Athiests always seem to end up praying on their death-beds...

Here are some pretty interesting religious threads I've started at Rob Kamphausen's Message Boards.

Athiests always seem to end up praying on their death-beds...

and

"Why is it unfashionable to be a Christian these days?"

Only two days and already I've managed to rile up 130+ replies.

By the way, if you decide to check the threads out, my screenname there is Nonoxynol9.

Yeah, that's right. Nonoxynol9.

P.S. If you're not quite sure what a "message board" is, it's a place where nerds like me go to socialize on-line with other nerds and discuss important topics. Heh heh. Snort.

Sigh.....

Without Love

Christmas time and I wonder where you are. I miss you...

Without love
I am half human
Without love
I'm all machine

Without love
There's nothin' doin'
I will die
Without love

Without love
I am an island
All by myself
In a heart-break scene

Without love
There's no denyin'
I am dyin'
Without love

For there is nowhere I can run
And there is no hiding place
Stickin' out like a sore thumb
By the gloomy look upon my face

Without love
I'm incomplete
Without love
I am not whole
Without love
I'm barely on my feet

I am dying without love.

- Johnny Cash, Without Love

Who dey say gonna beat dem Giants?!

Well, it's the day after Christmas and a fresh half-inch of snow has fallen again.

This has been the most snow I've ever seen in my entire life. We're tromping around out here in five degree weather, no kidding. Me and my little brother, Shawn, spent about 8 minutes outside setting off some bottlerockets and firecrackers I had left over from last year's birthday, but it was too cold to really enjoy it.

Now Dad's bringing us to Cincinatti today to see the Bengals play the NY Giants. Dad doesn't care if it's 8 degrees and we have icecicles dangling from our noses; he doesn't care if the Giants are losing 0 to 40... he's going to sing his chants and enjoy this game. And, you know, so will I.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

I just spent 25 minutes writing a beautiful holiday blog and I lost it all with a single keystroke. Needless to say, Merry Christmas to all.... And to all a goodnight. More to come... (I promise)...

I Am a Pretty Little Dutch Girl

Reporting live from Peaches

My Fada

The following post are the words of my Father. He is given full reign to say whatever he wants. You all listen, for he has the power over life and death, heaven and hell, "and all you bitches out there will give in to his will". As follows:

Now all you homos listen up. You will never see this again! ajrherpgnspuerhgpaejrpghaserngp9usaeryg0jsr]tkh]sihg=aerghpaiuehdcvzjsd;lkngfaoieugwu45j[ygj[as09ijvpandfgharhfgpq93rhjq8uefgiajer note to the major, 2 is now the change!

I'm here with my children and my GrandDaughter. This is my time to share all the love I have been storing up for 27/25/19/15/12/9/3 years. If you don't know what I mean then I will spell it out for all of you, 27 (My whole World) 25 (All that I live for) 19 (a real pain in my ass!) 15 (My God what did I do? Looks just like her Mom) 12 (I pity the man who marries her) 9 (I pity the man that ever wants to fight him) & finally 3 (She will get whatever she asks from me)! These are the words for all of you out there and remember this, When you go to bed tonight, I want you to think on this one thing and one thing only. Our Mothers and Fathers, Sisters and Brothers, Our sons and daughters who are all over the World fighting and crying and missing home, They do this because we are Americans and love to be free. Now this is the last thing I want to say. I thank God for my Wife! With out her i'm nothing. I love her smile, her laugh, her smell and her taste. She is why I can say (you homos, go find your own bitches!)
NYC Rules and BTS Rocks!
LATER-25O624

And these are the words of the Father. Not just any father... my father.

Blizzard of Oh-Four

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. We're underneath twelve inches of snow right now, with another foot due tonight. It's definitely going to be a White Christmas. I've got some pictures... I'll post them later.

My father's here with his family. They drove from Grand Junction, Iowa, to Xenia, Ohio, in a little under 12 hours. They missed the storm just barely.

This will be the very first Christmas I've ever spent with my Dad. There's a lot more to be said, but everyone's ready to get out and eat lunch. More to come...

