey all night long; Carl said the bracelet included Jack, but they soon ran out of it, and I had to switch to Old Crow. (For you non-whiskey drinkers out there, that's like switching from ambrosia to rot-gut).

After two or three doubles I could feel the effects of the whiskey, and I started loosening up. By the time Carl announced the pinata game, I was revved up like a racecar at the starting line. A couple of people took a good whack at it, but the stick finally bent and I realized a new strategy was needed in order to crack that damn pinata open. I paid a dollar, chugged a beer, and Carl spun me around in a couple of 360's. Finally he stopped me, I found the pinata with my eyes, and I speared that giant f*cker like a wild pig. The paper mache broke, the stick ran through, and I yanked down with every erg of strength I possessed. For a brief micro-second I was no longer Billy Heaning, merry party-goer... I was some unnamed warrior from an ancient time and faraway land, and I was spearing the boar for my tribe... There was a roar of voices, and from the sky fell dozens of tiny bottles of booze: rum, bourbon, vodka... A stampede of people rushed past my feet, grabbing at the mini-bottles in some kind of feeding frenzy. I managed to drop to my knees and pilfer a half-dozen bottles. Some noise-makers fell out of the pinata with the booze, and as I walked back to my table to check my loot, they shot off like pistols and rifles. I had 3 bottles of Crown Royal, 2 bottles of Bacardi, and 1 bottle of Smirnoff. No need to wade through the moat of human bodies surrounding the bar to get a drink, at least not for a while...

Pretty soon the urge to dance became overwhelming and I got out onto the floor. It was packed. The party had reached a fever pitch: everyone was dancing. It's hard to describe a scene like that, especially when you're a part of it. To outside observers it must have looked like some kind of hedonistic orgy, except everyone was wearing their clothes, and they were standing up. A rainbow of lights beamed down onto the dancers in revolving patterns, while disco balls sent thousands of tiny stars spinning across the room. Everything seemed to be in slow-motion, or underwater, and in synch with the beat and rhythm of the music. We picked our partners with each new song, and as the night carried on on, the dancing became more and more... salacious?... Strange, isn't it, how human beings find such pleasure and excitement from the simple act of dancing? Maybe it's the lascivious movements, the simulation of the act of love, the building up of prurient tension between two people that acts as its own release. It's definitely a mating ritual.

I met this girl named Amy who said I reminded her of the lead singer to Linkin Park.. Immediately I told her she reminded me of Marisa Tomei, and I think that about did it right there. We found a table and engaged in one of the most inspired, spontaneous conversations I ever had with a woman, drunken or not. I don't know if it was the booze, or if there was a spark between us, but we had the most fluid conversation. Everything she said made sense, and vice versa, and I was really getting into it when suddenly our mutual friend, Jamie, the one who introduced us, decided she and her group were leaving for another bar across town. It was close to last call, anyway, and I pondered briefly the option of leaving with them... and Amy... but decided against it. I'm glad I did because I found out the next day that she's still very much invovled with her ex. No time for that!

The bartenders finally called last call and the party started to wind down. Groups of rowdy, drunken friends were leaving in a steady trickle. A lot of my friends were still there, so we stayed until the DJ played the last song. I was gathering my things, making a mental inventory of everything to make sure I left nothing important behind, when suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw one of the cooks at Outback, a huge fellow, start flailing his fists at this other guy on-stage.

Immediately the room went from deflating party to wild, fist-flying free-for-all. A dozen guys jumped into a human pile of punches and kicks, and for a second it really did look like one of those cartoon fights, a great big cloud of dust with fists and feet appearing and disappearing. Outbackers were throttling strangers. One guy had at least four people pounding on him like a captured shark.

I grabbed my sister and her best friend, Lori, and flung them behind me. The mass of bodies was coming steadily towards us, and as soon as I heard the DJ say the cops were on their way, I grabbed both girls' arms and forced them towards the exit. "Come on, ladies, we're leaving now. I'm not getting arrested for what's in my pocket because a bunch of apes want to get in a fight."

After we got outside, another fight broke out in the parking lot. Again, just like before, a swarm of Outbackers jumped onto this one poor guy, who just wouldn't stop running his mouth (despite repeated warnings), and stomped him into the pavement. As drunk as I was, I didn't care to stick around to see them smash this guy into a pulp, and I waited at the car for my sister. As we were pulling out of the parking lot and into the street, three cop cars turned into the club and flashed their lights. We made it just in time... Barely...

Later on, I met up with nearly every single cook involved in the ruckus. Somehow they had managed to escape... They were blasted, pumped with adrenaline, and could talk of nothing except the brawl. They told me what started the whole thing and couldn't help but laugh. I'll spare you the details, but it involved a "stay away from my man" or two. Such idiots.

I ended up crashing on Jamie's couch that night. Nobody was in any condition to drive. The next day they drove me home so I could eat, rest, and recuperate.

The official Outback Christmas party is in six days. It's going to be at another dance club, this one called the Yellow Rose. I wonder what's going to happen there?

Sunday was glorious. When I got home, Maleea was making sauce and meatballs. The Heaning recipe for sauce is very old, and very, very good. It requires whole sausages, lots of garlic, and tons of parmesian cheese. The sauce has to simmer all day in order to soak up all the juices and flavor from the meat and spices. But when it's finished and ready to eat, you'll swear it's the best damn sauce you've ever tasted. It was handed down from my great-grandfather, Baba Viano, to my grandmother, Emily, who in turn taught it to my father, Bill, Jr. A few years ago Dad finally shared the secret with Maleea. Pretty soon I'll be entrusted with the recipe. And then I'll have the power.

Meatballs are a huge process, too. They require ground chuck, eggs, stale bread, a whole clove of garlic, salt, pepper, parsley, and an entire bottle of parmesian cheese. We cook them in a frying pan filled with vegetable oil. If your only experience with Italian meatballs is from Chef Boyardi, you don't know what you're missing. Here's a picture of me cooking up a batch...

Maleea also made artichokes. We stuff them full of diced garlic and cover them in oil and let them boil slowly on the stove for an hour or so. We eat them whole, from the leaves down to the heart, which is my favorite part (I think it's everyone's favorite part). I get some kinda weird kick out of pulling the layer of hair-like fibers off the heart... I don't know... It feels gross and makes a mess, but I like to do it. It reminds me of my childhood back in Cape Coral, Florida, eating Mamu's Italian dinners.

Later that evening she and Paige baked some chocolate chip cookies in the oven. They came out a little burnt, but that's how I like them.

I slept soundly Sunday night.

Yesterday was my Paige day. After Maleea got home, I spent the rest of the evening on the computer and reading. I finally went to sleep around midnight, and had another wonderful night of rest.

