I have this affinity for finding fun and exciting things to eat or drink, you know, Buffalo, Bison, Ostrich, Bear, elk, cat(don't ask, it was a Chinese food restaurant that is now closed, but it does taste like chicken). Things that you don't see at the usual grocery marts. And there's a place around the corner from where I work, which at one time was a rather large regional "Italian Deli" chain, called Corti Bros. They have a great selection of exotic foods and drinks in there, some of stuff in there I haven't even heard of, or I have only heard as rumors.
I found such a drink this afternoon. When I was growing up and Little Big Sis and Darth Older Brother and I would be acting up, our parents would ask us if we had been drinking the Kickapoo Joy Juice... I thought that it was just a funny saying, not so much any more. This afternoon, I have found a bottle of said Joy Juice so I had to buy it, guess what? It tastes just like Mt Dew, but made with pure cane sugar. So now when someone asks if I'm all hopped up on Kickapoo Joy Juice, I can say AB-solutely.
I also found a drink called Moxie, I'm not sure what it's suppose to taste like, but it was good, and it wasn't carbonated. I've noticed that there is something lost in Fructose Corn Syrup, it just doesn't taste as good as pure cane sugar.
I did however find something that tastes surprisingly like honey, it's Agave Nectar... yes, that's right, the same Agave that Te-kill-ya is made from, it's sweet like honey. I was told about it from a friend at work, apparently there's a Te-kill-ya bar here in Cowtown where I work and they make an Agave Nectar Margarita. Always the curious kid that I am, I had to search out this Nectar and give it a try. After searching the interweb thingy for a recipe for Agave Nectar Margarita's, I found one which looked like it was easy enough that my pea sized, swiss cheese brain could remember. I got the ingredients and made a Margarita...
The thing was pretty good, and about 10 minutes later, I was stumbling. I already know that I'm a relative light weight, I can only do 12 shots of tequila before I get a decent buzz going. So I had to make one when Mie was home and not on-call. So I did, and I was happy to see that I wasn't the only one who got knocked on their butt. If you like Margarita's, I'd like to offer up this recipe for you, enjoy:
1 oz, Partida Agave Nectar
(I was told by a friend who tried at least 4 different brands that this was the best one)
1 oz, filtered water
1 fresh squeezed lime
1.5 - 2 oz 100% Blue agave Tequila
(I used the Cabo Wabo Anejo, expensive, but worth it)
Shake and serve over ice, do not use salt, that's only used to kill the taste of bad tequila, in my humble opinion...
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Mullets
So I got to reading Sybil's blog today and the very first paragraph of the top blog post was about how her father-in-law was going to start growing a mullet.
Well what's wrong with Mullets? I mean if you have a mullet, all you need to do is get a trans am, some gold chains, skin tight acid washed jeans complete with acid washed jean jacket, a torn shirt to resemble a tank top and some white shoes with the velcro strap at the top, and you're set.
The early 90's weren't good to me, I'm not going to be doing anything to resemble myself 18 years ago. If her father-in-law goes to a concert, then he would be the creepy old guy at the concert who should be home eating top ramon rather than being out at a show.
I had to go out onto the interweb thingy and look for websites dedicated to mullets, because, well they're funny...
here's just one that I found
and another
and yet another but unfortunately the one that I really liked won't come up but I'll give that one too, here ya go
Well what's wrong with Mullets? I mean if you have a mullet, all you need to do is get a trans am, some gold chains, skin tight acid washed jeans complete with acid washed jean jacket, a torn shirt to resemble a tank top and some white shoes with the velcro strap at the top, and you're set.
The early 90's weren't good to me, I'm not going to be doing anything to resemble myself 18 years ago. If her father-in-law goes to a concert, then he would be the creepy old guy at the concert who should be home eating top ramon rather than being out at a show.
I had to go out onto the interweb thingy and look for websites dedicated to mullets, because, well they're funny...
here's just one that I found
and another
and yet another but unfortunately the one that I really liked won't come up but I'll give that one too, here ya go
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Special
Yes you're special..
Wearing a helmet walking down the street, licking the windows of the short bus special....
I love people.
Wearing a helmet walking down the street, licking the windows of the short bus special....
I love people.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Destruction, hope, wedding, Nirvana
I got a call about 6 months ago from a friend of mine who was getting married. He asked if I would be his best man, I said sure. There wasn't even a doubt that I'd miss the wedding, but with such an honor I would definitely be there. My next question was "Do I need to send the RSVP back?"