"Batman is a tragic figure... His sadness is Wagnerian in proportion." - Frank Miller

Batman Begins

BATMAN BEGINS

Have you seen the previews for this thing yet?! If not, I'd highly suggest you click on the link above and download the trailer right now.

It came out with Ocean's Twelve last Friday, and I hear the buzz was fantastic.

The first half of the trailer shows Christian Bale undergoing some seriously intense martial arts combat training. Liam Neeson, reprising his role as Qui-Gon Jinn, spouts some philosophy and engages Bale in a sword fight. It looks like a pretty kick-ass kung fu/samurai film until you see Bale slowly open a vault to reveal...

... the Mask.

I still get goosebumps. From that moment on, you're assaulted with a rapid succession of action edits: buildings blowing up, cop cars crashing, Batman leaping over collapsing bridges, and ninjas, man! F*cking ninjas! I mean... HOW F*CKING COOL IS THAT?! The very last scene shows a criminal walking alone, gun raised... "Where are you?!" As he steps backwards, Batman, hanging upside down, whispers, "Right here," and wraps his cape around him Dracula-style.

This is what I've been waiting for for... almost eight years. Ever since That Unspeakable Film, released in 1997, totally destroyed the Bat-film franchise, I've been wishing and hoping and praying someone would come along and make a good, truthful, faithful depiction of Batman on film. Tim Burton did an excellent job, but he ignored or changed a lot of the character's core principles. I won't even get into what Unmentionable did to the other two Unspeakable Films. I could get into a HUGE dissertation on the psychological and artistic complexities of the Batman/Bruce Wayne mythos, but I won't bore you with my nerd prowess.

Needless to say, if you don't read the comics, you probably don't know what the character's really about. Batman isn't some goofy guy in gray tights who runs around with Robin socking criminals to "POW!" and "BAM!" Nor is he some nipple-sporting latex fetishist who rides around on ice-skates, trading quips with villians and flashing credit cards.

He's a guy who watched his parents get shot to death in a dark alley when he was just a kid. He's a tragic figure, a loner, a "Dark Knight" who walks the razor's edge between madness and sanity. He's cool because he didn't come from another planet. He was never bitten by a radioactive insect. He wasn't exposed to gamma bombs or cosmic energy. He wasn't born with a mutant gene. He's just a man, scarred by tragedy, driven by an intense desire to see that what happened to him never happens to somebody else.

I could seriously geek out on all of you right now and start analyzing the many psychological facets of the Batman character. Out of the entire pantheon of American superheroes, Batman is the most complex, the most tragic... He is the darkest of them all. His entire life was born and defined by pain, tragedy, and loss. And yet, other than the Big Red S, he is the most beloved. There is something about this character that America understands, that America connects with. How else can you explain his popularity? Even a three-year-old knows "Jingle Bells, Batman smells". Ask an 80-year-old man or a 15-year-old cheerleader to name some of Batman's villains and they'll IMMEDIATELY come back with "The Joker", "The Penguin", or the "The Riddler", even if they've never even peeked at a comic book. Who's Robin? Batman's sidekick. Anyone, including the mind-rotted panhandler on the corner of Market and Fifth, could tell you that.

Do you even know why Bruce Wayne, a multi-billionaire (today's equivalent of the late JKF, Jr., or Sir Richard Branson), would even dress up in a Bat-suit and cape to combat crime? Search your memory... Come on... I know it's in there... Reach waaaaaay back... Why? Why? Because he looks cool? Because he's fun for comic book artists to draw? No! Why? Because criminals are a cowardly and superstituous lot... and to instill fear in the hearts of criminals everywhere!

I'm going to force myself to end this post here because I'm afraid I'll utterly overwhelm you with my vast store of Batman geekness.

Let's just end with this:

When you're watching this film, and you know who you are, I hope you can think of nothing and no one else but me, because you know I'll be enjoying it more than anyone else ever could with you.

Down the road. 

View from our porch. 

The falling of the first snow. 

Where Ya Gonna Go When the Volcano Blows?

Jimmy Buffett. If you were born between the years 1950 and 1990, you know who I'm talking about.

All you little post-90 teeny-boppers... skeedaddle on outta here. You won't know who, or what, I'm talking about.