Thursday is Thanksgiving. The whole family's getting together at my grandparents' house in Bellbrook. My Uncle came up with the idea of taking a collection and sending a care package to some troops over in Iraq for the Holidays. I think it's a great idea... He wants us to find stuff that's useful and will remind them of home. I'm thinking about sending a bunch of old books there. Who knows? Some bored soldier may actually like the chance to get out of that war-torn desert for just a little while, if only in his mind.

Anyway, again, I've written too much. And talking about all this food is making me hungry! Time to see what I can rustle up in the kitchen...

11.21.2004 

Yeesh... Haven't updated in a while. Tons to talk about. I'll catch up tomorrow.

"For you it's / Good enough / For me / It's goooooood enough..."

I'm watching The Goonies right now. This f*ckin' movie RULES. At this point, it's even cooler than Star Wars (which is sayin' somethin'.) God, I LOVE this movie!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Buried Talent?

Something's been bothering me lately, and I'm not really sure how to deal with it.

All my life I've wanted to be a writer. Even at the wide-eyed, wonderous age of seven, I was coming up with tales about a little character I created, an "elfling" named Twon (who was basically Link from The Legend of Zelda). I used to spend hours drawing pictures of him vanquishing his foes with the flaming Sun Sword. At night I would write about a magical portal that brought him from his island home of Albagag to the Real World, where he and I could interact, play, and get into adventures.

Then I discovered Greek mythology in fourth grade via a poster on the wall vividly depicting several famous mythological monsters. When I asked my librarian, Miss Shevlin, if I could borrow some books on mythology, her eyes lit up, she clapped, and she made any number of strange ooo's and aaah's as she piled book after book into my little 9-year-old hands.

I took those books home and read them voraciously. Here I found a world not unlike my own imagined Isle of Albagag, full of heroes, monsters, gods, and supernatural wonder. I convinced my mom to buy me my own copy of Edith Hamilton's Mythology, which I read until it literally fell to pieces.

From mythology I discovered the Romantic tales of King Arthur, Robin Hood, and Ivanhoe. Then fantasy (I chose the Chronicles of Narnia and by-passed the Lord of the Rings entirely).

A year later, when I was in the fifth grade, Mom took me to go see Batman, with Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson, which blew away my 10-year-old mind. That same day at the gas station I bought a copy of The Green Hornet comic book, which happened to be the very first issue of that series. My obsession with comic books, Batman and the Green Hornet, in particular, began then, and it has continued to this day (although there were a few years in high school when I forgot all about comic books and focused on girls... literally).

All this time, I spent writing stories... mostly boyish fantasies about self-created superheroes, elves, knights, monster-slayers, etc.

In high school, I started reading Star Wars novels. The first couple of books were pretty good, but then they started popping up left and right, and the writing began to suck. Then I discovered Dracula, Anne Rice, Poppy Z. Brite, and the world of androdgynous Goth vampires. For a while I wrote a lot about vampires. I even wrote a stage play that ripped off the Bela Lugosi flick. Shortly before graduation, I saw the movie Desperado, and immediately wrote 25 pages of a screenplay called El Bandido, about a young Mexican drifter searching for his lost love while being chased by South American drug lords. It was full of bars, gun-fights, deserts, and lots and lots of cussing.

In college, my friend Claudine let me borrow her dog-eared copy of Jack Kerouac's On the Road, and that was the book that changed my life. I threw away the silliness of fantasy and focused entirely on writing true depictions of existence; raw, visceral, unedited. I began chronicalling the downtown adventures of my circle of friends: music shows, clubs, parties, camp-outs, drunken nights huddled in basements listening to music, smoking joints behind abandoned warehouses, dropping acid and walking the city streets just to observe people...

The rest of the Beats followed: Ginsberg, Burroughs, Corso, Snyder, Ferlinghetti, et al. My interest in entheogencs and their relationship with the human mind led me to Terence McKenna, Tom Wolf & The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, and Heaven & Hell by Aldous Huxley. Adam White sent me a copy of The Yage Letters by Burroughs and Ginsberg. Tales of telepathy, the collective unconscious, genetic memory, outer-body experiences, astral projection, transdimensional travel... these were fasincating books. They, too, influenced my writing.

While I was working at a bookstore in Florida, I mentioned to a customer that I enjoyed space opera. I flung that term around a lot in those days without knowing what it really included. An old man overheard me mention this, and asked me if I had ever read the Lensmen series, by E. E. "Doc" Smith. He told me, if I liked space opera, I'd love those books. So I looked them up and ordered the first two volumes. Again, just like when I discovered Kerouac and On the Road, I was hooked.

For three years I hunted down each of the six books that comprised the entire series. Two I bought from a bookstore. One I ordered on-line. Another my ex bought for me. The last, I stole from the Chattanooga public library (there are much worse things to steal...) And for those three years, I wrote a steady succession of space opera tripe that was all the worst of E. E. Smith's style, and none of the best. Still, I was convinced I had an epic tale of star-kings, space fleets, and futuristic heroes somewhere inside my head. I HAD to get it out.

This space opera obsession continues up to now; although I have been reading more literature, lately. Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson, and now, again, Kerouac (Lonesome Traveler).

But now something's happened. It's hard to explain, so I'll just put it blunty: I can't write anymore. At least, not like I used to. And this is where it gets confusing: I think it's because, well, again, to be blunt, I'm a chucharro, a potsmoker. I have to admit... I think I've finally smoked away my talent.

Sure, this stuff you're reading now, maybe it's well written, you can understand it. But when I sit down in front of the computer, or with a pen and paper, the words don't flow. The images don't appear. I'm stuck with a blank piece of paper (or a blank monitor)... which, to the eyes of an artist, just cries for something to fill it. To make matters worse, I'm driven by this desire to BE a writer, to LIVE the life of a writer. But again... what is the life of a writer, these days? Is it like what I read about in my books? Crazy parties, poetry readings, libidinous fans? Or is that just another one of my self-constructed fantasies?

Another aspect is that of my Christian faith. I can't honstly say I'm living the most pious life, but I honestly and earnestly believe that Jesus saved me when I prayed that Prayer so many years ago. Never once did my faith in God's existence or the role of Jesus in the salvation of mankind waver. So, now, almost a decade after becoming a Christian, I'm here, at this point in my life, and I feel like I've buried my talents. Just like that poor schmuck in the New Testament who took his talents and buried them under the ground to keep them safe. When the master returned, he was furious and took the man's talent away from him. And the man was left with zero. Is that man me? Is that what's happening?

If that's so... I have a serious struggle coming up.

Well, I haven't been paying attention to time... I have to get ready for work... There's more to this issue but I've already written waaaaaay too much... I'm amazed if you've even reached this part of the post... I figured everyone would give up after the fifth paragraph. Anyway... Till later...