I don't know, I've been in 7 weddings in my adult life, and I didn't remember having to send an RSVP to them before, but the others had always been near where I lived. This one was out in Cedar Rapids Iowa. About 3 weeks before the wedding, the major flooding hit the city of Cedar Rapids, 1300 square blocks ended up under water. 9.something square miles, all of the homes, businesses, churches, all of it underwater. My friend took me downtown to see some of the damage and run errands for the wedding. There were single story houses which didn't look too bad, and when I said that my friend pointed out the water line. You couldn't see the water line on the single story homes but you could on the 2 story homes. The water was above the roof peaks of the single story homes. That put a little dent into my reality, being born and raised on the left coast all I had seen was the devastation caused by mud slides of the early 80's, the earthquakes and the fires. All of these except the fires happen in an instant, you don't see them coming. I couldn't fathom the thought of watching your house being slowly devoured over 3 days by the local river.
As we drove on I started noticing the large red X's on the doors of the houses. Like any inquisitive kid, I asked, what's the X's for. That means that the houses are condemned. We drove through block after block of red X's, and in front of the houses with the red X's were piles of stuff. People's stuff, people's lives, everything that they had, everything that they collected, passed down from father to son, from mother to daughter, everything that their kids made for them at school, all of it put out onto the street side, as so much as refuse... That really puts things into perspective, if you only had 15 minutes to get out, what would you grab? Would you grab the jewelry and leave the cats? Would you grab the pictures and leave the jewelry?
Driving farther down the street, we came to the "downtown" area, it was eerie, quiet, no hustle and bustle. Buildings were boarded up, glass was broken, inventory was out on the sidewalk waiting to be picked up and junked. Then I saw it, a sign spray painted on the plywood covering some windows:
"Bent but not broken"
"We Survive"
Then I started seeing the people who I had been missing before, they were all banding together, working to put their community back the way it was, or better.
I asked my friend, what about looters? Thinking of the 2005 tragedy with Katrina. Not one instance of looting, not one case of vandalism, and one of the local home improvement stores, Menard's, sold the shipment of generators that they just got in for cost. $500 instead of the $2500 that they usually go for. How is it that catastrophic failure, or natural disaster brings out the best in people?
Well, after all of that, the wedding was moved twice, the first place was a park which was destroyed next to the river. The other place had become the make shift shelter for people displaced, and the final place became the garden of Eden because so many people came together to help them pull the wedding together that the hall transformed almost effortlessly. The wedding was beautiful, the bride was blushing and the groom made sure that she knew that he wasn't going any where, she was afraid that he was going to bolt before the wedding.
Oh yeah, Nirvana, I like Kurt Cobain... to a point, my friend is a true fan of Nirvana, to the point where he had the last Rolling Stone cover of Kurt Cobain tattooed to his back and the dvd choices? You could watch Nirvana, or Nirvana, or Nirvana unplugged 1 or 2, then there was the other Nirvana dvd. And if it wasn't Nirvana you ask? Then it was a game of the Hobbit on the Playstation 2... I love my friends, but I had to come home early... and of course I get yelled at when I come through the bedroom door. I guess the damn cats were playing kitty-pult against the bedroom door to force it open so that they could sneak in. I caught it from Mie, but then she figured out that I wasn't a figment and fell back to bed.. :)
I don't know, I've been in 7 weddings in my adult life, and I didn't remember having to send an RSVP to them before, but the others had always been near where I lived. This one was out in Cedar Rapids Iowa. About 3 weeks before the wedding, the major flooding hit the city of Cedar Rapids, 1300 square blocks ended up under water. 9.something square miles, all of the homes, businesses, churches, all of it underwater. My friend took me downtown to see some of the damage and run errands for the wedding. There were single story houses which didn't look too bad, and when I said that my friend pointed out the water line. You couldn't see the water line on the single story homes but you could on the 2 story homes. The water was above the roof peaks of the single story homes. That put a little dent into my reality, being born and raised on the left coast all I had seen was the devastation caused by mud slides of the early 80's, the earthquakes and the fires. All of these except the fires happen in an instant, you don't see them coming. I couldn't fathom the thought of watching your house being slowly devoured over 3 days by the local river.
