Our Thursday

Category: Podcast

  • 5 Things I Love About L.A. [Bonus Material]

    5 Things I Love About L.A. [Bonus Material]

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    Brian’s blog yesterday gave a Michael Vick-like view on dogs.  Many animals expressed disapproval.  It’s okay.  Sit.  Stay.  Listen.  You’re in for a treat.

    THE REASONS

    1.  My Building feels like a dormitory for troubled youth with a propensity for creative behavior.    At any given time, at least one apartment is crackling with activity – but never someone’s TV.  If I want to see a DJ work on her next mixtape, a chef prepare her recipe list, a band jam before tour, or a horticulturalist plant his next strain – uh, then I… go do that.  I use my knuckles to double-click on their door.  While being there, I inevitably learn something about their human experience, and thus, something about mine, which adds to the experience.  We chat, with our mouths.

    2.  The Beach – I live 50 feet from the sand.  I’ve always lived in close proximity to the ocean.  I can’t live without it.  You hear it all the time.  Waves crashing, the volume scrolls up and down randomly.  The whitewash rolling across itself in the background like white noise or Rice Krispies (sp?).  The water and the sun change people’s moods.  Everyone here is on vacation when it’s sunny, especially the people who sleep in their shoes.  I deal with a lot of stress indoors, on screens.  I don’t deal with any outside.  I don’t take smoke breaks so much as reality breaks.  Ten minutes from my door, in the sun, I’m a different person.  Gasp of air.  I usually meet an actual new person, too, because I smile at people.

    3.  The Boardwalk is as much of an entity as the beach.  It is a creature that sleeps like the sun.  It has moods.  I wake up to the sounds either Hendrix on loudspeaker or a live, acapella version of Lil Wayne’s ‘ Six Foot Seven’ done by the Jamaicans on the boardwalk.  ‘If it’s sunny, it’s summer.’  Clack of clay wheels on pavement – carts and skates.  This is Dogtown and we have our own economy.  The skeleton is made up of pot collectives and tattoo shops – our population is highly docile, but dedicated.  We live in peace, we will defend ourselves.

    The boardwalk dresses up differently all the time.  Ads.  Spraypaint.  Murals.  Graffiti.  She changes clothes constantly, but she’s got perfect taste.  She’s art.

    4a.  The Alleys (Day)

    My first love was film.  They’re shooting all the time here.  Even though I don’t watch many, I’m always walking through a set.  Lighting rigs.  Actresses in sundresses.  Director screaming cut.  PAs funneling traffic and escorting the way-too-real-people out.  No one minds the disruption, because the industry pays the city.  Locals, housed or otherwise, consider this fair, because we all enjoy the irony of an expensive shoe stepping in a smelly pile of shit.

    Speaking of which, I rewatched Richard Kelly‘s Southland Tales the other day for the first time since it came out.  I generally like everything I watch now (because of the scarcity), but the fact that I am in 50% of the scenes (just 4 years later) made me enjoy it tremendously.  I can relate to JT, SWS, and TR that much better now.

    4b.  The Alleys (Night)

    My part of the city is 100 years old.  That might as well be a million to me.  It’s haunted.  This place has been counter-culture since the 60s.  Time stopped here.  We won.  An ordinance ‘allows’ people to sleep in certain areas.

    Example:  I take the dog for a walk at night.  There are areas I can’t go.  The local population gets territorial around winter.  They’ll defend themselves.  They have secrets here and you can get into trouble if you don’t notice things.  There’s always something going on.  Ignorance of the law is no excuse, they say [first rule i’d take out, by the way].  I can’t offer much advice, but I look someone in the eyes.  Like a fellow Canadian, they just fucking know.  And so do I.

    There are severe anthropological explanations for the diverse population’s interpretation of this – BUY MY BOOK  (purchase/press link pending).

    5a. The Streets (Night)

    Graffiti all over.  Never used to know what it meant till I moved here.  That font is so hard to read.  It gets taken down so quickly.  You know most of them are love letters?

    They use chalk on the ground a lot.  It’s washed away by morning.  Used to be messages for the people without phones – now it’s propaganda or ads.  Getting crowded.

    5b.  The Streets  (Day)

    There’s no parking, anywhere.  This is good for me because I usually do not have gas, but I enjoy using my feet.  Crosswalks slow me down, and I haven’t jaywalked since the last time I got arrested for it (May).  And I can’t afford the ticket, but I like the city’s pace.  She knows when I need to stand there, do nothing, and just listen.