U.S. Air Force Plans for Future War in Space

Well, it's about damn time!

From Space.com:

U.S. Air Force Plans for Future War in Space
By Leonard David
Senior Space Writer
posted: 10:00 am ET
22 February 2004

The U.S. Air Force has filed a futuristic flight plan, one that spells out need for an armada of space weaponry and technology for the near-term and in years to come.

Called the Transformation Flight Plan, the 176-page document offers a sweeping look at how best to expand America’s military space tool kit.

The use of space is highlighted throughout the report, with the document stating that space superiority combines the following three capabilities: protect space assets, deny adversaries’ access to space, and quickly launch vehicles and operate payloads into space to quickly replace space assets that fail or are damaged/destroyed.

From space global laser engagement, air launched anti-satellite missiles, to space-based radio frequency energy weapons and hypervelocity rod bundles heaved down to Earth from space – the U.S. Air Force flight plan portrays how valued space operations has become for the warfighter and in protecting the nation from chemical, biological, radiological, nuclear, and high explosive attack.

Now to far-term needs

A number of space-related transformational capabilities are described in the document. While some of these are seen as needed in the near-term (until 2010), others are described as mid-term efforts in 2010-2015, while some efforts are viewed as far-term, beyond 2015.

Among a roster of projected Air Force space projects:

Air-Launched Anti-Satellite Missile: Small air-launched missile capable of intercepting satellites in low Earth orbit and seen as a past 2015 development.
Counter Satellite Communications System: Provides the capability by 2010 to deny and disrupt an adversary's space-based communications and early warning.
Counter Surveillance and Reconnaissance System: A near-term program to deny, disrupt and degrade adversary space-based surveillance and reconnaissance systems.
Evolutionary Air and Space Global Laser Engagement (EAGLE) Airship Relay Mirrors: Significantly extends the range of both the Airborne Laser and Ground-Based Laser by using airborne, terrestrial or space-based lasers in conjunction with space-based relay mirrors to project different laser powers and frequencies to achieve a broad range of effects from illumination to destruction.
Ground-Based Laser: Propagates laser beams through the atmosphere to Low-Earth Orbit satellites to provide robust, post-2015 defensive and offensive space control capability.
Hypervelocity Rod Bundles: Provides the capability to strike ground targets anywhere in the world from space.
Orbital Deep Space Imager: A mid-term predictive, near-real time common operating picture of space to enable space control operations.
Orbital Transfer Vehicle: Significantly adds flexibility and protection of U.S. space hardware in post-2015 while enabling on-orbit servicing of those assets.
Rapid Attack Identification Detection and Reporting System: A family of systems that will provide near-term capability to automatically identify when a space system is under attack.
Space-Based Radio Frequency Energy Weapon: A far-term constellation of satellites containing high-power radio-frequency transmitters that possess the capability to disrupt/destroy/disable a wide variety of electronics and national-level command and control systems. It would typically be used as a non-kinetic anti-satellite weapon.
Space-Based Space Surveillance System: A near-term constellation of optical sensing satellites to track and identify space forces in deep space to enable offensive and defensive counterspace operations.
Rapid launch needs

The newly issued Air Force document makes the following point: "The U.S. space capability rests on the foundation of assured access." There is need to deploy, replenish, sustain, and redeploy space-based forces in minimum time to allow them to accomplish the missions assigned to them - through all phases of conflict.
In this regard, the Air Force is exploring various future system concepts to launch, operate, and maintain space assets responsively. These include the Air Launch System, a dedicated, weather avoiding, on-demand (within 48 hours) system that can rocket into the sky at a wide variety of trajectories and can loft a Space Maneuver Vehicle, Common Aero Vehicle, or a conventional payload.

As explained in the Air Force document, a Space Operations Vehicle (SOV) enables an on-demand spacelift capability with rapid turnaround. This SOV can be one of the vehicles that could deploy the Space Maneuver vehicle – a rapidly reusable orbital vehicle capable of executing a range of space control missions. In addition, the SOV can be utilized to deploy the Common Aero Vehicle, or CAV.

The CAV is an unpowered, maneuverable, hypersonic glide vehicle deployed in the 2010-2015 time period. The CAV could be delivered by a range of delivery vehicles such as an expendable or reusable small launch vehicle to a fully reusable Space Operations Vehicle. It can guide and dispense conventional weapons, sensors or other payloads world wide from and through space within one hour of tasking. It would be able to strike a spectrum of targets, including mobile targets, mobile time sensitive targets, strategic relocatable targets, or fixed hard and deeply buried targets. The CAV’s speed and maneuverability would combine to make defenses against it extremely difficult.

Directed energy beams

Given the growing number of nations that utilize space, Air Force strategists see that trend as worrisome.

"The ability to deny an adversary’s access to space services is essential so that future adversaries will be unable to exploit space in the same way the United States and its allies can. It will require full spectrum, sea, air, land, and space-based offensive counterspace systems capable of preventing unauthorized use of friendly space services and negating adversarial space capabilities from low Earth up to geosynchronous orbits.

The focus, when practical, will be on denying adversary access to space on a temporary and reversible basis," the document states.

Air Force scientists and technologists are busy in the labs exploring the possibility of putting a warning energy "spot" on any target worldwide that could be rapidly followed with varying levels of effects.

A possible breakthrough, the document adds, deals with a solid-state directed energy beam systems, operating at 100-kilowatt levels. "If the generation of large quantities of heat could be managed, the Air Force could develop highly effective, cheap, high power energy weapons."

For example, Air Force researchers are looking at ways to collect or generate large quantities of energy on orbit in order to rely on space-based platforms for more missions and provide a greater degree of true global presence. "This would change many equations about traditional ideas of rapid response," the document explains.

Sensor-to-shooter

The report emphasizes that space capabilities are integral to modern war fighting forces, providing critical surveillance and reconnaissance information, especially over areas of high risk or denied access for airborne craft.

Space capabilities also provide weather and other Earth observation data, global communications, precision position, navigation, and timing to troops on the ground, ships at sea, aircraft in flight, and weapons en route to targets.

Space assets are critical to achieving information superiority as they enable predictive and dominant battlespace awareness. As a result there can be a reduction in the "sensor-to-shooter" cycle to minutes or even seconds, the document explains.

Real-time picture of the battlespace would involve an initial space-based Ground Moving Target Indicator capability.

This capacity provides U.S. global strike forces with the ability to identify and track moving targets anywhere on the surface of the Earth. Also desirable is the ability to detect, locate, identify, and track a wide range of strategic and tactical targets that the United States currently has minimal capability to detect. These include weapons of mass destruction, hidden targets, and air moving targets.