As we drove on I started noticing the large red X's on the doors of the houses. Like any inquisitive kid, I asked, what's the X's for. That means that the houses are condemned. We drove through block after block of red X's, and in front of the houses with the red X's were piles of stuff. People's stuff, people's lives, everything that they had, everything that they collected, passed down from father to son, from mother to daughter, everything that their kids made for them at school, all of it put out onto the street side, as so much as refuse... That really puts things into perspective, if you only had 15 minutes to get out, what would you grab? Would you grab the jewelry and leave the cats? Would you grab the pictures and leave the jewelry?
Driving farther down the street, we came to the "downtown" area, it was eerie, quiet, no hustle and bustle. Buildings were boarded up, glass was broken, inventory was out on the sidewalk waiting to be picked up and junked. Then I saw it, a sign spray painted on the plywood covering some windows:
"Bent but not broken"
"We Survive"
Then I started seeing the people who I had been missing before, they were all banding together, working to put their community back the way it was, or better.
I asked my friend, what about looters? Thinking of the 2005 tragedy with Katrina. Not one instance of looting, not one case of vandalism, and one of the local home improvement stores, Menard's, sold the shipment of generators that they just got in for cost. $500 instead of the $2500 that they usually go for. How is it that catastrophic failure, or natural disaster brings out the best in people?
Well, after all of that, the wedding was moved twice, the first place was a park which was destroyed next to the river. The other place had become the make shift shelter for people displaced, and the final place became the garden of Eden because so many people came together to help them pull the wedding together that the hall transformed almost effortlessly. The wedding was beautiful, the bride was blushing and the groom made sure that she knew that he wasn't going any where, she was afraid that he was going to bolt before the wedding.
Oh yeah, Nirvana, I like Kurt Cobain... to a point, my friend is a true fan of Nirvana, to the point where he had the last Rolling Stone cover of Kurt Cobain tattooed to his back and the dvd choices? You could watch Nirvana, or Nirvana, or Nirvana unplugged 1 or 2, then there was the other Nirvana dvd. And if it wasn't Nirvana you ask? Then it was a game of the Hobbit on the Playstation 2... I love my friends, but I had to come home early... and of course I get yelled at when I come through the bedroom door. I guess the damn cats were playing kitty-pult against the bedroom door to force it open so that they could sneak in. I caught it from Mie, but then she figured out that I wasn't a figment and fell back to bed.. :)
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
How tough is it?
I read this morning that stars are going to rehab like normal people go to lunch. How tough is it to be a star? To have people give you a bunch of money to do some thing that is a god given talent? Amy Winehouse, there's a train wreck, I love her music, but she seems to suck as a person. The Spear's? Brittney or Jamie Lynn? Are they really that special or is it our morbid curiosity that keeps they're 15 minute clock stuck on 5 minutes? Is the pressures of being borderline mediocre really so great that they have to be self destructive or to disappoint millions of people with teen pregnancy? One thing that might be a plus from that whole fiasco is the whole issue of teen pregnancy coming out into the mainstream so that parents who normally wouldn't be brave enough to broach the subject, now have a platform to launch that discussion.
How about Robert Downey Jr, Mie's favorite actor, I happen to think that he's hugely talented, but he, like Amy Winehouse, seems to suck as a person. Why is he so well liked? Is it because he's a potential train wreck waiting to happen? Then there's the poor souls who don't make it, case in point, Heath Ledger, River Phoenix, John Belushi, Tupac, Biggie, Kurt Cobain, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Randy Rhodes just to name a few. Yeah Kurt decided to take his own life and Tupac and Biggie were gunned down, but they changed the face of music for which Mie missed most of that. Is the stress of being young, rich and famous really that tough?
It gets so bad at times that there's a yearly death pool between some people that I know. Which star is going to spiral down into the depths and either off themselves or die from an "accidental" overdose. Are these people who break just broken to begin with or is it really the pressures of having that god given talent or in some cases having been created to appease the need of the broken princes/princess' wanting public?
How about Robert Downey Jr, Mie's favorite actor, I happen to think that he's hugely talented, but he, like Amy Winehouse, seems to suck as a person. Why is he so well liked? Is it because he's a potential train wreck waiting to happen? Then there's the poor souls who don't make it, case in point, Heath Ledger, River Phoenix, John Belushi, Tupac, Biggie, Kurt Cobain, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Randy Rhodes just to name a few. Yeah Kurt decided to take his own life and Tupac and Biggie were gunned down, but they changed the face of music for which Mie missed most of that. Is the stress of being young, rich and famous really that tough?
