tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45994696764654906322024-03-13T12:37:30.816-07:00Shadow TalkerThink of what we are capable ofJohn Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-27351487086095280802010-04-06T03:33:00.001-07:002010-04-06T03:41:00.609-07:00All I Needif only i could wrap my arms around your lovelyness. embrace the sweet tranquility of your warm soft dreaming. keep it tucked close inside me for safe keeping while im gone to remind me of you and your perfect. <br />
replete with lovelyness, kindness, strength, purity <br />
then i would.John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-53498906824701136982010-02-04T01:09:00.000-08:002010-02-04T01:09:15.654-08:00The Old Man & The GateTHE OLD MAN had been there for days. In the park standing by the center gate, waving his cane in every direction. "Get out," the old man screamed. His face was ragged and pale, hidden mostly by a beard thickened with mud. His trench coat was two times his size, hung off his back like a cape. The townspeople watched the old man who had taken control of Gate Park. They kept their nervous eyes on him while they ran errands to the market or picked up their children from school. Day or night the old man could be found pacing back and forth between the ends of the gate at the center of the park. The gate was old metal painted green to hide the rust. Tall and grandiose in design it was the last standing relic of the previous settlement. The old gate had been the entrance to a beautiful church, before it and the town, burned to the ground in 43. After the terrible blaze all that was left standing was the gate. It was the pride of the town, a standing tribute to their courage and determination in the face of total destruction. Now this crazy old man stalked the opening of the gate like a caged tiger. <br />
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"Get out. Turn around now. You won't get through here, not while I'm kicking." The man swung his cane violently through the air and let out a dry laugh. <br />
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Sheriff Mackenzie watched on with the townspeople at the strange show that the man put on. Other people kept to their business; running, playing ball on the field, couples were even rolling on big blankets enjoying the summer sun. But it was obvious the old man's rants were beginning to impede on the peace of the community. <br />
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"He was fine when he first showed up," said Ms. Berkley, who owned the bakery across the street from the park. She had taken great interest in the old man the minute she saw him and had been watching him since his arrival. <br />
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"At first he was just standing there like one of those British Guards. Not saying anything to no one and barely moving." <br />
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Ms. Berkely talked with her fingers in her hair. She smelled like fresh bread and just talking to her was making Sheriff Mac hungry. Other members of the local businesses were gathering around. The sheriff knew them all of course; he had helped or arrested each of them at one point or another. There were all good or bad people depending on the situations they were put in. Each one of them a liar or a saint on any given day, but he knew them all and cared for them. Except for this old man. Who was he? How had he appeared suddenly like an apparition and why to this park in his town? <br />
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"Aren't you going to do something? Tom Schall was red in the face. "He's obviously a menace." Tom's hand reached down and took hold of his six year old daughter's hand, squeezing it tight. "Something has to be done." The others cheered in agreement. <br />
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"Calm down, I'll go over there and talk to him." Mackenzie tilted his hat to keep the sun out of his eyes and with his thumb he unbuttoned the latch on his gun belt, freeing his 45. <br />
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The old man didn't even seem to notice the sheriff approaching. His eyes were a wild blue. The bluest eyes Mac had ever seen in his whole life. They were blue like the ocean in dreams and they darted around scanning the whole area for some unseen enemy. Mackenzie put his hand on his gun. He hoped he wasn't going to have to use it; hoped that the old man wasn't going to be any trouble. Maybe he was just drunk or depressed maybe? It never ceased to amaze him what a sad man would do. How many strange acts had he seen blamed on a broken heart. He hoped that it was something like that and nothing sinister. <br />
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The sheriff crossed the street and walked to the park. He tried to keep his walk calm and steady, smiling at those in the park watching curiously. The pink gravel shifted beneath his boots as he walked down the path to the gate. Beautiful rows of sunflowers and tall trees with low hanging leaves, making a tunnel straight to the gate and the old man. <br />
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The old goat was still pacing, crouched and hunched over like a beaten servant. His coat was still hanging loose on him, dragging behind him at his feet. Mackenzie took in the old man, he was shorter than he'd expected. All this trouble from such a small man. <br />
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His shoes were too small, his toes sticking out of the busted front, giant toes like hunks of sausage dirty from the street and endless hours of walking it. He pounded his chest and would hoot and holler in victory cries that echoed in the trees. He'd swing his cane over his head. Good god, that cane. An aluminum cylinder that became thin to a point like a large sewing needle. Unlike the man, the cane was in perfect condition, shining brilliantly in the light. He swung it around carelessly and jabbed at the air, then stood still, panting heavy like a pregnant dog. He was sweating, tired. Maybe he’d tired himself out. Sheriff Mackenzie spoke loud and confidently, this was his town and everyone watching was going to know it -- and everyone was watching. <br />
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"Now listen old man, you've had your fun. But I think it's time you calm down." The old man stood solid and still, his blonde hair now brown from dirt and gray from dust. He looked at sheriff Mac with focused eyes that never moved. Mackenzie looked over his shoulder, was he looking at someone behind him?<br />