A real-time picture of the battlespace enables a commander to know where all friendly forces are, not only to better coordinate operations and avoid fratricide -- accidentally injuring or killing your own troops.

Roadmap to the future

In a February 17 press statement issued from the office of the Secretary of the Air Force, the public document on Air Force transformation is described as "a roadmap to the future".

The Air Force flight plan is a reporting document that enables the Secretary of Defense to evaluate and interpret the Air Force's progress toward transformation.

"Transformation is using new things and old things in new ways, and achieving truly transformational effects for the joint warfighter," said Lt. Gen. Duncan McNabb, Air Force director of plans and programs.

The newly issued, publicly releasable report is the one unclassified document that presents an overarching picture of Air Force transformation, added Lt. Col. James McCaw, from the plans and programs directorate's transformation branch.

"It will help the reader understand where the Air Force is going, and why we chose this path," McCaw concluded.

Missiles, orbit-to-surface kinetic-killers, space vehicles, "directed energy beams"... this is starting to sound like something out of my pulp space opera stories...

By 2050, I'll be 71 years old. I want to see some damn rocket-packs and robot servents before I die!

Still, this is the kinda space/tech news I live for.

More nukes, less government! Nuke the unborn baby whales!

Us Poor Dudes

Currently listening to: "Disintegration" by the Cure
Currently reading: "The Shadow: The Mobsmen on the Spot" by Maxwell Grant
Current mood: restless, lonesome, and maybe a pinch bitter

Tonight at work, my last table (last tables almost always have issues) were arguing. It was a couple, and the woman was obviously the one who was upset. She kept raising her voice, loud enough for other tables to hear her. I saw the man shrink ever so slowly into the booth... He was quiet, didn't say a word, and let her speak. But in his mind I could see the true picture: he was throttling her neck and screaming at the top of his lungs for making a scene in public. At once point, as I walked up to refill her tea, I heard her say, "...And that's why you and I are never going to have children."

I winced. I wasn't even a part of the conversation but even I felt the icy stab of that statement. As I walked back into the kitchen, I had to fight down the urge to turn around and tell that guy, "Get the hell out of here, man. Go, now! GO! ESCAPE! I'll keep her busy..."

He finished his steak, and I took away his dirty plate. Fifteen minutes later, the woman's steak was still untouched. She was too busy destroying this man's world to bother with eating a $12.00 sirloin (which he paid for, btw).

Later on, as I cleaned my tables, I couldn't help but listen to the foul harpy shred this man's ego, his manhood, his maturity, his career, his cleanliness, everything. She kept repeating, "I need my space. I have to have my own apartment. I don't want to worry about something getting smashed or broken or lost. I need to have my space." The guy never said a word in his defense. Like any sane male in that situation, he kept his mouth shut. In that kind of argument, a woman isn't looking for the man's perspective on the situation; she's venting. She's chewin' him out. She's bitching. Let her get it out of her system before even attempting a rebuttal. The guy was smart.

There was a moment of silence, and a few minutes later I noticed her empty plate. As I went to take it away and present the check, she looked up at me and asked, "Tell me something, are you good with tools?" I have to admit, a dozen inappropriate responses came to mind, but she was with her boyfriend, so I replied with, "No, I'm an English Lit major, I don't do physical labor." As they laughed at the bad joke, I saw my window of opportunity and walked away. When I returned, she wasn't at the table. It was just the guy. There was money on the check. As I went to pick it up, I told him I'd be right back with change. He said to keep it. There was an eight dollar tip. The bill was over forty dollars.

That argument set that poor fella back fifty clams.

Anyway...

I've been feeling kinda irritable lately. I don't know... I'll be honest. This has been the longest time I've ever gone without talking to my ex-girlfriend. I had serious issues getting over her (ah, hell, admit it, Billy, you still have issues). I've made a little progress... those stabbing pangs in the pit of my stomach have ceased, and I can go almost the entire day without thinking about her.

But every once in a while, when I see something that triggers a memory of her, I feel my pulse quicken and a sharp bolt of mixed emotions passes through me. Almost anything can do this: an outfit, long blond hair, a voice, a smell, a commercial, the way a girl moves, a song, a book, movies, even paintings... I have absolutely no desire to talk to her... What we had was good while it lasted, but it's over now, and that's that. Still, I'm hounded by a thousand imagined jealousies... and a deep sense of bitterness and resentment towards her. And towards girls in general.

This bitterness scares me. I can't say I'm not jaded; I've certainly lost the drive, exuberance, and tenacity of youth, but I'm not quite defeated. I still feel passion for some things. A lot of things, actually. How I'll ever channel these desires, or if I'll even achieve them, I have no clue.

My biggest issue is this: what is it about me, what condition do I have, that makes me want a girlfriend so bad? I'm happy with who I am; I feel like I've got my life pretty well defined. I've got a lot to do to get to where I want to be, but I'm getting there. Right now, at this point in my life, I may not be able to support a wife and family financially... but a girlfriend? Why not a girlfriend? It's not like I'm looking for a soul-mate... At least, not right now... Just a companion, someone who shares a mutual attraction, a girl I can spend time with, whose company and affection I can enjoy, with nothing to worry about except what's happening right now. Is that too much to ask? Obviously so...

My second biggest issue is this: what is it about me, what condition do I have, that makes girls NOT want to date me? I'm not about to list all of my good personality traits; I think I'll spare you that. But it blows my mind, every time I hear about girls who insist on staying in wacked-out, stress-filled relationships with jack-ass boyfriends; or I stand with dropped-jaw whenever I see a relatively nice, innocent, decent girl fall for a guy who is obviously either A) a player, B) a notorious flirt, or C) a cheater.

I like what a stand-up comic said on Comedy Central one day; I can't really remember the joke, so I'll paraphrase it. It goes something like this: A lady friend always will tell you how awesome, kind, caring, thoughtful, and sweet you are; they'll constantly tell you how lucky you'll make some girl, and what a great boyfriend you'd be. And yet they ALWAYS turn around and choose the biggest asshole they can find. The one guy who'll treat 'em like crap, walk all over them, use them, cheat on them, lie to them, hit them, whatever. But for some reason, they still want your number so they can call you and complain about how horrible their boyfriend is to them.

Man, do I sound pathetic.

I don't think I'll mention this blog to the next girl I date.

P.S. Don't ever listen to The Cure when you're even slightly depressed...

11.2004 

The Radio Fix

I finally got ahold of my old friend Adam Newport last night via AIM. I got his screenname from Chad Hughes, a mutual friend, and we talked for about half an hour catching up. Adam and I used to have English class and lunch period together our junior and senior years of high school. We both fawned over the same girl, Michelle Valentine Boling, who used to represent (to us, at least) the pinnacle of beauty, grace, and femininity. (Luckily I got to star with Michelle AND Keisha Boyd, another hottie, in our junior-year play, Gammer Gurton's Needle...)