As a kid I grew up on Fort Myers Beach, Florida (roughly three hours south-west of Orlando). My mother was married to Al Thomas, the manager of Fish Tale Marina, on the south-end of the island. Al was your typical crusty sea captain: a leather-skinned, bearded old man with blood-shot eyes, wearing cut-off jean shorts and clutching a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in a Coozie.

He owned a massive deep-sea yacht called the Summer Love II (the original Summer Love sank in a hurricane). There were auxiliary controls in a one-man tower that would guide the ship from above... The controls were slave-linked to the manuals below; whenever Al shifted a gear or turned the main steering wheel, the corresponding gear-shaft or the steering wheel on the tower would turn accordingly. This is hard to describe, especially after six beers. Essentially he had a second set of controls on a giant one-man tower above the deck of the ship. I used to stand on that tower and pretend that I was guiding the ship while dodging emerging nautical monsters and sea-gods.

We used to take the Summer Love II to the Florida Keys and hunt lobster. We'd eat them fresh, that night, with melted butter and mashed potatoes. Occasionally Mom would take me to spend the day in Key West. I remember seeing lots of guys holding hands. I was maybe 9 or 10.

All this time the soundtrack to our lives was Jimmy Buffett. He was Al and Mom's favorite musician. I remember seeing him once or twice as a kid in Florida. There were a lot of tanned old people drinking beers and red-colored drinks in the audience. Still, out of all of Mom's cheesy music... there was something about Jimmy Buffett I liked. Even at age 10, his music spoke to me.

It reminded me of palm trees, sand, salt-water, bikinis, coconut-scented sun-tan lotion, rum, lobsters, rich old people with sunglasses. It reminded me of Florida. Of Mom. Of the girl in the Hot Pink Shorts (another post entirely).

Jimmy Buffett. I haven't heard any of his recent stuff... that is, anything recorded post '89... But he's like this strange amalgam of Hank Williams and Don Ho... a mix of gritty country twang and swaying breezy Equatorial (or Caribbean?) rum music... with a bit of Hunter S. Thompson and Jack Sparrow thrown in.

When I listen to him I crave nothing more than a hammock on a desolate beach, with a beautiful woman in one arm, and a pitcher of margaritas in the other.

And maybe a can of mosquito-repellant.

But regardless... Nothing beats kissing a girl when you're on the beach and buzzed on booze...

12.13.2004 

12.13.2004 

12.13.2004 

Twisted Sister

I can't believe it's almost Saturday. An entire week has managed to sneak by, right beneath my nose.

Monday night, after watching Paige, I got a call from this girl named Amy. Remember her? From Carl's riotous graduation party a few weeks back. Anyway, we have a mutual friend in Jamie, a co-worker of mine. Evidently Jamie gave Amy my number, and she decided to use it.

We talked for about an hour and a half and really hit it off. We had so much in common it was almost eery. Towards the end of the conversation I had her eating out of my palm. She asked if I wanted to hang out the next day, and, of course, I agreed. The following night she picked me up after work and took me to Jaime's.

We had a great conversation on the ride there, and we discovered we both smoke like chimneys and drink the same beer, Bud Light (so many chicks these days drink Mich Ultra that I just want to shove a nice thick lager down their throats).

When we arrived we were sitting on the same couch. Jamie cooked a spicy chicken tortilla dip that was just too hot for me to eat, but Amy, Jamie, and Derrick (Jamie's man), took that shit home and ate every last bit. By the end of the night, Amy was on the other couch next to Jamie and rubbing her stomach like a pregnant woman soothing an unborn child. I had nailed back six or seven beers by then, and I was feeling a little buzzed. Amy started complaining about an upset stomach and wanted to go home. I was just getting ready to party by then, but she was my ride back to Xenia. Another friend, Claire, showed up, and Amy took the opportunity to bow out and leave.

I stumbled behind her. When we got into the car, I made a major mistake. "Well," I said drunkenly, "I don't know 'bout you, but I still feel somethin'."

There was an uncomortable pause, and Amy came back with, "Yeah... Well... I don't know..."

In less then half a second, the girl popped every balloon, pissed in every bowl of corn flakes, and rained on every parade.