It gets so bad at times that there's a yearly death pool between some people that I know. Which star is going to spiral down into the depths and either off themselves or die from an "accidental" overdose. Are these people who break just broken to begin with or is it really the pressures of having that god given talent or in some cases having been created to appease the need of the broken princes/princess' wanting public?
Monday, June 2, 2008
Hmmm
Stan was a relatively quiet, unassuming database programmer. A little odd to some, overly religious to others. His manager knew that he was going through a bitter divorce, his wife even went so far as to take out a restraining order against Stan, his manager couldn't understand why. In his eyes, Stan couldn't even hurt a fly without having to say a little prayer for it after he hit it lightly with a news paper, hoping not to kill it, but just to stun it so that he could scoop it up and put it outside.
Stan would come into work after taking the train in from his little unassuming home just about 25 miles from work, up in the "sticks" as the people from downtown would call it. He would walk briskly, head down and counting the sidewalk squares as he went. Everyday he would get to his desk, open the bag that held his lunch, and everyday he would pull out an apple and 2 bananas, then put the rest of what was in the bag into the little refrigerator under his desk. He would work his 9.5 hours, pack up his stuff and prepare to make the trek back to the train and his 25 mile ride to the station where he would walk home, head down and counting the sidewalk squares back home, breathing a sigh of relief knowing that the number didn't change between going to work and coming home.
He'd grab the mail from the mailbox outside at the sidewalk, walk up the walkway to the stoop in front of his 1920's house that was left to him and his twin brother after his parents passed away 10 years ago. Stan's brother didn't live with him, this was the house where Stan and Linda lived for the 8 years of their marriage.
Stan put the key in the door, and after taking a quick look behind him, he opened the door and entered his house. The hardwood floors and wood work on the walls of the entry way made the house dark, but that's alright, Stan prefers the dark anyway. The house was immaculately kept. "A place for everything and everything in it's place" Was his mother's mantra. Every time he thought about the time he was blamed for his twin leaving the toy car out, his skin burned with the scars he received from the wire coat hanger across his back, only imaginary now, but still just as painful.
Stan wound his way through the house, past the craftsman style woodwork, over the pristine hardwood floors, past room after room of antiques, past the grandfather clock which chimed on the hour and on the 1/2 hour. Past the living room, where he wasn't allowed to go as a child, past the stairs that led up to the bedrooms, where he first made love to Linda as Husband and Wife, where their son had slept, and was eventually found dead. A horrible occurrence of Sudden Infants Death Syndrome, was found to be the cause. Stan and Linda never recovered, and that's when they slowly slipped into guilt, blame and eventually numbness towards each other.
Stan worked his way into the kitchen, the room was good sized, built for entertaining, but in the corner was a little table now where Stan ate his meals, now that Linda left. An incandescent bulb over the table was the only light that Stan liked using any more, it was comforting without being overwhelming. He went to refrigerator and pulled out a premade meal, put it into the microwave and set the timer. As he waited for the meal to finish cooking, he eyed the piece of paper on the table, one that had been crumpled, flattened out, folded and unfolded so often that you wouldn't think that it had come him only 2 weeks ago. When the microwave dinged to let him know that the contents were done, he pulled them out of the microwave, grabbed a fork, a glass of water and his book, then went to sit at the table.
He said a prayer for the people who had worked hard to supply his food, he prayed for the people that he works with and then he ate his chicken and rice, plain, and drank his water while reading his bible. He read passages about love and forgiveness, he read passages which he felt would enlighten and empower him. Lord knows that he needed that these days. He couldn't keep the piece of paper on the table out of his sight, he folded it again, no use, he tucked it behind the plastic flowers in the vase on the table, still no good. He pulled it out and skimmed over it again. After skimming over it a few more times, he folded it up again and put it into his shirt pocket. He finished his meal, walked it over to the sink and washed off the plate and fork, put them in the dish drainer. The dishwasher was a luxury reserved for more than 1.