    The streets themselves are cracked, severely.  I have tripped here before.  There is dog shit everywhere – not everyone picks up on it.  That’s okay.  I am functional enough to not step on shit that is directly in front of me.  Don’t be mad, it was probably a stray.  I like dogs and have met several here – each has a very distinct personality.  Not a single one leaves their shit out in the street w/o securing it in plastic.

    CROSSWALK.  Stop.

    Go.

    Bonus!  The Sky

    I also enjoy the sky.  Great sunsets.

    Don’t you hate when the sky is overcast, the color of rotting cottage cheese?  Whites and grays.  Bumped with stucco clouds.

    Sometimes, often here, there are no clouds, and in those instances, I remember the earth is round.  Well, I remember that I remember the earth is round, if that translates.  26 years old, I still find that concept mind-blowing.  Right up there with the constellations.

    When it comes to talking about my home, I need to set ground rules, or I’ll never shut up.  I learned that a long time ago.  I’d talk about the weather, but I’m going for under 1,000 words.

  • “In Deformation, We trust”

    “In Deformation, We trust”

    To the congress that just reaffirmed the USA motto, I will be sure on this day of plentiful thanks, a day when there is so much thanks that it gets thrown into zip lock bags to be used later, that you and your cohorts receive none. In fact I will be wasting more government time next week when I show up to propose my own motto that has been the lifeblood of Americans and the human species alike…

    “In Deformation, We Trust.”

    More government waste will be avoided with this motto as it will eliminate bullying in all of our schools. Replacing the current motto with this one will remind that one girl with inverted boobs to be proud of her deformation. That one guy who has to pee with his pants all the way on the ground for some reason when at the urinal will now look up proudly at this new motto and put his hands on his hips and sway proudly as he pees. So your voice breaks wine glasses with it’s high pitch-ness, so what that one testicle is enormously out of proportion to the other, so what your front teeth are perpendicular to the rest, so what your freckles hide your normal skin, so what? With my new motto our already deformed nation will finally have a reason to open up and reveal the truth. Now walk forward America and join me in Washington to show the world exactly what we are and who we trust in.

    Deformed and elongated middle toes.

    I need this motto to feel good about the two by fours I have been walking around on for the last 28 years. My deformed middle two toes stick out way past my big toe making it virtually impossible to wear normal shoes. It was this deformation that gave me two ingrown toe nails after wearing soccer shoes that were not block foot ready. Did you know insurance wont cover ingrown toe nails because it is self inflicted? With my new motto, maybe the shoe lobbyists will finally get off their wasteful and unneeded pedestals and allow for the creation of square foot shoes.

    Evolved hitchhikers thumb

    I can’t even count the times that I have been hitch hiking and stuck my deformed thumb out to get picked up and no one would pick me up. “FREAK!” “BEHEMOTH!” “RIGHT ANGLE!” They would scream at me as I cried on the side of the road. So what I have to use my first knuckle to push on things? Who cares that the police have to remind me that they do not want knuckle creases on their finger prints? My deformity is my evolution and it is about time that our nation embraced this and what better way than changing the nations motto?

    So on this day of eternal thanks and celebration of temporary peace between murderous white people and native american indians, I want to give thanks, nay, give great celebration to my deformities and to all those of the readers of this deformed blog.

    Thank You and Merry Thanksgiving!

  • My First Blowjob

     

    My dick is bigger than yours!” Collin exclaimed, folding the tips of his fingers over mine. It looked like the scene in Tarzan when Jane presses her dainty palm against the wild beast-man’s hand. “Your dick is the same size as your middle finger. See, mines bigger than yours, a lot bigger. You have a small dick,” he explained, showing its alleged size with his thumb and index. Since this was a gross overestimate, I remained silent, not sure if I should correct his mistake.

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  • So what were you in high school?

    So what were you in high school?

    Nirvana and Marilyn Manson patch on the white out painted backpack … you were Candace the “I don’t care” hesher girl.

    Over weight and jolly … you were Jebediah who “turned out to be gay” guy.

    Cute, but excessively shy girl with carefully hanging bangs … you were Christina the “study until I get into Harvard” girl.

    Got your girlfriend pregnant at 15 and were cool for it … you were Travis the “failed sex ed” guy.

    Exceedingly intelligent with a social problem of making every situation in life a scene from Seinfeld … you were Eric “my parents never let me play with my friends” guy.