What?! What?!?! Where did it go wrong? Where did I jump the unfathomable abyss from Potential to Friend? I wasn't THAT drunk. I hadn't made THAT much a fool of myself. Maybe my vivid description of last week's Paris Hilton episode of South Park turned her off. I'm a born actor, I love to perform in front of people. It coulda been the squishy sound-effects I made.

Or it coulda been my drunken explanation of why Leif Ericsson named Iceland, "Iceland", and Greenland, "Greenland". Because he wanted to trick those poor bastards into sailing to Greenland, which was nothing but ice, instead of sailing to Iceland, which was nothing but green pastures.

Or it could be because I'm 5'5", 120 lbs, pale as a fish's belly, and bald.

Or it could be a fatal mixture of all three.

Either way, she didn't bite, and when she dropped me off at home, we parted with a simple hug and "goodnight". We haven't spoken since then.

Last night was probably the funnest night I've had at Outback Steakhouse since I started in February.

I was sectioned in the lounge, and around 8:30 PM a few guys showed up and sat at our community tables (two rectangular 10-person tables that run parrallel to the bar). They were harbingers of a 16-person party. I brought them their beers and attended my other tables. By 9:00 PM all sixteen of them had shown up. They were a rowdy lot, loud, obnoxious, obviously drunk before they came in. They started ordering drinks from the bar. I knew from the look of them that wading in to take orders would be an exercise in chaos theory. I let the bartenders handle 'em.

By 9:30 they were ready to order. It was a business dinner, a boss taking his employees out to celebrate a lucrative season. And boy, did they ass-rape this poor MF. 16-ounce prime ribs, add-on crab legs, combo shrimp, filets, porterhouses, mushrooms, onions, melted bleu cheese, extra veggies, the works... Not to mention two tickets worth of booze. Outback Steakhouse was the Miraculous Pitcher, never ending, always full...

There was a brief lull, and I was flirting with some of the girls when a server came onto the back line and shouted, "Where's a manager? There's about to be a fight at the bar!"

Instantly, every Outbacker rushed to the bar. There was a crowd of people watching. Two guys were chest-to-chest. And lo and behold, they were from my party in the lounge! Suddenly Robbie, our proprietor, was between them. Things calmed down, but all the servers were watching to see if something else developed. Robbie had to shoo them away with a generic police-line, like, "Go on, there's nothin' ta see here".

Sure enough, five minutes later, the two guys were at it again. This time one of them tried to throw a punch. Someone said it started over a fork; I don't know. But I do know that Robbie escorted three of them outside and insisted on their taking a cab home. It was either a ride in a cab or a patrol car; it was up to them. Everyone else was Cut Off... No more drinks from the bar.

Later on I found out the checks were all on one bill. I let out a sigh of relief, because their bill was up to around $600 and there was no way on God's green earth I was going to be able to separate that shit. I also thanked God because the gratuity was going to be through the roof, too... And when I found that out, I let them do whatever the hell they wanted.

"Let 'em tear the tables off the floor. They can hurl a barstool through the window for all I care. I'm grat'in' their asses."

I could see their boss physically balk when I dropped off the check. "Are you sure this is right? This includes our bar tab, right?"

"Yes, sir," and I walked off to refill drinks on another table.

Their gratuity came to $77. I ran the boss's credit card and he tipped me another $10 on top of that. $87 dollars for 2 hours of chaos.

The man left, humiliated. I was almost a hundred dollars richer.

Just guess what I bought with his money.

And now there's this new girl at work named Milea. Milea. Pronounced, "Meh-lee-ah." Which is the SAME NAME as my sister, Maleea. Milea's a hot little gone brunette, tiny, tiny, tiny, but cute. And for some unexplainable reason, she's taken a liking to me. So far at least six or seven verteran Outbackers have approached me and said, "Geez, Billy, this Milea girl really likes you."

Which freaks the shit out of me. Milea? Maleea? My sister? A Jon Stewart, "A-waa?"

Not to disgust you, but could you imagine? In the heat of passion? "Oh, Milea!!"

No. No, no, no, no, no, no.

So, I worked a way around that. I nicknamed her "Little M".

I'm "Big B".