After wiping down the table, Stan walked over to the drawer, opened it, and pulled out a shiny handgun. It was one that Stan's brother had given him for home defense. He showed Stan how to load it, how to hold it, how to take off the safety. If Stan didn't have his brother, he wouldn't have anything right now. Stan took a set of keys out of his pocket, put one of the old style keys in a door lock in a door under the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. Turned the lock and let it click before turning the door knob. He opened the door, pulled the string to turn on the light at the top of the stairs, and started to descend the basement stairs.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned, the basement was dark and dank. Dirt from the 80 plus years was the only thing in the house that seemed out of place. Stan walked to the center of the room, found the pull string to the light in the center of the room. With the pull of the string, the light clicked to life. With the light came a startled whisper. In the center of the room stood a cage only a 5' cube, metal tubes for bars, and in the cage was a woman. The woman, beautiful at one time, now bruised and bloodied, her hair strewn around the cage cut off in a fit of rage on Stan's part. Stan pulled from his pocket the piece of paper, grabbed the woman by the hair and wrenched her head back towards him, the only thing stopping her from going any further was the bars of the cage. His teeth in a feral sneer, he got down to her level, "I can't believe that you thought that a fucking piece of paper could protect you" spittle flying from his lips as he said this. Just for emphasis, he pushed her head forward and then back again into the bars. Linda whimpered, as another drip of blood fell from just behind her ear. "I should just kill you now Linda, just like you killed our son" He said, his voice reaching a fevered high at the last part of his sentence.
"I didn't do anything Stan... it was an accident... it was an accident..." her voice trailing off into a sob. "BULLSHIT!! You killed him, God wouldn't take such a beautiful creature from us... FROM ME!!"
Linda, in the moment of realization she was not going to live, spat back "FROM US! You're such an asshole Stan, just kill me and get it over with, That's what you want isn't it? To punish me for Lee's death, well just do it and get it over with you selfish FUCK!" She spat at him and he was taken aback if only for a moment. "Just remember, when you do kill me, they'll find you and put you away for the rest of your miserable little life, so just fucking do it so that I can go see your precious God and tell him what a miserable little prick you are". Linda wiped away a tear which was a mixture of blood, dirt and long repressed anger and sadness.
Stan stood back, cocked the gun that he had with him, Linda heard this noise before, "I hope you're happy being gang raped by all the guys in prison you little prick" She said to him, with that, he grabbed a handful of hair again and told her that he was not going to prison. She just laughed at him now, she had struck a chord with him and all she could do was laugh at him, she knew that her life was over, and in her final moments she was able to take comfort in knowing that he'll be going to hell twice for what he's done to her. Once to the prison yards to become someone's bitch, and when he finally suffered enough in this life, he'll spend eternity being tortured. Stan couldn't be taken to prison and the full impact of realization hit him, he wouldn't survive, not without his brother there. Frantically he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He took his handgun and pointed it at Linda. "Go ahead you fuck, just kill me and get it over with, better yet, why don't you just do us all a favor and blow your own Goddamn brains out, oh that's right, you can't because that's just as much of a sin as killing me, you're fucked buddy... good luck in hell"
This last phrase cut through Stan like a knife, he had to do something, he prayed "Praying isn't going to help you" Linda retorted. Stan reached through the bars again towards Linda, except this time he didn't grab at her. He had pushed the gun through, she took it tentatively, was this some kind of trick.
"You're going to have to kill me" he told her
"No" she looked at the gun repulsed and confused.
Pacing back and forth in front of the cage, "You have to do it, if you want to get out of this, you have to kill me"
"What?!?!"
Holding up a ring of keys he told her "These are the keys to your cage, if you want to get out of this alive, pull the trigger"
"NO" holding the gun now as if cradling a newborn.
"DO IT!"
With that Stan reached through the cage, who did this bitch think she was to defy him like that, in his house at that... He grabbed for the gun, she brought it up and fired, one shot through the upper lip and out the back of Stan's head. He was still conscience as he stumbled back away from the cage, dropping the keys at the door. A rasping sound came from him as he fell back away from the cage. He landed flat onto his back, change and other things clanking in his pocket as he hit the floor, his head now lying in a pool of blood.
Linda sat shaking, the smoking handgun and spray of blood brought her back to reality, she slowly reached for the ring of keys on the floor in front of her. She looked at all of the keys on the key ring, they all looked ancient, not like the brand new lock on the cage....
***************
Now before anyone lambastes me for this, I had this story from about 18 years ago. There was a picture in the news paper with the title "Tell us what this means" There was a picture of a man, a woman in a cage, a jester skeleton and something else, not sure what it was right now though. The above story was what I immediately thought of.
Stan would come into work after taking the train in from his little unassuming home just about 25 miles from work, up in the "sticks" as the people from downtown would call it. He would walk briskly, head down and counting the sidewalk squares as he went. Everyday he would get to his desk, open the bag that held his lunch, and everyday he would pull out an apple and 2 bananas, then put the rest of what was in the bag into the little refrigerator under his desk. He would work his 9.5 hours, pack up his stuff and prepare to make the trek back to the train and his 25 mile ride to the station where he would walk home, head down and counting the sidewalk squares back home, breathing a sigh of relief knowing that the number didn't change between going to work and coming home.