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"If you think that you will pass through here, you are stepping into certain death," the man shouted. His voice was harsh, the weigh and sting of rage on every word<br />
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“You don’t make the rules old man. I’m the law here and if you don’t calm down, I’ll put you down.” Mackenzie was surprised by the anger in his voice but the old bastard was stirring up all kinds of trouble. And those big blue eyes filled with wild anger were making him nervous.<br />
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“You hear what I said?” The sheriff reached for his walkie, “Mel, speed your ass down to the old gate park on the double.” It was clear as crystal that the old vagrant was crazy. He hated crazies like all cops. The crazies were what haunted every officer’s dreams. The one crazy you meet that makes you treat everyone else on the planet with a suspicious eye. And there was no doubt in the well-seasoned sheriff’s mind that this old coot was bat-shit. <br />
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The old man was getting his energy back, taking deep breathes to feed his words. “I’m the last one; you think that means I’ll go easy.” He spat each word but not to the sheriff but to the trees and the sky and the flowers. All around him; to the whole world he screamed. <br />
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“But I won’t. I shall be the hardest to kill, the most deadly to you and your kind.” His lungs struggled to keep up with his hatred, straining his throat down to tired squeals. “You will all shed blood before I’m dead!” He yelled a bloodthirsty cry and raised his cane like a club. Swinging and shouting, it was a pathetic display of athletics. His swings were slow and awkward; his kicks barely left the safety of the ground. But the man still shouted and fought his invisible enemies. Mackenzie tried to hide his smile as he closed the distance between himself and the old man. To think he’d actually been afraid of the old bastard for a second there. “Alright pops, lets talk this out back at the jailhouse.” He felt bad for the old man kind of. In a way he was right. You didn’t see a lot of these crazy homeless anymore. Time was you’d just ignore them, keep them off the busy streets. But as the times changed and the population grew every street was a busy street. There simply wasn’t a place for these old railroad wanderer crazy types. But that wasn’t his problem. He reached out for the old man’s shoulder, grabbed his loose jacket—felt something odd. <br />
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Sheriff Mackenzie stumbled back and fell to the ground exhausted. His head, arms, legs; every part of his body felt heavy and numb. He couldn’t explain it; it was like he had been completely drained. The old man was revitalized, spinning faster and swinging his club like a baseball pro. Mackenzie looked up at the man in terror. He crawled away, gravel cutting his fingers and pants. People watching started to scream, running in all directions across the park. Other brave men, trying to prove themselves in dangerous times, tried to tackle the old man to the ground. But they too fell to the ground dazed and drained of all their energy. The old man moved quicker still, stabbing and slicing the air and kicking high above his head, leaping into the air like a gymnast. The old man bowed after bringing his cane hard to the gravel. He stumbled, weakening. The old man stopped and stared Mackenzie dead in his eyes; Mackenzie reached for his gun. There was no doubt about it this time; he was looking right at him. The old man ran like a track star, heading straight towards the sheriff, his arm outstretched to grab at Mackenzie with that cane high above his head. The image popped into his head before he could question it: the old man’s hand wrapped around the sheriff’s collar draining him of life while he brought that shimmering cane down on his skull. Mackenzie pulled the gun from his holster and fired; one, two, three shots into the old man’s chest. He staggered and fell to the ground, his body crumpled and useless. <br />
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Then Mackenzie felt it: searing, acid-burning in his brain. It was passing through him, it felt like a barbeque pit and sounded like a million people screaming inside of his head. Sheriff Mackenzie clutched his ears shut as the energy passed through him like the wind, heading straight down the path, over the dead old man towards the gate.<br />
<br />
The pain stopped but Mackenzie swore he could still hear something but what was it…laughing? It was laughter, a heavy laugh that was guttural and brought no joy to whoever heard it, only fear. <br />
<br />
The gate went up in flames, bright red flames that stretched up to the sky and set the clouds on fire. The leaves of the trees became dark as ash and the whole world became dreary and lost to darkness. One by one monsters of the most terrible kind came marching from the opening of the gate. They had the heads of snakes, bodies of insects and all of them with multiple black eyes, seeing everywhere. Through the opening of the gate a black church burned and demons prayed all around it. The flames shined a horrible light around Sheriff Mackenzie who could see laying around him the bodies of hundreds slain demons. Dismembered their bodies still clung to their blades, their armor was cracked and the whole path seemed soaked in their blood. The slaughtered monsters all fallen around the old man; now motionless, dead, his cane lay next to him transformed into a glittering flaming sword. Tiny impish demons crawled around the Old Man’s body, dragging him towards the gate to string him up as a prize and just for a moment Mackenzie swore that he saw….wings under the man’s coat. <br />
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All those dead demons, he had been watching the gate for days, defending it. <br />
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“He was the last one.” Mac spoke the words and felt all hope leave him. He heard the people of his town screaming and calling for him. He saw the monsters pick up fleeing people and throw them into the air to catch them in their hungry mouths.<br />
<br />
The flames spread farther out in every direction, beyond the park, beyond the town into forever. <br />