    Came up with an acronym to represent your group of friends like TCFS crew … you were the “too cool for school” guy.

    Asian and proud of your high score at the arcade for Street fighter 12: Marvel heroes vs Jacki Chan … you were Matt the “unusually good virtual dancer who never danced with a real girl” guy.

    And on and on and on …

    So where did I fall?

    Captain of the soccer team, doubles tennis star, and vice president of the Ping-Pong club would suggest I was Brock the “never take my letterman jacket off” jock guy. But I wasn’t.

    My solid schedule of nerdy honors classes would suggest I was Melvin the “took my SATs two years early” nerd guy. But I wasn’t.

    My refusal to drink and do drugs might give you the idea that I was Johnny “don’t fuck with me I’m straight edge” guy. But I wasn’t.

    So I ask again, where did I fall in the high school social strata?

    Well ladies and gentleman, I invite you now to know, understand, and appreciate exactly what I did when I was not on the fields or courts or behind the books.

    I was a gamer.

    The key to this story is to understand that in the waning years of the 20th century, their existed a tiny gap in our technological lifespan where the communication channels of the burgeoning internet were slow and came bundled with loud modem sounds and screams of siblings telling you to get off the computer so they could use the phone. In this brief snapshot of time, I found my social circle.

    What is a LAN party?

    There was no option, to circumvent annoyingly slow modem speeds, we would have LAN parties at someone’s house. Laptops did not exist at this point. So you packed up your 32 pound monitor, three foot tall computer tower, keyboard, mouse, cables, network cable, speakers, chair, and a table and “gamed” at your buddies house.

    Speakers were frowned upon so most of us acquired 5.1 channel surround sound headsets that would loosen a vertebrate with every fatality. Imagine walking into a room with 10 glowing computer monitors, with 10 young adults staring at them and not a single sound to be heard except for rapid clicking and then without warning…

    “Ahhh FUCK YOU man, I was reloading.”

    “Dude, who took the chain gun?”

    “Eric! Stop fucking stealing all my porn! I can see you doing it!”

    “Alright guys, you ready … lets go.” And no one moves a physical muscle.

    The Early Days

    We began modestly with a core group of guys. LAN parties were simple, you showed up, plugged in, and were gaming in a matter of minutes. Organizing a party was no more than telling your parents that you were going to have a few friends over.

    For most of us, our virtual identities were established and I myself adopted l0c0luke with zeros and which I still use to this day for many online identities. Ballnchink made a name for himself early. BadKarma was never far away for that head shot. The twins of congerific and Congerking were bastards behind the Gatling gun and were always good for a good turrets blurt out. A virtually living legend was born in the form of Raven who’s blood coursed with Pepsi and was, in all forms, the comic book shop guy from the Simpsons. Dahpimpsta received some of the nastiest jewish slurs to have existed. And the godfather of them all was BuckWilder who amazed us all with his own apartment designed for gaming and a hot girlfriend.

    The times they were a good.

    The Pinnacle

    From those humble beginnings was born a wild beast that would thrash through my weekends for the next three years. Our community and momentum had grown and it was not uncommon to have a dozen or more gamers at a LAN party. But one hot and humid summer afternoon, the gaming gods aligned, and the ultimate LAN party of all time happened. My dad had access to dangerously high-powered networking equipment and a desire to watch his electric meter spin faster than anything we had seen before. We had an excess of space, tables, chairs, and most importantly, time.

    The gamers arrived. We stacked them on top of each other passing out extension cords and power strips and vague directions of where to sit. I had bunkered down in my air conditioned bedroom with a select few friends as the mayhem and noise heightened in the living room. By mid afternoon we had 24 gamers piled into the house, overflowing onto the patio, and sitting on the kitchen counters. Faces were lit bright with rocket launchers and an endless quantity of porn, music, and movies to be shared/stolen.

    The power went out several times under the weight of 5000 watts being consumed a second which was followed by howls and shrieks that would bring a chill to even the most comfortable gamer sitting in an air conditioned room on a separate power circuit.

    Despite the whining Asians I didn’t even know, and the pleas for more power, and the constant knocking for entry into the air conditioned room, and the small fortune spent on power, it was a perfect gaming day. A day that will never be repeated and a day that would bring our nerdy social circle its high watermark as we all gamed our way towards the end of an era.