He'd grab the mail from the mailbox outside at the sidewalk, walk up the walkway to the stoop in front of his 1920's house that was left to him and his twin brother after his parents passed away 10 years ago. Stan's brother didn't live with him, this was the house where Stan and Linda lived for the 8 years of their marriage.
Stan put the key in the door, and after taking a quick look behind him, he opened the door and entered his house. The hardwood floors and wood work on the walls of the entry way made the house dark, but that's alright, Stan prefers the dark anyway. The house was immaculately kept. "A place for everything and everything in it's place" Was his mother's mantra. Every time he thought about the time he was blamed for his twin leaving the toy car out, his skin burned with the scars he received from the wire coat hanger across his back, only imaginary now, but still just as painful.
Stan wound his way through the house, past the craftsman style woodwork, over the pristine hardwood floors, past room after room of antiques, past the grandfather clock which chimed on the hour and on the 1/2 hour. Past the living room, where he wasn't allowed to go as a child, past the stairs that led up to the bedrooms, where he first made love to Linda as Husband and Wife, where their son had slept, and was eventually found dead. A horrible occurrence of Sudden Infants Death Syndrome, was found to be the cause. Stan and Linda never recovered, and that's when they slowly slipped into guilt, blame and eventually numbness towards each other.
Stan worked his way into the kitchen, the room was good sized, built for entertaining, but in the corner was a little table now where Stan ate his meals, now that Linda left. An incandescent bulb over the table was the only light that Stan liked using any more, it was comforting without being overwhelming. He went to refrigerator and pulled out a premade meal, put it into the microwave and set the timer. As he waited for the meal to finish cooking, he eyed the piece of paper on the table, one that had been crumpled, flattened out, folded and unfolded so often that you wouldn't think that it had come him only 2 weeks ago. When the microwave dinged to let him know that the contents were done, he pulled them out of the microwave, grabbed a fork, a glass of water and his book, then went to sit at the table.
He said a prayer for the people who had worked hard to supply his food, he prayed for the people that he works with and then he ate his chicken and rice, plain, and drank his water while reading his bible. He read passages about love and forgiveness, he read passages which he felt would enlighten and empower him. Lord knows that he needed that these days. He couldn't keep the piece of paper on the table out of his sight, he folded it again, no use, he tucked it behind the plastic flowers in the vase on the table, still no good. He pulled it out and skimmed over it again. After skimming over it a few more times, he folded it up again and put it into his shirt pocket. He finished his meal, walked it over to the sink and washed off the plate and fork, put them in the dish drainer. The dishwasher was a luxury reserved for more than 1.
After wiping down the table, Stan walked over to the drawer, opened it, and pulled out a shiny handgun. It was one that Stan's brother had given him for home defense. He showed Stan how to load it, how to hold it, how to take off the safety. If Stan didn't have his brother, he wouldn't have anything right now. Stan took a set of keys out of his pocket, put one of the old style keys in a door lock in a door under the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. Turned the lock and let it click before turning the door knob. He opened the door, pulled the string to turn on the light at the top of the stairs, and started to descend the basement stairs.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned, the basement was dark and dank. Dirt from the 80 plus years was the only thing in the house that seemed out of place. Stan walked to the center of the room, found the pull string to the light in the center of the room. With the pull of the string, the light clicked to life. With the light came a startled whisper. In the center of the room stood a cage only a 5' cube, metal tubes for bars, and in the cage was a woman. The woman, beautiful at one time, now bruised and bloodied, her hair strewn around the cage cut off in a fit of rage on Stan's part. Stan pulled from his pocket the piece of paper, grabbed the woman by the hair and wrenched her head back towards him, the only thing stopping her from going any further was the bars of the cage. His teeth in a feral sneer, he got down to her level, "I can't believe that you thought that a fucking piece of paper could protect you" spittle flying from his lips as he said this. Just for emphasis, he pushed her head forward and then back again into the bars. Linda whimpered, as another drip of blood fell from just behind her ear. "I should just kill you now Linda, just like you killed our son" He said, his voice reaching a fevered high at the last part of his sentence.