<br />
“Good God,” he cried “what did I do?”John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-70863276347388913252010-01-30T13:14:00.000-08:002010-01-30T13:16:40.305-08:00What It's Like When Your Not Round (A Love Song)<em>There are homeless sleeping in the trenches</em><br />
<em>watching discount VHS'</em><br />
<em>I see dogs that walk their masters</em><br />
<em>alarms that don't siren disasters </em><br />
<em>Parents have their kids in cages</em><br />
<em>I know that this must sound outrageous </em><br />
<em>But bears are shitting in the sewers</em><br />
<em>Worms ate all my fishing lures</em><br />
<em>I know how crazy this all sounds</em><br />
<em>Thats what it's like when your not round</em><br />
<em>My TV's only playing static</em><br />
<em>hospitals creating addicts</em><br />
<em>My name has changed, I tell you that?</em><br />
<em>Buddhists planning sneak attacks</em><br />
<em>Ants are thinking for themselves</em><br />
<em>There are hundreds in the wishing well</em><br />
<em>I know how crazy this all sounds</em><br />
<em>Thats what it's like when your not round</em><br />
<em>Clouds are heavy filled with bricks</em><br />
<em>The rich folks moved out to the sticks</em><br />
<em>Papers made of human skin</em><br />
<em>Oh no, here we go again</em><br />
<em>I know how crazy this all sounds</em><br />
<em>Thinking of going underground</em><br />
<em>I wish that I was homeward bound</em><br />
<em>Cuz thats what Its like when your not round</em>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-84459808223921687642009-11-10T13:45:00.000-08:002009-11-10T16:06:30.475-08:00XKCDI love this comic. It makes me smile. It also finalizes my placement into the geek box because I think science and computer jokes are funny sometimes too. <br />
<br />
Anyway aside from being just plain fantastic the comic also sometimes hits on things I'm thinking about a lot or even feeling (which is the sign of a great....anything)<br />
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Things like:<br />
I am not an adult.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY6pwa5JGwr5rVxkmhfLHOh9SwPEFWYa0nCLOOpLzoXdszNNVnf2SrbpFbwEMc3ZH4LFp5jBTYyeTZ7W5ezxCGELr_eZ6lDfX0Yoabef90SLF-S7njfVW38uSxVZrAe50l5GfVq5GoQHU/s1600-h/lease.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="87" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY6pwa5JGwr5rVxkmhfLHOh9SwPEFWYa0nCLOOpLzoXdszNNVnf2SrbpFbwEMc3ZH4LFp5jBTYyeTZ7W5ezxCGELr_eZ6lDfX0Yoabef90SLF-S7njfVW38uSxVZrAe50l5GfVq5GoQHU/s320/lease.png" width="320" /></a><br />
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Hollywood is not to far off.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZt8ME3gSJEwGGJG9gFjM1P4Ug_h3ih57sGLnqFhxh_G4caHemAhpSI-eiXOoULeASut6reDGkCFp8ItvgyXFW7Rkh697ERyIAn_CZbdOAJ71zLuh25qMPja63WgtKapJvRrSN9CxTZE/s1600-h/blockbuster_mining.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZt8ME3gSJEwGGJG9gFjM1P4Ug_h3ih57sGLnqFhxh_G4caHemAhpSI-eiXOoULeASut6reDGkCFp8ItvgyXFW7Rkh697ERyIAn_CZbdOAJ71zLuh25qMPja63WgtKapJvRrSN9CxTZE/s320/blockbuster_mining.png" width="320" /></a><br />
</div><br />
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feeling this way about someone, thats a good feeling.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihhUy8vysweKJBQs9i_R-YF4kDRSU7N96Hnc4gqWzRE3PWCthPsTDlCNigBDVhyMtmAHzG-o7aXoW5EsdPjB0arh1zfhhr8Uuap-34ebUEJeCg5hz8wmEq8FESlv81Q7MxZLGJfpM8Zhg/s1600-h/light.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihhUy8vysweKJBQs9i_R-YF4kDRSU7N96Hnc4gqWzRE3PWCthPsTDlCNigBDVhyMtmAHzG-o7aXoW5EsdPjB0arh1zfhhr8Uuap-34ebUEJeCg5hz8wmEq8FESlv81Q7MxZLGJfpM8Zhg/s320/light.jpg" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; text-decoration: underline;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">and the last one, which pretty much states how I feel about everything. </span></span><br />
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</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE50d5FpwBKht0AClxa02rFnCzrz7svEBfnapj1BAvwsTEWADvxjo0M__31Jz4LYY-BIHbeofA_JxB48lrMnycXihLfC3IlOe5CJaAOtR4LFq-_fe-kubCchOrAWnjGfwHmDtekkeIfc4/s1600-h/dreams.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE50d5FpwBKht0AClxa02rFnCzrz7svEBfnapj1BAvwsTEWADvxjo0M__31Jz4LYY-BIHbeofA_JxB48lrMnycXihLfC3IlOe5CJaAOtR4LFq-_fe-kubCchOrAWnjGfwHmDtekkeIfc4/s400/dreams.png" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">Amen. </span><br />
</div>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-2635421300118697582009-11-09T08:20:00.001-08:002009-11-09T08:20:31.200-08:00So This is What That Feels LikeIm really enjoying the feeling of being happy consecutive days in a row.John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-10880709818435111022009-11-03T15:05:00.000-08:002009-11-03T15:05:31.094-08:00Random dialogueJerry: Hey duder. Come here.<br />
Tom: What's going on Jer?<br />
Jerry: Tell me do you see that stain on the driveway?<br />
Tom: What stain, Jer?<br />
Jerry: That stain right there. Does that look like blood to you?<br />
Tom: Gee, I dunno. Let me take a look....<br />
*GUNSHOT*<br />
Jerry: Yep. Thought it was blood. Thanks Tom. <br />
Tom: ....John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-23204074391929323632009-10-29T17:30:00.001-07:002009-10-29T17:30:30.462-07:00Forced HappinessEver feel like people are trying to put one of these on you? <br />
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<object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=7283341&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=7283341&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/7283341">happiness hat</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/lmccart">Lauren McCarthy</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-74426502213516230712009-10-28T11:39:00.000-07:002009-10-28T11:43:39.583-07:00Halloween is Coming: So Let's Get Scared!Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. I love it. And since it is quickly approaching I thought I would share some scary thing.<br />
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First up is a TV Episode called "THE CLOWN" from an old show called One Step Beyond.<br />
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A man pins a murder on a mute clown and thinks he's gotten away with it. But then every time he looks into a reflective surface he sees the clown sneaking up behind him. <br />
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It's about 30 minutes and it's scary as all hell. Give it a watch when you have the time and I promise you won't be disappointed.<br />