    The Money

    I can remember the day clearly when I sat down at the gaming table and the guy next to me looked at my screen, and then looked at me, and then laughed as if I had just urinated in my pants while talking to a girl. I had never felt so bad and it was all because my video card was not 3D accelerated. That night my dad and I sniped an auction on EBay for a new one and it was all down hill from there. Video cards, ergonomic mice that had fans inside to keep your unnaturally sweaty palms dry, water cooled computers that gave you super abilities, headphones that caressed your scrotum while you played … if you had the money, you could kill better than your friends, and that’s all that mattered.

    The Deceit

    Clandestine alliances were formed and it became very clear in our virtual world. Did you feel betrayed when your girlfriend cheated on you? Did you feel depressed when your dog was hit by a car in front of you while it’s blood splattered on your new white shoes? Did rage engulf you when the lunch lady refused to accept pennies as a form of payment? Well all these things hold no relevance after you have just spent two days locked in your room with four other guys trying to beat a game that culminates with your “buddy”, who has been sitting to your left for these 48 hours, literally stabbing you in the back (in the game) and taking all that you had worked so hard for. My virtual avatar slumped to the ground, and my real human heart shattered. I wanted to cry. I wanted to break ball massaging mouse pads. I wanted to give up.

    The Alcohol

    Gaming is a very exact social activity. There is not much room for error when strafing around a blind corner and rocket jumping to the other side of the room and switching to your sniper rifle in mid leap to claim a headshot and then landing with your knife drawn for a bare handed kill. Well giving a bunch of pasty skin youths alcohol and then asking them to do these professional feats of assassination is simply laughable. Watching your friend stumble across a narrow bridge and drowning in the lava without turning on his force field just makes you shake your head in shame.

    I remember waking up one morning with my left cheek flat on my keyboard and only one headphone on after a particularly late night of gaming and beers. I had been firing some sort of loud weapon that was jarring my headphones for the last 5 hours. I thought I was being attacked with a large explosive on my right side for the next two days.

    The Depravity

    When Diablo 2 came out, I lost a week of my life to Beelzebub himself. I left my room only for short food breaks and soccer practice. A few of my friends never left and slept as they played in some sort of half sleep, half button clicking trance. When we had finally “won”, we all realized in a moment of depravity that indeed we had all lost, and lost significantly.

    The factions were rife and organizing a multiplayer game was practically impossible. Some people came over only to steal music and videos and porn and programs. Others came over only to use your recently installed ISDN line to play with other LAN parties around the world.

    The LAN Party was losing it’s cool and no one was fighting back nor did they want to.

    Our gaming existence would eventually become extinct and we were to be no more. The high speed Internet arrived and the need to interact with other people was less and less appealing. Many gamers chose a solitary life of independent gaming that in many cases would last for many years. Others, like myself, chose to walk away with a tip of the hat to the beast that motivated me for three years and give her a polite “Thanks, but no thanks.”

     

     

     

  • Cat Calls

    Cat Calls

    Calling people is weird.  So glad we text stuff now.  Talking in real time gives me the willies. I feel like I should have flash cards or a TiVo remote in case I don’t know what to do.  But some people are pros at it.

    Example!

    In 2007 I was living in Newport with Watson, Chef, and Sunshine.  Our water heater and electrical system had busted and it was one of those beach town winters where you realize no one insulates anything because “it’s California!” but they forget a 50 degree night + wind has the potential to kill everyone.

    Sunshine tried to burn plants in order to keep everyone warm.  I lit candles for Catholic saints.  Watson cuddled with the television.  Chef paced back and forth to keep his body temp up.  The effects of all were middling.

    Chef snapped first.  He started screaming about inequities, American rights, and common decency.  He was so worked up he picked up a phone at 11pm and called our landlord.

    Now that actually might sound like the rational thing to do, but it’s absolutely not.

    As four 21 year old males, it was our goal to keep as far away from the landlord as possible, telephone or otherwise.  In fact, we’d only seen and talked to him once — briefly — when we viewed the apartment, and he’d done nothing but use a lot of swear words while talking about prevoius tenants and their wanton use of “wires”.

    Landlord Jack, to us, was the scary man at the end of the bar.

    Don’t look him in the eyes.

     

    The phone rang twice before Chef remembered this and hung up.

    But we wouldn’t let him off that easy.  All of us wanted to see Chef do what none of us could.  And all of us wanted the heat/electricity turned on.  So we goaded Chef to call back… on speakerphone.

    It rang, rang, rang… and thank God it went to voicemail.