"I didn't do anything Stan... it was an accident... it was an accident..." her voice trailing off into a sob. "BULLSHIT!! You killed him, God wouldn't take such a beautiful creature from us... FROM ME!!"
Linda, in the moment of realization she was not going to live, spat back "FROM US! You're such an asshole Stan, just kill me and get it over with, That's what you want isn't it? To punish me for Lee's death, well just do it and get it over with you selfish FUCK!" She spat at him and he was taken aback if only for a moment. "Just remember, when you do kill me, they'll find you and put you away for the rest of your miserable little life, so just fucking do it so that I can go see your precious God and tell him what a miserable little prick you are". Linda wiped away a tear which was a mixture of blood, dirt and long repressed anger and sadness.
Stan stood back, cocked the gun that he had with him, Linda heard this noise before, "I hope you're happy being gang raped by all the guys in prison you little prick" She said to him, with that, he grabbed a handful of hair again and told her that he was not going to prison. She just laughed at him now, she had struck a chord with him and all she could do was laugh at him, she knew that her life was over, and in her final moments she was able to take comfort in knowing that he'll be going to hell twice for what he's done to her. Once to the prison yards to become someone's bitch, and when he finally suffered enough in this life, he'll spend eternity being tortured. Stan couldn't be taken to prison and the full impact of realization hit him, he wouldn't survive, not without his brother there. Frantically he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He took his handgun and pointed it at Linda. "Go ahead you fuck, just kill me and get it over with, better yet, why don't you just do us all a favor and blow your own Goddamn brains out, oh that's right, you can't because that's just as much of a sin as killing me, you're fucked buddy... good luck in hell"
This last phrase cut through Stan like a knife, he had to do something, he prayed "Praying isn't going to help you" Linda retorted. Stan reached through the bars again towards Linda, except this time he didn't grab at her. He had pushed the gun through, she took it tentatively, was this some kind of trick.
"You're going to have to kill me" he told her
"No" she looked at the gun repulsed and confused.
Pacing back and forth in front of the cage, "You have to do it, if you want to get out of this, you have to kill me"
"What?!?!"
Holding up a ring of keys he told her "These are the keys to your cage, if you want to get out of this alive, pull the trigger"
"NO" holding the gun now as if cradling a newborn.
"DO IT!"
With that Stan reached through the cage, who did this bitch think she was to defy him like that, in his house at that... He grabbed for the gun, she brought it up and fired, one shot through the upper lip and out the back of Stan's head. He was still conscience as he stumbled back away from the cage, dropping the keys at the door. A rasping sound came from him as he fell back away from the cage. He landed flat onto his back, change and other things clanking in his pocket as he hit the floor, his head now lying in a pool of blood.
Linda sat shaking, the smoking handgun and spray of blood brought her back to reality, she slowly reached for the ring of keys on the floor in front of her. She looked at all of the keys on the key ring, they all looked ancient, not like the brand new lock on the cage....
***************
Now before anyone lambastes me for this, I had this story from about 18 years ago. There was a picture in the news paper with the title "Tell us what this means" There was a picture of a man, a woman in a cage, a jester skeleton and something else, not sure what it was right now though. The above story was what I immediately thought of.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Larry
Hi again everyone
I would like to introduce you to someone who is not only very cool, but well known within car circles, but not much further, even though people who aren't car fanatics almost always appreciate him and his endeavors.
His name is Larry Shinoda, he was born in Southern California in 1930, he was an talented artist who honed his artistic talents during grade school. During World War II, Larry and his family were held in an internment camp for Japanese Americans. As a young man, he built hot rods and raced them on the streets of Los Angeles, he eventually went to work for Ford Motor Company in 1955 after being kicked out of the Art Center College of Design in Los Angles for being in Larry's words "a malcontent".
He stayed at Ford for one year, then moved to Packard in January of 1956. During his time with Packard, things were slow and the company was in financial trouble. Larry took a leave from the company and went to Indianapolis and worked on the car that won the Indy 500 that year driven by Pat Flaherty, a Watson built car, but styled by Larry. In September of 1956, he went to work for General Motors. Larry worked a little on the SS racer, mostly details, but when Bill Mitchell purchased the SS mule chassis from GM, Larry went to work in Mitchell's basement, refining the design of the clay model into what would become the 1959 Sting Ray sports racer. Because GM had banned racing, the Sting Ray did not say Corvette anywhere on the vehicle. Larry was mechanic, pit crew, designer and what ever else was required on the car. Dr. Dick Thompson drove the Sting Ray racer. The Sting Ray Racer was the foundation for the 1963 Shinoda designed Corvette Sting Ray.