Anyway, Adam used to play bass in the first Rhea County High School rock band to invade downtown Chattanooga, The Sullivans. Dave Phillips, the son of a bible college philosophy professor and my perennial nemesis when it came to women, sang and played acoustic guitar; my good friend, Jim Barnett, played electric guitar; and Jamie Smith, the captain of the drum squad, played, appropriately enough, drums. The Sullivans were heavily influenced by bands like The Smiths, New Order, Lush, Suede, Starflyer 59, etc. Kinda pseudo-Brit shoegazer rock. Adam Newport and I helped organize their last show ever at the Bryan College chapel, Rudd Auditorium, in Dayton, Tennessee. It was a benefit show for the Women's Care Center (a non-profit pro-life organization in Dayton, where confused or troubled pregnant women could receive Christian aid and counseling.) The five of us even appeared on the Dayton radio station to promote the event. We were able to convince a few other bands to show up, namely Title One and Annie. I had to give a speech about the perils of premarital sex during the intermission... I was never afraid to speak in front of the public before, but something told me I shouldn't have been the one up on stage talking...

But anyway... Adam's been in a succession of pretty talented bands since then: Limousine, fronted by Miss Tennessee, 1997; Yellow No. 5; Squiggly Line and Ball; and now The Radio Fix. You can listen to one of there songs here. Right now the current line up is Adam Newport, Michael Gordon, Glen Hentz, and Nathan Zensen. All old friends from high school. Listen to their song and tell me what you think. I'm sure they'd love the feedback. And if you're in the 423 area, they're playing a show at the Lion's Den at Bryan College on November 19th. Go check 'em out.

Party Time Excellent

I was supposed to go see The Incredibles yesterday with my friend Liz, but that fell through, as usual. People are so busy these days, they're always doing something. Or maybe I have too much free time, but it still feels like it's easier to just go to the movies alone instead of coordinating a break in someone's schedule. Not having a car makes it a little difficult, too... But that's a past entry.

The last movie I got to see was my favorite of the year: Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. Jude Law, Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Giovanni Ribisi... Excellent cast, and a brilliant concept delivered superbly. A lot of people decried all the extense green screen use, but I thought the movie was absolutely gorgeous. Of course, I went to see it alone; not because I didn't have anyone to go with, but because that's the kind of movie I'd enjoy more by myself. I'm a huge fan of pulp sci-fi, especially the old Golden Age magazines Amazing Stories and Astounding Science Fiction, so I didn't want anyone nagging me during the film to explain the plot. Spider-Man 2 is a close second.

But I haven't seen Team America, yet, and I wanted to see it really bad. I missed Chronicles of Riddick in the theaters, too, but it comes out on DVD tomorrow, so I'm definitely renting it.

I rented Van Helsing the other day and forced myself to watch it all the way through to the ending. That movie sucked something awful. I couldn't believe ILM, the same fx studio that made the new Star Wars movies, were responsible for this loathsome piece of crap. It only adds to my suspicions that there's top-tiers and lower-tiers at ILM: the top-tiers of computer artist geeks only get to work on Geroge Lucas and Steven Spielburg films. The lower-tier geeks get all the other projects. I think the lowest of the lower-tier got stuck with Van Helsing. I can't believe I spent 2 dollars and 2 hours of my time to rape my eyes watching that piece of shit film. And to think they're making a sequel... I think all the Xanax and anti-depressants have finally turned everyone in Hollywood into zombies.

Not much going on this week. My friend Carl's graduation party is on Saturday... tons of people from Outback are going, and I can feel a sort of giddy anticipation rising as the weekend approaches. I haven't had a chance to really get crazy with the gang since our night at the Yellow Rise (I danced with no shoes the entire night -- they were flip-flops and they kept falling off -- I rode the mechanical bull -- twice -- I woke up the next day sore as hell.) That was months ago. The graduation party's going to be at the Gin Mill, formerly Wallaby's, off Fairfield Road, which isn't too far from home... but I doubt I'll be driving anywhere that night, car or no car... I told Carl to make sure the bar's stocked with at least one bottle of Jack solely for me. I'll sufficiently compensate the bartender.

If there's a DJ I'm bringing my CDs. I'm not listening to remixed Britney Spears or Jay-Z. If Carl's the host, he should be in charge of the tunes, and I'm going to demand the DJ play a few songs from my own collection. Here's the list I'm thinking about:

1) anything by Bobby Brown
2) 'I Want Your Sex' and maybe 'Father Figure', by George Michael
3) 'Supersonic' by JJ Fadd
4) 'Buffallo Stance' by Ninah Cherry
5) 'Freak Me' by Silkk
6) 'Sexual Healing' by Marvin Gaye
7) 'Get Off' by Prince

Seven or eight songs through the course of the night isn't TOO much, right? And besides, I'm kickin' it sexy and old school. It'll get 'em all sweaty.

Maybe I'll bring a camera and post pictures of the party here on the blog. Check back... those .1 or .2 of you who actually get lost and find their way here.

I can't wait.

You could land a helicopter on my bald head.  

Paigey and her mommy, Maleea 

Notice the bow on that poor, poor animal. 

My friend Tanisha and her spoiled-rotten foofoo, Isabel. 

Paige and her Baba 

Paigey and her Unky Billy (hug the child with one hand while keeping a firm grip on the wine with the other.) 

You like-a da sauce?  

Why don't you try some of Billy's meatballs? They're sheer delight in your mouth. 

The Girl from Spain

Tonight at work my last table came in around 8:30, and as I watched the hostess seat me, I counted four grey heads following her. Excellent, I thought. Old people... What are they doing out this late at night? They almost always go home before dark.

As I approached the table I noticed a fifth head I hadn't seen earlier. It was a young woman, about my age, with shoulder-length blonde hair, a soft pink complexion, and large, round, though not unattractive, eyes.

As a server, I see a lot of beautiful women come and go. Usually they're with men. Sometimes they're with their friends. Very, very rarely do I ever see an attractive woman sitting at a table alone. The girl at the table was definitely attractive, but she wasn't gorgeous, or "hot".

All that changed the moment she and her family started talking. They had the most charming European accents, and they spoke in some foreign language I couldn't recognize. At first I thought they were speaking French, then Italian; but finally one of the older ladies mentioned they came all the way over from Spain.

So I had a Spanish girl at my table. From that moment on, I couldn't help but stare at her. I disregarding being polite, and bore into her with my eyes. I wasn't looking at anything naughty, because she was sitting down... No, I was trying valiantly to make eye contact with her but she never held it long enough for me to send that telepathic "zap" of mojo.