    Now the outgoing message on the landlord’s machine was where things got strange.  It was longwinded, stilted in punctuation, and my transcript of it is somewhat shoddy due to the fact that I wrote it on paper with only the light of Catholic saints.  But… God’s honest truth… Landlord Jack’s answering machine went like this:

     

    “We’re unable to pick up the phone right now,

    But if you’re calling for Lloyd,

    It is our deepest regret to inform you

    that he passed away

    This last Thursday

    After his long battle with leukemia.

    He will be buried

    At Eternal Meadows

    On Sepulveda and Beach

    At 1pm Sunday.

    You may leave a message here

    with your fondest memories

    of Lloyd.

    Thank you so much for your concern

    He was the best cat

    We’ve ever known.”

     

    BEEP.

    Now, you’ve got to imagine that the entire time the phone was ringing, and even while the answering machine clicked on, Chef was rehearsing what sort of message he could leave.

    So at what point do you think his plan faded away / shattered into a million pieces?  Lloyd?  Passed away?  Luekemia?  Fondest memories?  Cat?

    And the implications…

    • Who else had called, specifically or incidentally, for Lloyd?
    • What type of phone calls did Lloyd field when he was still alive?
    • Where did he find the time? (especially towards the end, in between treatments)
    • Can anyone ever truly “know” a cat?

    BEEP

    Time’s up.  What’s your  message?

    I don’t know either.

    Chef held his hand over the phone and stared at us with bulged out eyes.  It was either terror or insanity.  Our laughter died down.

    Channeled by some unseen force, Chef began to leave his message:

     

    LLOYD…

    LLOYD

    YOU DIRTY SON OF A BITCH

    I KNOW

    I KNOW YOU’RE NOT DEAD

    I KNOW OK?

    GIVE ME MY $50

    SERIOUS

    THIS IS EDWARD

    FROM THE [spearmint] RHINO

    YOU’RE FOOLING

    NO ONE

    …

    MEOW.

     

    And that was it.  Next day, swear to candles, our water heater and electricity were fixed.

     

  • Dear JAC, Two Castrations Please

    Dear JAC, Two Castrations Please

    Dear JAC Bus Company,

    I write to you in hopes that two people will be castrated and stricken from the employee records of your company, and with any luck, stricken from the human record for all of time and space.

    Allow me to set the scene so you can sympathize with my wanton desire to remove testicles…

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  • My First Match.com Date

    My First Match.com Date

    I’ve decided to jump back into the world of online dating. I joined Match.com in hopes of finding the perfect : fun loving, adventurous, down to earth, easy going, outgoing, passionate about music, loves to go out but also enjoys staying in, sassy and smart, new-to-this-whole-online-dating-thing-and-still-thinks-it-weird-but-thought-she’d-give-it-a-try girl. I chose Match.com over some of the free alternatives like Plenty of Fish because I appreciate the commitment it takes to give out your credit card information and spend 25 bucks a month to find love.

     

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  • 9 Things I Hate About Walking

    9 Things I Hate About Walking

    There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that I am, by far and away, the fastest walker in Santiago. And to take advantage of my obligatory and permanent label of “ignorant gringo”, I will conclude that a Chilean walker is no different than any other Latino walker. Thus making me the fastest walker in all of South America… fact. So what could I hate about walking when I am the clear champion of the southern hemisphere and no one should be able to stop me? Well many things, and it is my innate ability to overcome these problems that got me where I am today. If you are a slow or bad walker, or what I like to call a “slawker”, you may never have thought of any of these things because you are dead smack in the middle of doing these things… all the time.

    1) Turning your head more than 15 degrees to either side.

    If you are walking straight forward, and you turn your head more than 15 degrees to either side, you better divert your course in that direction or you have just become a slawker. Without a clear field of view in front of you, you cannot be expected to walk without causing chaos.

    2) Taking a slow slant across the sidewalk to get to the other side without looking

    This is the most efficient way to fuck over the most people in the most amount of time making you the most hated person on the sidewalk. You are not in an inner tube laying on your back, with a bag of beer attached to you cooling in the water, as you kick lazily and flap idioticly with your hands to cross a slow moving current. You are in the middle of a high speed sidewalk so you better know exactly when you are to get off, and make it happen with precision and hastiness.

    3) Fail to move a shoulder or turn your body as people approach you when there is not much room.