But nothing, nothing, N-O-T-H-I-N-G, I've seen, eaten, heard, or experienced this week compares to THIS:

http://ezshare.de/files-en/159159/bb.asf.html.

Go there, now.

Scroll down, find the link that says, "DOWNLOAD: bb.asf". Click on it.

[UPDATE - 12/14/04. After scrolling down, you may see the following: "Download-Ticket reserved. Please wait 39 seconds. Avoid the need for download-tickets by using a PREMIUM-Account." Wait the alotted time (usually only about 30 seconds), and the DOWNLOAD: bb.asf will appear. Click on it. Evidently, this is a hot download right now. - Billy]

Save the file to your hard-drive.

Depending on your Internet connection speed, the download should take anywhere from 5 minutes (DSL & cable) to 20 minutes (56k). It's worth the wait.

When you're finished downloading the file, load it through Windows Media Player (it's a WMP file).

Watch, my friends, in awe...

THIS IS WHAT'S IT'S ALL ABOUT, PEOPLE. I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU!!

MORE TO COME ON THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

More to come!

Ok, I've been a little lazy this week... and for that I apologize. There's a lot going on right now, and much of it's still being processed mentally...

I'll add a new post tonight after work. Meanwhile, here's another George Says, courtesy of myself.

Number 2 in a continuing series. 

Uhm... that would be a "Hell Yeah". 

Number 1 of a continuing series... 

The Cure

So there's this hostess rolling silverware on the back line, right, and she's new, so I don't know her name yet. But she's hot.

Some mindless chit-chat, which leads to me asking her age. "Oh, well, I'm sixteen..."

I just about walked away in mid-conversation, but it was the end of a Saturday night shift and I was on the brink of hallucination.

"I love your hair," I said on a whim. "It reminds me of The Cure."

"The Cure?" the hostess asked. She continued to roll silverware. Her bangs dangled low.

"Yeah, Robert Smith, the Cure," I answered.

"I remind you of a guy?"

"Your hair... Nevermind. I like your bangs."

Later on that night I was cleaning my tables in the lounge. I overheard the new girl talking to Ashleigh, the other hostess, also sixteen. She didn't know I could hear her.

"Have you ever heard of the Cure?" she asked Ashleigh.

"What, you mean like the cure for cancer?"

"No, no, the Cure. Robert Smith."

"Yeah, he plays soccer at Middle Field. So? What about him?"

"No, no, I think it's a band or something."

"The Cure? I don't think so, why?"

"Billy says I remind him of the Cure. He says he likes my bangs."

"Yeah. I think you should cut them."

Oh, well.

I don't think it was chance
that we happened to stand
at the same height
And when we looked eye-to-eye
our pupils matched
in parallel lines

Funny how it seemed
that our hands fit just like doorkeys
And when we moved
it felt like cooccuring shapes
in synchonicity

You designed a kiss perfectly for me.

Billy's Christmas Wishlist

During Christmas time, when me and Maleea were kids, Gram would have us sit down and write out our Christmas wishlists. I usually busted out a Kerouac-esque 150 foot roll of Teletype paper and box of No. 2 pencils. Of course, I knew that Santa couldn't fit everything I wanted into his sleigh, so Gram would make me go back and circle the five things I wanted most.

Toys, toys, and more toys. Action figures. Vehicles. Playsets. Accessories. He-Man, GI Joe, Ghostbusters, Star Wars... (One Christmas I spent an entire month staring dreamily at the picture of a Ghostbusters Proton Pack in the Toys R Us catalog. That's all I could think about for weeks and weeks. When Christmas morning came, I tore into my presents with mad abandon, hoping to find a Ghostbusters Proton Pack. I opened every single present but I didn't see a Proton Pack. I had toy jets, Lamari water machineguns, battle-action He-Men, a tape deck... but no Proton Pack. Gram says she'd never seen a little boy look so sad on Christmas, until she "found" a present behind the couch... Santa must've dropped it! She handed me the box, and with the first rip of paper I saw the ever-familiar Ghostbusters logo!! One more rip, and I saw it: THE PROTON PACK! It was like something straight out of A Christmas Story. I think I broke it a week later...)