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First part is below.<br />
Comment and let me know what you think? Should I post more of this kind of stuff?<br />
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<object width="320" height="265"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kdnmfxzQlAA&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kdnmfxzQlAA&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="320" height="265"></embed></object>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-15841373452161096682009-10-27T15:46:00.000-07:002009-10-27T15:48:39.031-07:00See You In My Nightmares<object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QbjNJ3Ogqlw&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QbjNJ3Ogqlw&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-49394009948001941092009-09-30T17:52:00.000-07:002009-09-30T17:54:28.002-07:00Meaningless Thing That Pisses me Off today<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">OSLO, Norway (AP) -- American rap artist and actor Will Smith </span>and his wife, the actress Jada Pinkett Smith, will co-host this year's Nobel Peace Prize Concert in Oslo, organizers said Wednesday.<br /></span><br />an excerpt from the AP today.<br /><br /><br />How the hell is the most sought after, successful, box-office smashing actor of ALL TIME, still billed because of his music career first. Is it perhaps because he's black?<br /><br /><br />*Not really pissed off about this*<br />I think i just needed to post something.John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-34546095110667472372009-09-30T12:59:00.001-07:002009-09-30T12:59:13.004-07:00Taming of the Bull: A PoemBlinding rage<br />Seeing red<br />dizzy thoughts and confused logic<br />punching walls, ignoring calls<br />throwing phones and books<br />not a body to touch or speak or hold<br />no placement for my foot to hold<br />blinding rage<br />seeing red<br />blood and bullets<br />wish for dead<br />out of my body looking in<br />trying hard to find a friend<br />going crazy<br />not going, gone<br />lost to reason's calming song<br />suddenly a face, a voice<br />so familiar<br />red is fading<br />becoming clearer<br />no longer blind<br />and so I see<br />the one who's calling out to me<br />calms me down<br />makes me sane<br />So I can try<br />to live againJohn Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-75802443298076606322009-09-28T11:30:00.000-07:002009-09-28T11:31:32.932-07:00Corporate Wisdom<em><span style="font-size:85%;">"It's better if you act as if everything is important" </span></em>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-10403388235941334762009-09-25T14:38:00.000-07:002009-09-25T14:50:01.117-07:00Just So You KnowAs a man, being referred to as "small" and being told that "I look like haven't changed since high school" is not a compliment.John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-90545204680262714122009-09-24T11:55:00.000-07:002009-09-24T12:10:49.557-07:00Corporate Wisdom<span style="font-size:85%;">Everyday in the office people throw out little lines of advice to me the struggling part-timer to help me climb the ladder of success. I will post my favorites as they come.<br /><br />"</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Try to shy away from giving the people facts, if they have facts they can be used against us." </span>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-87567273583240764912009-09-23T14:27:00.001-07:002009-09-23T14:27:32.905-07:00Journal of a Watcher<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">I wake up. My eyes are fogged and blurry making it hard to search around the room for my glasses. Everything shifts and moves nothing retains any specific shape.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style=""> </span>“Where am I?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">I’m sitting up, drool dripping down my lips connected to my local college sweatshirt. I fell asleep at my desk again. Classy. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style=""> </span>My hands dance along my desk and knock over the empty bottle of Jack. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Finally I feel something familiar; small, thin framed. I slide my glasses onto my face and everything comes back into focus. The nameless nothings all become real. My floor covered in old clothes, sneakers and jerseys. My desk covered in pills, half-full glasses, plates with half eaten food and my monitors. I grab my phone and check the time. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style=""> </span>“11:30 Christ.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Been asleep for 12 hours. Some watcher I turned out to be. The silver hue of my monitors lights the room. I push my bare feet hard on the ground and my wheeled chair takes off as I make my runs. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">30 monitors. 1 for each person. 30 people whose lives are in my hands chosen at random by the men who chose things and every six months these 30 stop being under my watchful eye and another random set is sent into my home. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Mr. Yomachi who works out naked in his living room. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Mrs. Kensington is still reading that Steven King Book. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Charlie Sanders always checks his phone when his wife leaves the room. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">None of these people are dangerous; none of them terrorists, none of these people want to blow up Central Holdings. But somewhere out there, is someone who wants to. And they don’t because they’re afraid I’m watching them right now. All day, everyday. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Senior Castanada is about to drink from the gallon of milk that his wife told him to throw out two weeks ago.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Michelle is combing her hair, 22 times, 23 times, 24 times. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Robert reads to his son. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">This is my life. Watching you live yours. This is must be how St. Peter feels.