Now, I know what you're thinking, "But MM, how could you? Talking about Chevy's and Corvettes when you're suppose to be a die hard Mustang fanatic" Well gentle reader, please bear with me, I'll get to my point...
At around the same time that Chevy was introducing the Shinoda designed Sting Ray Corvette, Ford's general manager, Lee Iacocca, envisioned a small sports car to replace the full sized muscle cars of the era. Originally named after the P-51 Mustang fighter plane, the Ford Mustang (pony car) was a success from the very beginning. Five years later, noted automobile designer, Larry Shinoda (who had designed the Z28 Camaro, '63 Corvette Stingray), introduced the original Boss 302 and Boss 429 Mustangs. Bursting onto the racing scene in 1969'-70', they were the car to beat. Winning both NHRA drag racing events and SCCA Trans-Am championships, the Boss Mustangs are some of the most recognizable Mustangs of all time.
Larry passed away at his home on November 13, 1997 of Heart failure. Larry had just passed the final tissue-match test for his kidney transplant the day before he died.
Larry Shinoda was not only responsible solely or in part for the 1963 Split window Sting Ray, the Z/28 Camaro, the Boss 302 and Boss 429 (Both the originals and the newer 1994 models), he was also responsible for the Ford Torino 428 and numerous other projects. This is a man who shaped an era of "Muscle" for cars, helping to take us from the mundane to the insane in some cases. If I had a cup to raise, I would raise it to Larry Shinoda.
I would like to introduce you to someone who is not only very cool, but well known within car circles, but not much further, even though people who aren't car fanatics almost always appreciate him and his endeavors.
His name is Larry Shinoda, he was born in Southern California in 1930, he was an talented artist who honed his artistic talents during grade school. During World War II, Larry and his family were held in an internment camp for Japanese Americans. As a young man, he built hot rods and raced them on the streets of Los Angeles, he eventually went to work for Ford Motor Company in 1955 after being kicked out of the Art Center College of Design in Los Angles for being in Larry's words "a malcontent".
He stayed at Ford for one year, then moved to Packard in January of 1956. During his time with Packard, things were slow and the company was in financial trouble. Larry took a leave from the company and went to Indianapolis and worked on the car that won the Indy 500 that year driven by Pat Flaherty, a Watson built car, but styled by Larry. In September of 1956, he went to work for General Motors. Larry worked a little on the SS racer, mostly details, but when Bill Mitchell purchased the SS mule chassis from GM, Larry went to work in Mitchell's basement, refining the design of the clay model into what would become the 1959 Sting Ray sports racer. Because GM had banned racing, the Sting Ray did not say Corvette anywhere on the vehicle. Larry was mechanic, pit crew, designer and what ever else was required on the car. Dr. Dick Thompson drove the Sting Ray racer. The Sting Ray Racer was the foundation for the 1963 Shinoda designed Corvette Sting Ray.
Now, I know what you're thinking, "But MM, how could you? Talking about Chevy's and Corvettes when you're suppose to be a die hard Mustang fanatic" Well gentle reader, please bear with me, I'll get to my point...
At around the same time that Chevy was introducing the Shinoda designed Sting Ray Corvette, Ford's general manager, Lee Iacocca, envisioned a small sports car to replace the full sized muscle cars of the era. Originally named after the P-51 Mustang fighter plane, the Ford Mustang (pony car) was a success from the very beginning. Five years later, noted automobile designer, Larry Shinoda (who had designed the Z28 Camaro, '63 Corvette Stingray), introduced the original Boss 302 and Boss 429 Mustangs. Bursting onto the racing scene in 1969'-70', they were the car to beat. Winning both NHRA drag racing events and SCCA Trans-Am championships, the Boss Mustangs are some of the most recognizable Mustangs of all time.
Larry passed away at his home on November 13, 1997 of Heart failure. Larry had just passed the final tissue-match test for his kidney transplant the day before he died.
Larry Shinoda was not only responsible solely or in part for the 1963 Split window Sting Ray, the Z/28 Camaro, the Boss 302 and Boss 429 (Both the originals and the newer 1994 models), he was also responsible for the Ford Torino 428 and numerous other projects. This is a man who shaped an era of "Muscle" for cars, helping to take us from the mundane to the insane in some cases. If I had a cup to raise, I would raise it to Larry Shinoda.
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