Anyway, I still write out my wishlist every year. I don't actually expect to get any of it, especially these days, but it's fun to think about all the things I'd like to have. In a way, they're still toys... just different kinds of toys! So, without further ado:

BILLY'S CHRISTMAS WISHLIST 'O4

1. my car!!
2. a new computer (w/ CD burning capabilities and broadband Internet connection).
3. digital camera.
4. new stereo (my other two stopped working!)
5. winter coat (a bomber jacket!!).
6. denim jacket.
7. tobogan, scarf, gloves.
8. binoculars/telescope (for stargazing).
9. CDs: Jet, Velvet Revolver, Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
10. DVDs: The Original Star Wars Trilogy, Kill Bill Vol. 2, Hero, Spider-Man 2.
11. Books/magazines: Ian M. Banks "The Culture" novels, and any of the old pulp mags from Dark Star Books, featuring E. E. Smith, Jack Williamson, Edmond Hamilton, or James Schmitz.
12. Loose-leaf paper, pens.
13. a carton of Camel Lights.
14. a bottle of Jack Daniels.
15. typewriter/word processor (these are VERY hard to find, virtually obsolete...)

I want the typewriter most of all. My computer's downstairs in the basement. It's dark and dingy down here. In the winter it's freezing, and in the summer it's hot. There's not a lot of light. I do most of my writing during the day, so I feel like some kind of underground dweller whenever I spend too much time downstairs. A typewriter would allow me to write upstairs, in the dining room, where there is the most light (I like lots and lots and lots of sunlight). I'm not that bad a typist, so I'm not worried about typos. I can always go back and edit everything into the computer later.

What I really, really, REALLY want, more than anything in the world, hasn't been invented yet. It's a simple little device: a single-purpose mini-laptop, a portable computerized typewriter that consists of nothing but a flip-top LCD screen, a keyboard, word processor software, a recordable CD-rom or disc drive, and a printer port. That's it. It doesn't have to be fancy, or full of tricked-out features. Just an electronic typewriter. The only software you'd need would be Word for Windows and a dictionairy. Something like this doesn't exist yet... so maybe I'll invent one. It would be indespensible for writers everywhere. Not only would I buy one myself, I'd buy some for my writer friends, too.

Oh, well. I'll give it a few more years. Someone's bound to put this onto the market soon.

God Gave Rock and Roll To You

I've got an itch for some good old-fashioned rock n' roll, and I'm bored with my CD collection. I found my Rock Anthems compilation from Entertainment Weekly, but there was only Disc 2 -- the bad one. Disc 1 had all the good songs on it, like All Right Now (Free), Sweet Home Alabama (Skynyrd), American Woman (The Guess Who), Ramblin' Man (Allman Brothers), Horse With No Name (America), and Radar Love (Golden Earring). There's some Robert Palmer, Boston, and Rick Derringer on there, too, but I always skip over those songs.

But Disc 1's gone... lost forever.

Every once in a while I'll get this sound in my head, a type of music that I want to hear, and I know bands out there are making that kind of music, but I don't know where to find their records. This happened about six months ago with my electro itch. I had just gotten the latest Joy Electric CD and it contained a pretty raw remix by Norway of "We Are Rock", stripped down to a real chopped up break-beat, low rumbling bass, and vocoder. I loved it. Then one day I heard a song-snippet during a musical segueway on MTV, and the clip sounded a lot like the Joy Electric remix. I did a little research and found out the clip was from a song called "Emerge" by Fischerspooner. I did a little more research on-line and read about a few other bands. I went out a few days later and purchashed CDs from Ladytron and Felix Da Housecat & Thee Glitz, feat. Miss Kittin. These were the bands I was looking for.

But now I'm itching for some rock n' roll. Brad Kelly, a friend of mine, suggested Jet and The Killers. I've heard a few Jet songs, and I knew I liked them, but I didn't know the name of the band. When I went to their website and listened to their audio clips, I found exactly what I was looking for! I think it was a Jet song that actually got me onto this kick, even though I didn't know the name of the band at the time. So thanks, Brad, for solving that mystery! I've never heard The Killers, though, but he recommends them, so I'll try them out. I also thought about getting the Velvet Revolver album, too.

As well as Van Halen's greatest hits, and a new copy of Rock Anthems!