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">While I watch Frank Gorbsy try to find something good on TV I reach down and pick up the 3 days old Chinese Food box off my floor and start digging in. This is when I start getting sad. Watching someone watch, it’s like setting two mirrors up to face each other and watching the reflections go on for infinity. Then I think about the poor schmuck who has to watch me. The thought sends chills down my back for a second. I remind myself I make good money for this job. My large government paycheck keeps the chills at bay, I could live in a nice condo in the zero sector if it wasn’t for the crushing guilt. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">I throw the Chinese food towards at the bin. It bounces off the edge and lands on the floor sending shrimp fried rice all over my floor, the bugs will be here soon. I roll myself back to my desk. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style=""> </span>“Save the best for last”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Truth is I know I’m not a good watcher. Truth is these other people get no more than 30 seconds each. The truth is that for the last two years I’ve been watching only one person. You. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Your life plays out on the double monitor on my desk. I know every inch of your apartment from your large couch to your collection of Asian dolls. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">If the big men upstairs found out I was using my technical knowledge to keep you around they’d have me sent to containment faster than you can unwrap a Now&Later. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">I know it’s wrong to call it love but…no other word really comes into my head at the moment. I hit the ENTER button on my keyboard to scroll through the cameras trying to find you in your apartment. You might be out right now walking your dog. But you’ll be back soon. You’ll go into the fridge and grab a coke and then sit and watch a movie.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">I know it’s wrong to call it meant to be but what else could it be. I know what you like, I know every aspect of your body, your hair, your legs, your pale skin, the bruises on your back from when you were hit by that car 3 weeks ago. I know how your body moves when you dance, I know what TV shows you like, I know what makes you laugh and how you sound when you cry. I know when you’re having a real orgasm and when you’re faking it. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">I know I can’t call it dating but what else could it be. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">I watch as your door opens and you and Atticus; your tiny pug come back inside. Quickly you change into your bikini top and you lie across your couch and flip through the channels. Before I know it my fingers are lightly brushing your hair. If it wasn’t for this damn screen we’d both be in heaven right now. If it wasn’t for this distance you’d be in my arms right now. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style=""> </span>“If only you knew.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">You yawn and get up to go to bed. Your lights turn off and my cameras turn to Night Vision. I grab my blanket and pull it over me and tuck myself in. You do the same.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">You say good night to Atticus who snuggles up by your feet. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style=""> </span>“Good-Night Jenny” I say.<br /></span></p> <span style="font-size: 85%;">I close my eyes and start to drift into my dream. The dream where one day I’ll whisper I love you and you’ll whisper it back. The dream where you know that I exist.<br /><br />To Be Continued?<br /></span>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-2235432362377522522009-09-22T21:38:00.000-07:002009-09-22T21:42:56.704-07:00An ApologySo I just spent the last hour re-reading this blog and I feel like I owe the readers an apology. First off for any poor sap who actually reads this thing expecting to find consistantly updated short stories I have done you a grave disservice. But in general I just read the first story I posted to start this blog with...a real downer. Kinda like saying hi to someone by punching them in the balls. My bad. Wasn't really thinking. Thanks for sticking with me.<br /><br />Christopher EdwardsJohn Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-60591347708468480692009-09-22T13:57:00.000-07:002009-09-22T14:50:26.890-07:00One Thing You Didn't Know About MeHere's a new segment I'm working on called: 1 thing you didn't know about me. I'll post this as I feel like it.<br /><br /><br />One thing you didn't know about me : <span style="font-style: italic;">I both love and hate the process of eating. I love it because it's delicious, hate it because I know that eventually I'll have to do it again and I hate repetition. </span>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-72092479881080458202009-09-21T20:23:00.000-07:002009-09-21T21:39:52.590-07:00The Doorman<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">In a time much different than ours, in a world unlike our own there was a very small village. In this very small village there was a very small road that ran down the center of town, called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Barnabey</span> St. And down the alleyway on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Barnabey</span>, between the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Hopflop</span> shop and the Jig vendors, there was a door. A single bright yellow door with a brass ring for a handle. This door in this alley was of little interest to anyone in the town, that is until <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Merryweight</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Grizlebaum</span>, the town's local fool, sat himself down on a stool directly in front of the door.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">At first no one in the town minded, figuring it better to let a fool keep to himself and his foolish ways. But soon days had past, then weeks, and months, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Merryweight</span> never moved from in front of that yellow door. Finally concerned but to scared to venture down the alley, the townspeople yelled "Mr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Grizlebaum</span> have you died?" "No, I haven't." Yelled back the fool. Then fearing the worst of the fool the townspeople yelled, "You have been outside that door for months now Mr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Grizlebaum</span>, Are you perhaps holding someone for ransom?