For the next forty-five minutes, I fantasized about what life would be like living with her in a villa on the coast of Spain. Lounging around on beach chairs, sipping wine, smoking cigarettes, listening to jazz or Portishead or Morcheeba, reading good books and writing little love poems.

She got up to smoke a cigarette at the bar and I got a chance to really check her out. She was wearing tan corderoy pants and a dark brown sweater made of a light material that hung down over her shoulders. She had a gorgeous body, trim, yet curvy in all the right places. She sat lazily in her barstool and puffed on her cigarette. She didn't say anything to anybody. I wanted to approach her but couldn't think of what to say. "Hi, I'm Billy, I live in Ohio. I think you're hot and sexy because you're from Spain." If anything, it would have ruined the fantasy, and I liked the fantasy. She was probably bored out of mind anyway. What's a poor girl from Spain doing at Outback Steakhouse in Centerville, Ohio? She should be out sailboating off the coast, or smoking cigarettes and drinking rum and cokes in some hazy, dimly-lit club.

She finished her cigarette and sat back down at her table. Shortly after that, they paid their bill and left. They tipped me $17.

I wanted to follow her out the front entrance, grab her arms and swing her into a passionate kiss, like the ones you see in Hollywood movies. Show her that not all American boys are dull boring football jocks who spend all their time drinking beer and playing video games. There are some American boys full of passion, excitement, and a pinch of danger... God, how cheesy... But we're overcompensated with modesty.

Ah, my girl from Spain...

Donate to the HBGL Fund

I'm getting restless.

Mom's taking me to Wal-Mart on Monday to fill out an application. I cringe at the thought of working there, but I need a lot of money in a very short period of time, and loans are out of the question. Hopefully I can work at Wal-Mart and collect paychecks while waiting tables at Outback to pay the bills.

There's really no other choice. I need a second job, and when you live in a small Midwestern town and you don't have a car, there aren't many options.

As soon as I have my driver's license in my hand, I'll quit my second job and go back to Outback full time. I really like it there. And then, after that, it's back to school (thank God), and back into the social scene. This staying at home shit is driving me up the wall. Maybe a road trip to D.C. to visit Adam. Or a flight out to L.A. to visit Claudine. Someplace new and far away.

If you're a member of the idle rich and you're reading this, feel free to donate five or six hundred dollars to the Help Billy Get a Life Fund.

My Wheels Are Gone Blues

In February of 2003, I got into a car accident; as I was crossing traffic, a car, obscurbed by the sun, T-boned me at about 35 mph. I did a couple of 360's and wound up in the median. I hit my head against the window and rubbed off a good chunk of skin. Other than that I was okay.

My car was totaled, though, and I could tell from a cursory glance that the other car was history, too. The airbags were deployed, and through the thick cloud of airbag powder, I could see the head of a confused and dazed old lady wobbling around inside. Ah, God, I thought... Not an elderly person. Anything but an elderly person. I walked across the street to talk to her, but I don't remember what I said. What do you say to a person after you've just rammed cars? As I approached her car, I noticed a big brass "L" on the crumpled hood. Was that "L"... for... Lexus? A Lexus?! Oh, sweet Jesus. A LEXUS?!?!

A black clawed hand gripped my heart and squeezed. I suddenly remembered my insurance had just lapsed a little over a week ago. I had no insurance. In Tennessee, if you're involved in an accident without insurance, you're automatically at fault.

There was a brief impulse to run, to just run home (it was only about five blocks away, where most wrecks occur). But two men had already stopped and were calling the police on their cell phone. They were rednecks, but they were well-meaning. They seemed to take a lot of enjoyment in studying the wrecks, noticing the zones of impact and remarking on the damage. "Ya'll musta been goin' over the speed limit fer this kinda damage ta be done." I shrugged. I wasn't the one going over the speed limit. I was pulling out of a gas station... I could only have been going 15 MPH at the most.

It took about half an hour, but the cop finally showed up. He seemed disinterested in the whole thing, like he was ready to just hurry up, write the ticket, and leave. I could see his eyes droop defeatedly when I quietly mentioned I had no insurance. Nothing's ever easy, I guess, especially for cops. Oh, well. I was the one about to be royally screwed, without K-Y. What's a few more minutes added on to his workday?

The old lady and I sat in our cars and waited for the cop to finish writing his ticket. The lady was in the clear. I was crossing traffic and I had no insurance. I was obviously at fault. I cursed my luck, cursed my day, cursed my future. A Lexus. Totalled. No insurance. Visions of lawsuits and lawyers loomed ahead.

As I was in the middle of cursing my existence, I recognized my friend Jerre's SUV drive by. It was him and his girlfriend. They slowed down to check out the wreck, noticed it was me, and pulled over into the gas station. I ran across the street. Jerre rolled down his window, and I could see his big ugly smile with his ugly blue tooth. "Damn, man. Having a bad day?" I nodded and explained the incident to him. He shook his head in sympathy. I told him, "I just want to get home, hit my bong, and forget about everything." Jerre reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pill bottle. "Here, take a few Xanax, they'll help you calm down." Aware of the officer only fifty feet away, I sneakily swallowed the two pills and took a swig of his Sprite. "We were on our way home, but we can wait with you until the wrecker gets here." It was a little cold, so I walked over to my car, gathered a few of my scattered things, and waited in Jerre's SUV until the wrecker arrived.

I had him tow the Buick back to my place, where it sat in my driveway for a good three or four months. Whenever it rained, the car would flood with water. When I finally got rid of it, there was about four inches of rain water covering the floorboard and in the crevises of the seats. It was full of dead leaves, twigs, and muck. But that day I just sat there on my couch, reading my new Batman comic books, pretty much zoned out on nerve pills. The Flying Fallini's in my stomach had finally taken a rest, and I pondered the coming doom ahead.

That was a cold, evil winter. I had to walk the mile back and forth to work in the razor-blade wind. I didn't actually mind the walk too much... I had been doing a lot of walking after the wreck (I even hiked three and a half miles across the suburban neighborhoods on top of Lookout Mountain). It was the lawsuit looming over the horizon that chilled my blood more than the cold. I owed $13,330. Thirteen thousand dollars. THIRTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. I ended up meeting with a collection agency representative, and we agreed on an out-of-court settlement of bi-weekly payments of $50. That's a hundred dollars a month. Do the math: that's $100 a month, for 303 months, which means I'll still be paying on this debt 25 and 1/4 years from now. I'll be FIFTY YEARS OLD, and the old lady will be LONG DEAD. I pray a meteor will fall from heaven and level that damn collection agency's building.

Flash forward almost two years later. I'm living in Xenia, and I go to get my Ohio driver's license. The lady behind the counter tells me my Tennessee license is revoked. Revoked?! What a surprise. I hadn't paid a single dime to that collection agency for over 24 months. Of course they were going to penalize me.