    You are a fucking dick. Have common courtesy for your fellow species. There is no reason you should feel that you are more important than another walker so that you should never have to turn your body or bow your shoulder to let someone fit through a gap. Nor are you the better person to turn and look back at the person who just bumped you. Douche bag.

    4) Stopping on a staircase

    This is never acceptable, never. It is tiring enough climbing a staircase and it sure as hell is frustrating enough to put both my feet on the same stair as I mentally urge you to walk faster. But when you ignore my mental urgings and stop, and I ram my head into your jello butt that had me hypnotized just enough to slow my reactions down, it makes me want to throw my shoe at you. If you dropped something, forget about it. If you forgot something behind, you will need to use the designated stairs for going down. If you are tired, sack up and get on with it before I push you over.

    5) Walking four people wide

    Firstly, if I am one of the four, I hate this situation because I cannot hear what the hell is going on. But imagine the 80 meter queue of people behind you and your arm linked friends. Are you playing red rover red rover? Are you trying out for that burlesque dance with the high kicking legs? Are you stopping a crowd as they riot around you? Unless you are doing any of these things, immediately deconstruct your wall of in-passe, and go down to two by two. You will be a lot happier as well as the released flow of people going past you.

    6) Wildly flailing your arms as if you have a mental disorder

    Maybe more common in South America, especially Argentina. But to think it’s just a “thing that happens” as you back hand slap someone to your side as they are trying to pass you, is just plain wrong, and you are two steps closer to being a salted slug of the earth.

    7) Gazing up, browsing around, and looking at this and that

    Sudden stops will ruin governments, computers, machinery, and it sure as hell will destroy a sidewalk. When you decide to gander at that cute top or new computer game, you just unleashed chaos and that ain’t cool in my book. Be courteous and look to the side or behind you before making drastic decisions on the sidewalk. But this would break rule one, so even better if you feel uncomfortable breaking rule one, is to put a hand out to the side pointing down and shout out “Slowing!!”

    8) Choosing the far left door when you have to turn right or vice versa

    Try and think ahead more than five seconds. There are a lot of doors because likely there are a lot of people using them. It is not cool to leave a door and immediately run into your perpendicular adventure that should have nothing to do with me.

    9) Not staying to the side on an escalator if you are not walking.

    Why? Do you really need a sign every few meters going up to tell you to do this? Just because we are getting a free vertical lift doesn’t mean I am not going to take advantage of the opportunity to feel like I am walking super extra fast.

    For sure at some point I have committed some of these errors, but I learned. I learned from my mistakes and saw the misery I caused and I aim to never do them again. Unless you are old, a young child, mentally or physically handicapped, or drunk, you have no excuse to repetitively commit the errors above.

    Now don’t get me wrong… I once ordered 25 guys to walk with with an italian walk whenever they saw me or one of my 50 fraternity bothers. An italian walk consists of your hands clasped behind your back, you lean back like you are almost about to lean on something, and walk slowly like there is nothing in the world you are trying to get to. I can appreciate the joy of life and the things there are to see while walking slow. But in general I am an efficiency walker, that’s why I have a motorcycle that takes me around at 175mph and many bicycles that are far more efficient than a car.

    I hope I pop into your head the next time someone runs into you on the sidewalk and gives you a look like “gawwd, who the fuck is this slawker?”

  • Bolivian Visa Run

    Bolivian Visa Run

    One of the luxuries/drawbacks of being a quazi-illegal immigrant with a UK and USA passport living in Chile is that you must collect another tourist visa every 90 days. Combine this obligatory task with a love for adventure and mayhem and you have one happy Luke. My method of travel is to arbitrarily elect a “must do in my life” goal, then make absolutely zero effort with regards to planning or preparing for that goal irrelevant of it’s very possible dangers and pitfalls, and then head off in what I believe to be the right direction. Well a few weeks ago I decided to renew the visa and complete a “must do in my life goal” of climbing a 6,000+ meter mountain (roughly 20,000 feet) in the very beautiful and challenging Bolivian mountains.

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  • Ipecac

    Ipecac

    I do not consider myself an evil man. I open doors for the ladies. I will cross a busy highway to help a wheelchair up a curb. I don’t step on cracks to avoid breaking my mother’s back. In general, I love everything and everyone on this planet and do my best to contribute to our continued growth and development. But one hilarious and cruel evening, I faltered. This story is about the time I anti-poisoned Grant.

    This page puts it rather well … http://www.break.com/index/ipecac-vomit-prank.html

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