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Grizlebaum</span> laughed, " I know I am foolish. But not foolish enough to hold someone for ransom in a village this small." "Well then what are you doing!?" the townspeople shouted and before they were finished <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Merryweight</span> replied with "I'm watching the door." </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"> "He thinks he's a doorman now?" the townspeople shouted, "Well doorman, what is behind your door that's so special that you must watch after it?" "That.." said the doorman now sitting straight up on his stool, eyes alert. "is none of your concern." The townspeople laughed in unison. "Silly doorman" they spat as they returned to their homes. But years passed and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">curiosity</span> grew as the doorman never left his post at the yellow door. People came from all around the strange world to view from the safety of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Barnabey</span> street, the mysterious doorman. Over time the tiny village grew and grew until it was a large city with many buildings and people. And <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Barnabey</span> street stretched for miles now. But there was still that alley between the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Hopflop</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">MegaShop</span> and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Jenco</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">JigVendor</span> Inc. And there was still that door. And the doorman rarely moved in those years. Though sometimes, tourists would spot him away from his stool, curled up at the base of the door his ear cupped to the peeling wood. Or sometimes standing flat with his back against the door. And he aged and his hair got white and skin became loose and hung on his bones like hand me down clothes. It was clear to everyone that the doorman could die <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">any day</span>. And some even tried to use his weakness to try and storm the door, he'd strike them, they'd fall. Soon they just watched and waited. They waited for sixty years, and though he spent most of those days silent, two hours before his last breath a child ran past the guard lines and made it down the alley to the man on the stool. "Why did you sit here doorman?" whispered the child. "Why did you sit here and stay here forever? Why didn't you go to the everyplace and venture to the anywhere that I hear the travelers talk about? The doorman shifted on his stool, his left hand on the yellow door for support. "You don't know this little one, but I've been everyplace and anywhere. In fact, it was through those adventures through everywhere that lead me to here. I'm here because, behind this door is the only thing I've ever known that's meant anything to me, and it took me a long time to find it so I don't mind looking over it for awhile." And with that the child's mother called him back. And she was so overcome with conflicting emotions that she beat and berated the child in front of the crowd, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">embittering</span> him so that he would never tell a soul what the doorman had shared with him. At his last moments the doorman stood and pressed his face against the warped wooden door, straining to press his face through the wood, in one last effort to merge with it, and for the first time even dared a knock. And then he sat back in his stool and stared at the door with the biggest smile and the widest eyes. As if death had granted him the ability to see through the door and witness his treasure one last time. There was a moment of silence as the people registered the doorman's stillness. But it wasn't long before they were linking arms and throwing <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">their</span> shoulders into the yellow door, forcing it open. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">When</span> the door fell and shattered into splinters, the peoples head's craned to get the best view. A tiny bathroom, with black and white tiles, a ventilation fan and a single light hung innocently from the ceiling. But the square window above the toilet, the one big enough to fit any average, dog, or cat, or person. That window was wide open and lead to an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">alley that</span> went on for as many miles as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Barnabey</span> street. The people stood, ashamed and sad, their mouths hung open in disbelief. But the doorman smiled his biggest smile and his eyes were wide with joy sitting on his stool, facing the open yellow door.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:78%;"></span>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-14243452875119036342009-09-21T00:38:00.000-07:002009-09-21T01:05:02.445-07:00One of the Good Ones: The Informant!Steven <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Soderberg</span>, Matt Damon, and almost every funny "that guy" bring a really interesting story to a pretty uninteresting September.<br /><br /><br />I like this movie. I didn't know much about it besides having my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">curiosity</span> peaked by the bright orange billboard ads that I see for it when I'm driving home. I figured I was signing up for a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Soderberg</span> stylized corporate espionage film--and I was but I left feeling I had been given much more. A well presented character piece centered around <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Damen</span> packing on some more poundage to pull off the Mid-West look. Like all great characters he only gets more interesting as the movie continues and the corporate plot-line is handled so well that it never <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">interferes</span> with learning more about the curious lead.<br /><br />Informant does a good job of raising some interesting questions: Can you believe in integrity and be dishonest at the same time? What is the ultimate burden of a split life? Can Scott <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Backula</span> actually act?