I continued to drive without a license for about six months before my mom totally freaked out and forbade me to drive. She insisted on driving me to work, which I didn't mind at all. When she dropped me off at home I simply hopped into my car and did my business then. But then her car's rear brakes went out, and she told me she needed to use my car until she could get her's fixed. And that's when the suckness began to set in.

I have no license, and no car. Therefore, I have no life. Have you ever tried laying your mack down when you don't have wheels to back you up? It's why they invented the word "pointless". Have you ever met a girl who willingly went out on a date with a guy who had to have his mom drop him off? If you have, introduce me...

In order to get my license back, I have to send the collection agency $600. Then he'll send a piece of paper asking the insurance company to send the Tennessee Bureau of Safety a release from contract stating they can re-instate my license. Not only that, I have to send $190 to the Tenn Bureau of Safety just to process the damn thing. So I need about $800 dollars just to get the ball rolling.

Plus utility bills, cell phone bills, grocery bills, rent...

Sometimes I just feel like changing my name to Raoul and making a run for Mexico or Brazil.

It's been almost two months and I haven't had my car. If I want smokes or a beer, I have to walk to the store in the freezing Ohio cold. I don't know if you've ever seen an Ohio winter, but it's ugly as sin: bleak gray skies, icy rain, fierce, slicing wind... Pretty amazing what a smoker will go through in order to get his nic-fix.

I can't drive to my favorite get-away, a little hippy town called Yellow Springs, about ten minutes south of here. Home to Antioch College, a liberal arts school with hundreds of creative writing and graphic arts co-eds. Hot, artsy chicks. You can't get any better than that. But it's all denied me... That ten minute drive has become an ocean... all because of one stupid jack-ass mistake I made two years ago...

I actually enjoy going to work now because it gets me out of the house. All I do these days is sit at home and read. I must've read at least 15 books in the past 8 weeks. Not that that's a bad thing, but I'd much rather be OUTSIDE than stuck in a house all by myself with nothing but a book and a television to keep me company.

At least I get to update this meaningless blog frequently.

Oh, well. It'll take some time, maybe a quicky second job at Wal-Mart, the Beelzebub of affordable retail. But in the end, anything is worth getting my wheels back. Anything.

Adam White. Notice the wallpaper. Recognize the face? 

Stories for Gerard Hospice

I talked to my best friend Adam last night. We were roomies in our very first apartment back in '98. While I smoked pot and waited tables (which has continued, to this very day), Adam finished college with an art degree and now attends graduate school in D.C. But there's no jealousy or resentment there, just a profound sense of "what did I do with these past seven years?" I couldn't be more happy or excited for him.

Adam has always been my springboard, the guy I bounce ideas off of. He always seems to bring out the aspiring writer in me. He's an artist, too, naturally... a real artist, a painter, graphic designer, whatever. He deals in the abstract. He ran a piece at my previous landlord's gallery in downtown Chattanooga, AVA, or Association of Visual Artists, and sold it for quite a chunk of change. Two other friends of mine had some of their work displayed at the AVA gallery. Living right next door to the director didn't hurt; most of the people I ran with at that time were artists of some type, and a few were painters. Introducing them seemed to be a logical step.

Talking to Adam gets me in the mood to write. We both share the same interests in authors. I introduced him to Kerouac, he introduced me to Bukowski. Whitman, H.G. Wells, Robert Louis Stevenson, David Sedaris, et al. There's more but I won't drop names. While we had our apartment on Lee Highway, I spent a lot of nights writing poetry... not love poems or giddy rhymes, just broken verse. Phrases and words popped into my mind, and I wrote them down. Sometimes they made sense. Sometimes they were utter crap. But I attribute the surge of creativity to my surroundings at that time. I wrote a few more poems when I moved to Florida in late '98, but I stopped shortly thereafter. Florida crushed me, ground me into a pulp, and shred me to pieces. I felt the cold, wet shadow of death in Florida. But that's a whole other story, and I won't go there right now...

I decided to finally write a story. I don't want to call it a novel, because it's not that ambitious. I'm blessed/cursed with this strange memory... I don't know where I got it, or how it developed, but I can sit down, close my eyes, think back to my very first conscious memory and work my way forward from there. I don't remember dates, but I remember details... weird little details that nobody else would or could even recall. I break these memories into huge chunks, or segments, that are chronologically-ordered by outside events that occured at the same time: a movie, a song, a dance craze, a fashion trend, a school year, a summer vacation, a girlfriend.

I decided to go back to May of 1998, when I first lost my virginity at the age of 18, and retrace my steps to today. I'm going to write about my past girlfriends. No one, and I mean no one, will be left out. Like I said, I'm cursed with this elephant-like memory, and I can pick and choose up to six years of private history. It won't be a story about sleeping with chicks, though, don't get me wrong. As I said before, I tend to use ex-girlfriends as a way to recall other events that occured while I dated them. So it'll be a story about life, as I saw it then, and see it now. (How pretentious!) I don't know if this is an act of revenge, or catharsis, or if it's just an experiment in memory-recall, but I'm going to do it. And I'm going to send each chapter to Adam for criticism and editing. He's the only man I can trust, the only man who knows all of my dirty little secrets. There's nothing I can write and that he can read that'll shock him.

So now I have a project. One that doesn't involve zap guns, rocketships, and robots. Literature! A real story! It's been a long, long time...

P.S. Gerard Hospice is Adam's "alter ego" in my fiction. All of my friends have different names when I write about them. It's to avoid libel. ;-)

Bush is Back

So we re-elected Bush.

I'm not upset about it. I'll be honest, I voted for Kerry. But when it all comes down I return to my Christian roots: God is in control. The man who won is the man God intended to be president. What? Don't agree with me? Okay.

I'm pretty drunk so I really don't have much to talk about right now. I'll have to wait until tomorrow to come up with an inspired, interesting post.

("How does he type so well when he's drunk?" you ask? Simple: I'm anal-retentive. I'm a writer. Even drunk, a writer's aware of his words. I don't want to come across looking or sounding like a mongoloid. Thank God for the delete and backspace keys.)

Restaurant Etiquette

I'm a server for Outback Steakhouse. I like it there, it's fun. My co-workers are great and I really enjoy what I do.

But every server will tell you, there are some things that grate on our nerves more than other things.