<br /><br />I'd say it's certainly one of the good ones. Maybe not one you need to see right now but the after theater conversation on this movie could be pretty enlightening.John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-63196992024277999012009-09-18T11:58:00.000-07:002009-09-20T21:31:00.445-07:003 Things Driving Me Crazy Right Now<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">1. Fake Anger Over Kanye West</span><br />The reason this bothers me is two fold. The first reason is that it no one was actually watching the VMA's when this event happened, because no one watches MTV unless your a 13 year old girl. We all found out the same way signing online and reading about it on Yahoo news or CNN.com or a real news source like Twitter. The second reason is that fake anger really pulls on my nut hairs. If I believed people actually cared about this stuff, it wouldn't bother me. But the minute Kanye comes out with his next album everyone and their momma is going to be talking about how great it is and this will all be forgotten. <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">This argument also holds for Chris Brown and R. Kelly</span> .<br />*editors note* This is also a retarded thing to get mad over since the whole thing was obviously staged. *editors note* This is even more retarded since no one cares anymore.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">2. Filmmakers are Douchey High School Students </span><br />In the past couple of weeks a few filmmakers or high ups in the industry have decided to make public statements on LA's Nikki Finke Deadline Hollywood Blog. For those of you who don't know Nikki Finke is LA's own April O'Neil. She makes Perez Hilton look like 'black-eye-witness-guy' on network news. The first string was the infamous <a href="http://www.deadline.com/hollywood/why-he-will-not-read-your-fucking-script/">I won't read your fucking script </a>by<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Josh Olsen</span> (I'll hold for the communal "who?") He wrote <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">History of Violence</span> and really doesn't want to read your script. Then no more than a few days later three, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Transformers 2 </span>crew members publicly released a letter on Nikki Finke basically calling <a href="http://www.deadline.com/hollywood/transformers-crew-talk-back-to-megan-fox/">Megan Fox white trash</a>(<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italicfont-size:85%;" >hurtful but true</span>), in response to her calling Michael Bay Hitler(<em>ditto</em>) in an interview. What bother's me besides the fact that the number 1 industry news blog got turned into a personal trash talk forum. But when I found out that Michael Bay wrote the letter himself. I want to know why the director of one of the biggest films of the summer is putting up trash posts like the snooty bitch in 9th grade. I'm not really upset about turning a legitimate news source into a high school year book. What does upset me is that while Josh Olsen was telling me he wasn't going to read my script, or while Michael Bay was pretending to have a Vagina. They all could have been doing what they love to claim to do...Make Movies.<br />Good Movies.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">3. Beatles are Cool Again!?<br /></span>The Beatles Never Stopped Being Cool.<br />I don't care how cool Rock Band the Beatles is. A Re-Beatles invasion is not okay. I'm great with introducing kids to the music of the Beatles, even better with giving kids and parents a place to relate and play together. I am not okay with this grand jumping on the band-wagon and loving the band because of a video game. People who will have no understanding of who the Beatles actually were but instead will equate them with Rock Bands single note views of the band. We all knew the Beatles sold out once and we were cool with it because they're the fucking Beatles. but two times is pushing it.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:+0;"></span>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-34919354665015979682009-09-16T08:54:00.000-07:002009-09-16T09:06:08.336-07:00He Said, She Said<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">She said "what are you thinking?" While they sat bathing in the glow of the TV.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">He said, "nothing, watching the show. What are you thinking?" He didn't care but he didn't mind asking since he knew the answer was:</span><span style="font-size:85%;">"Nothing"</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She said. "I'm just wondering what you're thinking." With that she was quiet and the sound of the TV took over. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">After a time she said, "Do you think it's weird that we don't talk anymore?" She kept her eyes low to the ground.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">He said "What do you mean?" and kept his eyes on the TV.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She said "There was a time when we could talk for hours about anything. There was a time when you cared about things going on in the world, and you made me laugh." </span><span style="font-size:85%;">"Remember how much we used to laugh?" </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She said. "Why don't we do that anymore. Why do you think we don't talk anymore?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She waited obediantly for his answer, not caring how long she would have to wait because it was the only question that really concerned her. She watched him inhale the air of the room through his nose while he thought. And when he finally spoke he didn't even turn his head to take in her gaze.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">He said"We're talking right now aren't we?" </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She said "Yeah, I guess you're right." </span>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-85833754938958094702009-09-16T00:07:00.000-07:002009-09-16T00:21:34.001-07:00Okay....Time Out<span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Below I have attached a post from a husband having trouble with his wife.<br /></strong></span><em><span style="font-size:85%;">My wife & I have been married 12 years and we were having a lot of marital trouble in the bedroom. Sex became somewhat boring no matter what we tried and we've tried EVERYTHING. Counseling, candles, massages, resorts & getaways, little notes to "hook up with me" in her purse (lol), etc....