Here are my pet peeves as a server:

1) ignoring the server. Do you know how many times I've approached a table, introduced myself, delivered my spiel, and offered an appetizer, only to hear crickets chirping in response? I'm squatting there, at eye level, and all everybody's doing is looking at their menus. Silence. I repeat myself politely. "Would you care for an appetizer? Or maybe a draft beer or margarita from the bar?" Still, silence... "Coke? Tea? Water with lemon?" Still, nothing. And it continues throughout the dining experience. When I bring out the food and ask everybody how it looks and I still get silence, it's like, Ok, assholes. If you're going to act like I'm not even there, I'll act like you're not even there. And so they get shitty service. I'm a human being, treat me like one. I'm serving you. I'm performing a service for you. I'm not a slave. If you act like I'm beneath you simply because I'm taking your order and turning it in to a kitchen, then I'll make sure you get the absolute bare minimum of service possible from me. Treat me with an ounce of respect and I'll take care of you like you were the Godfather. Petty, I know, but it all hinges on respect.

2) interrupting your server. Case in point: I approach a table. "Hi, thanks for coming to Outback. My name's Billy, I'll be your server toda--"
"Unsweet tea, diet coke, and a blooming onion."
If I get interrupted like that, I completely ignore the person and finish my introduction. I offer them drinks from the bar and suggest a blooming onion or some coconut shrimp. I already know what they want, but damn, do NOT interrupt a man when he's introducing himself to you. Even if it's part of his job. Decency, decency.

3) drinking your drink too fast. ARGH! This one drives me absolutely nuts. There's no reason, no reason whatsoever, for a single person to drink 9 unsweet teas in the space of thirty-five minutes. NO REASON. We're in Ohio, man. The highest daily temperature average is 55 degrees! Are you really that thirsty? The same goes with kids. PARENTS: If you're at a restaurant and your 8-year-old is sucking down his drinks without stopping to take a breath, TAKE HIS DRINK AWAY FROM HIM. ARGH! I can already feel the blood vessels popping...

4) talking on your cell phone when the server approaches you to take your order. It's simple, people. You came to the restaurant to eat, not to talk on the phone. If you DO need to talk on the phone, wait until AFTER you've ordered your meal before talking. Oherwise wait until after the food has come out. While you're sitting there chit-chatting with Aunt Tilly about what you're taking to the Pot Luck on Sunday, I'm waiting for you to order. It's not like I don't have two other tables of people who need my attention...

Not tipping, or not tipping enough, is bad. But the above? Nothing is more irritating.

Someone Stole My Book

Remember how I said I was going to go back to Edmond Hamilton's Return to the Stars after I finished reading Charles Bukowski's Women? Well... I lied... I started Hunter S. Thompson's first novel, The Rum Diary last night.

My last conscious memory of the book was it sitting on top of my bedside table. Now it's gone. I've searched this entire house, my bedroom, the bathroom, my neice's room, the living room, the dining room, underneath the couches, the recliner, the closet, even the damn trash. I've scoured the basement. Still no sign of Rum Diary.

It's gone.

I haven't been able to leave the house much because my mom has my car (her's broke down). So I know I didn't take it anywhere. There are only two other places I could've placed it: underneath the table next to the recliner, in the living room, or on my desk down here in the basement. But it's not there. It's not here. It's not in my bedroom.

Twenty minutes ago I was cursing like a longshoreman with Tourette's because I couldn't find my copy of the book. I've managed to calm down, but right now the only thing I can think of is where the hell did my book go?

I Voted Today

I even got my little sticker.

It's funny... it took about 2 minutes. The first page was a list of the current incumbent and his major opposition. There were a few names I didn't recognize, parties I'd never even heard of before. How little informed I truly am. I noticed Ralph Nader's name and the Green Party were blanked out with a white sticker. Did he drop out? I toyed with the thought of voting for him in 2000, but I'm glad I didn't. Everyone told me I would've been voting for Bush. Not that I enjoy hearing people tell me my vote doesn't count, but I can follow the logic.

I just moved to Ohio in February of '04, so I have no clue who any of the people were that I voted for. I just picked the democratic candidate when there was a choice, and then I picked the woman if there was a female candidate. I don't know why. I just have this image of stuffy old white Puritan men as politicians. Women are soft, warm, cuddly, and they smell good. They can be bitches sometimes, but men can be even bigger assholes, so it's about even. A lot of people running for the school board or county positions were unchallenged. There wasn't even a choice, so I just poked the little hole beside their names.

I can't say I fully understand why I voted the way I did. I feel like I'm not sufficiently versed in either of their platforms, or where they stand on certain issues. I tried to follow as closely as possible, but in the end I voted the way most Ohio educators are going to vote (supposedly): for the candidate with the best educational policies and reforms. Terrorism, the war on Iraq, the economy, all of these things are important to all of us as a whole, but I don't agree with Bush on some of the issues. But hey, that's the beauty of a democratic society: it doesn't matter who you vote for -- that's your choice. What does matter is that you actually get out there and vote. Otherwise you have no right to complain when shit hits the fan.

Kyle and Cartman put it best: in the end, it always comes down to a choice between a giant douchebag, or a turd sandwich. Take your pick.

Well, I finished Bukowski's Women. There really wasn't a plot... More like a string of vignettes. One weird, twisted, sex-fueled relationship after another, with random and frequent asides with strangers and friends, both single and married.

In the novel, Chinaski (Bukowski) rationalizes his behavior as research... he was "studying" women. But the type of women he analyzed... I've never met any quite like that. Well... maybe one, or two... but none were really that weird or insane. Although there was this one girl, we'll call her Laura, who answered her door once wearing her white debutante's gown. She shashayed around in that dress all night long. When I asked her why she was wearing it she said, "Because it's a really expensive dress, and I think I look sexy in it, and I never get to wear it. So I thought I'd wear it tonight." She didn't know I was coming over.

But anyway... Bukowski's writing is brutally honest. Here's what a typical paragraph from Women sounds like: "I woke up and wandered into the kitchen. The light from the windows hurt my eyes. There was a warm beer still on the counter. I opened the cap and took a drink. I vomited into the sink. I went upstairs and took a shit, shaved, and brushed my teeth. I picked up the phone to call Sara."

So imagine you're "Sara", right, and you've got this image in your head of a famous writer and poet, and he promises to write about you and make you live forever. Then you read the book, recognize yourself in it, and in the scene, right before he calls you, he takes a dump. In his dirty bathroom. Gross. But honest.

In real life, Bukowski was an alcoholic misanthrope with gambling and sex addictions. He enjoyed a certain level of poverty, maybe a form of personal asceticism, I'm not sure. He accepted a lower standard of living as his own. He liked booze. And sex. His said his girlfriends always boiled their arguments down to that: either it's the bottle or it's the sex. You can't have both. Problem was, he wanted both. Chinaski finally sees the horror of his existence and comes to grips with it. In the second to last chapter he turns down a fan offering sex. The first time in the entire book. "Finally, I did it--this time."

I liked it. I give it 4 out of 5 stars.