<br />Now, sex when we met was great, but only due to the fact it was new and all that and over the years we've developed some fire that's kept it alive. We are both VERY attracted to each other so it's actually not a matter of anything other than sex became more of a routine even with the new stuff we added. Then we tried smoking 420 one night and pretty much had the most incredible sex we both agreed we ever had. After that, it was almost like every night we wanted to literally run home to each other so we could have hours and hours of sex because it was so mind-blowing. This was many months ago and I can tell you that we have since stopped smoking 420 we are both somewhat sad because we have not been able to achieve the orgasm or length of time spent having sex. It's back to square one again. The reason we quit was because we began to feel guilty about our relationship with God and how it's considered wrong to smoke pot. We don't know if we could call ourselves Christian AND smoke pot even though it completely enhanced our marriage and sex life in the evening and made us both feel closer to each other than ever before. This sucks because we love each other a lot but it was like having "super sex" to "regular ol' sex" made us not even be interested in it anymore. It's very "ho-hum" now. What to do?</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Okay so that's the long and short of it. Loving couple have finally caved to the demands of time commitments and good old fashioned, 'been-together-a-long-ass-time syndrome.' They've made every christian attempt at spicing up their relationship and nothing and then they find their answer in some bud. And boy howdy. But because their religion see's it as a sin they stop and now their fucked, but not in the good way. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The comments following this post all assign the same remedy and I was quiet surprised when I read them. Post after post helpful christians advise this poor man that the answer to his problem is quite simple...he should have sex less. One man says they should take two weeks and pray together during the time they would be lovemaking. A rabbi advises that they have sex only once a week so it seems all the more special. And it goes on and on...for PAGES. People all saying that sex isn't the relationship (which it isn't) and that it should be enough to just be with his wife ( which it should). But not one. NOT A SINGLE one points out what to me seems like the most obvious answer.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Why don't they just keep smoking? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Just really pisses me off is all. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-65593397831664451412009-08-25T18:08:00.001-07:002009-08-25T18:14:40.291-07:00Craigslist Ads You'll Never Read #4<strong>Looking to Bust You - M4F- (Beverly Hills)</strong><br /><br />I'm a cop.John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-58034090888320329172009-08-25T15:21:00.000-07:002009-08-25T16:07:22.622-07:00Birthday Blog PostSo as of the 19th of August I became 23 years old. As per my calculations that means I have about 10 years left. But while I'm here and since I've been alive for more than two decades now (which is horrifying) I feel like I should reflect back on some things I'm proud of and things I'm not to proud of.<br /><br /><br />Things I'm Proud of<br />1. Traveling across the pond before the age of 15.<br />2. Writing/Directing/Producing 2 shows for pH.<br />3. Being cast in 3 different pH shows.<br />4. Being cast and making company in pH<br />5. Winning employee of the year at Seadog<br />6. Starting droppin' $cience<br />7. Coaching college and High school kids.<br />8. Written 6 Feature Scripts and 2 books by the age of 20.<br />9. Coming in second to Micah at the birthday bash<br />10. My Script getting picked for the practicum<br />11. Making my teacher cry with my movie pitch.<br />12. Being a snowball leader.<br />13. Taking boxing lessons.<br />14. Playing the Sax.<br />15. Actually having the balls to leave all of that and drive to LA<br /><br />Things I'm Not So Proud Of<br />1. Ally Reinke<br />2. That it took me till I was 22 to hear Animals or Sgt. Pepper.<br />3. The fact that I don't have a favorite band by this age.<br />4. First time doing Improv ever. In cafeteria of my middle school, got spooked by my stage partners initiation and spilled meatsauce all over myself. Was told to sit down by teacher.<br />5. Throwing up in public five separate times.<br />6. Michael Kerns<br />7. Making out with Leslie an hour after Tobers broke up with me.<br />8. The Birdman Situation.<br />9. The Sally Situation.<br />10. The Noah Situation.<br />11. The Ann Situation.<br />12. The Spike Situation.<br />13. Not having the balls to take up Piano as a kid.<br />14. That despite the kind words from my friends, the love of my girlfriend, and the credentials of my past....I still don't feel like I've done anything worth while and I still couldn't answer the question: Who is Chris Edwards? Without stumbling for words.<br />15. That I've never known the pleasure of a sudden kiss and that I prolly never will.<br /><br />Happy Birthday!!!!John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4599469676465490632.post-61717094951325841282009-07-21T18:07:00.000-07:002009-07-21T18:15:05.594-07:00Classified Ads You'll Never Read #3<strong>WE JUST NEED A MAN - ww4m - (*******)</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Me and my best friend just got home from the bar. IT'S OUR BIRTHDAY!!! We've been besties since we were 3 years old and we both just turned 21! We had a great time but we don't have boyfriends so we spent all day being each others. And now we're all hot n' bothered :p </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We've never done anything like this before but we're really horny and just need a guy to help guide us and show us what to do. We have roommates, so we'll have to come to you. This IS FOR REAL. No constant emails back and forth. Send yo digits in the first email!</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">d/d free of course! </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">pic4pic</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">First cum/first served</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We're waiting ;)</span>John Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10125570795531542129noreply@blogger.com0