Man With Baseball Bat “Absolutely Positive” He Heard Something Downstairs.

Midlothian, IL - At 1:15 a.m. on Tuesday November 9th, Justin Walker was roused in the middle of the night by an ominous noise in his two story suburban home. He cautiously sat upright and listened for the faintest sound of footsteps in the house. “You have to be careful these days. Anyone can break into your house. You have to be vigilant. That’s why I keep a baseball bat under the bed.” Walker said. “And a loaded Glock 19 in my lock box”.

According to Walker, he then stood up and pressed his ear to the Brazilian cherry hardwood floor and listened very carefully. “Brazilian cherry hardwood is a great sound resonator. I can hear sounds for miles, or I guess in my case, from anywhere in the house.”

Martha Walker, Mr. Walker’s wife, stated that he returned to their Tempurpedic Queen mattress three minutes later unsatisfied. “He could just be standing still. Waiting for us to go to bed so he can spray paint the cats and murder us in our sleep.” Mr. Walker paused. “At least we wouldn’t feel it much. That is of course assuming that he isn’t a Jack the Ripper copy cat. Then we would definitely feel it.”

Pensive and holding his baseball bat, Mrs. Walker finally calmed him down a bit. “It was probably just one of the cats dear.” Unconvinced, he fell asleep quickly after stating “I am going to wait this fucker out .” Mrs. Walker was quoted the next morning as saying, “Justin is just a little high strung. He doesn’t even know how to use the Glock. Truthfully, I don’t know how he plans to use it if someone breaks in. By the time he got to the gun in the closet, remembered the combination he set three years ago, and opened the lock box, we’d probably already be dead.”

Music Update #3: Sad News, New Music, and A Special Request

Well, the semester is finally over and I finally have a void in my schedule previously occupied by a continuous bombardment of miscellany. So, here I am. Back in business with more musical releases, some sad news, and a request. – scroll to the bottom if you are only interested in my request.


First, the sad news. The iconic Atomic Records in Milwaukee is closing this coming February. According to Rich, the owner, the store has been hit hard by the declining record industry (a problem induced both by online sales, internet downloading, and popular stores such as Barnes & Noble who make themselves the one stop shop). The trend has, unfortunately, been slowly squeezing out the small, independent shops. Atomic isn’t the first, or the last. Apparently, Rich didn’t expect the turn out that he has since received after making the announcement, but he still intends on closing the store. Please frequent the store this break (20% off for the month of December) and other assorted promotional blow out sales will be announced later. (Now is probably a good time to go though. They are not quite sure when they will stop ordering music … I just special ordered Hank Williams: The Unreleased Recordings for my dad this Christmas …. Sooooo, sooner rather than later is wise if you want to make sure you will get what you want).

P.S. Sorry, hun. I know you love the place.
http://www.atomic-records.com/index.html


Unfortunately, I would rely heavily on Atomic for new album releases (weekly email) and now I have to go internet hunting on my own again. This is some of the best music I have found lately, and I hope to keep it going. Enjoy…

Foals
Antidotes
I most recently discovered this band after seeing them on Last.fm’s top of 2008 list. I was tragically procranistinating on YouTube and Last.fm while trying to study for a neuropathology exam and was attracted to their:
1. catchy sounds
2. danceable beats
3. a math rock combo that fits somewhere between Mute Math and LCD Soundsytem
Unfortunately, they didn’t help me pass my neuro exam. But damn did it put me into a good mood. Oh, and a downside. As good as the music is, all of it flows. If were not paying attention, the whole album could be one long electrorock beat movement. Not necessarily bad, but not good if you were looking for some depth. P.S.: The louder played, the better the sound.
www.myspace.com/foals

The Blue Van
Man Up
Yes, they have a hit song on a Samsung commercial. “Silly Boy” is a wonderful song. But unlike many other bands, that one song that made it commercially was not the only song in their repertoire. The Blue Van produces blaring song after blaring song. I feel as though JET seemed to collide with elements of Kings of Leon and my local favorite The Wildbirds. All three bands have one thing in common, the sound on their debut album stunned me. They are Danish. I am Danish. We must be related.
www.myspace.com/thebluevan

Cornershop
When I Was Born For the Last Time
This one is an oldie back from 2002, but you’ll recognize the now popular song “Candyman” as featured on the Lebron James “Chalk” commercial. Not knowing what to expect, I discovered the majority of the album sounds like true Indian-Brit electronic dance. Even many of the lyrics are spoken in another language (I won’t pretend to even know what language it is in fear of offending someone … like Raman). Personal favorite: the Indian cover of Norwegian Wood … just as beautiful as the first time around.
www.myspace.com/cornershop

Coldplay
Prospekt’s March
We all know Coldplay. What you need to know is that this release followed Viva La Vida … arguably the best album release of 2008. Regardless of where Viva stands on the charts, Prospekt’s March is a direct follow up, containing unreleased tracks, mixes, and even “Lost +” which features Jay-Z. In some ways, it’s almost better than the album itself.

Brett Dennen
Hope For the Hopeless
His vocals are different, but his acoustic melodies are reminiscent of Donavon Frankenreiter, Jack Johnson, Matt Costa (Brushfire Crew) and has some of the pop influences similar to Eric Hutchinson. Definitely worth a few good listens on Christmas Day while you look at all the white stuff.
www.myspace.com/brettdennen

That’s it for now, I need to find more music first.


And now my request. From what I have heard, my next semester will be pretty laid back. Which means that I will surely come up with a way to procrastinate my studies (the same ones the dictate the rest of my career). We recently lost Studs Terkel to the God’s continuous soul flushing. He was a great man who documented the lives, thoughts, and feelings of generations past and present. As far as I know, there is no one else who is going to pick up where he left off. He never saw us go into this recession (or depression) and we need someone to start new. We are the undocumented generation and I want to start.

I am first going to start with college students (as many of you are obviously my peers). I would like to hear any stories you have for me regarding any of the following areas of your college life.
- College life lessons (including but not limited to drinking 15 shots in one hour) … but seriously, you can include that, but also discuss failing, or stressing, or loves lost or gained, anything … which leads me to
- Loves lost or gained (or friendship problems)
- Recent/and former thoughts about Pres. Elect Barack Obama (We were the people he struck the most in my opinion, so I want to hear from the generation who elected him …. Why you voted the way you did, and what change do you see
- The direction of the United States and the World
- Economic strife, the challenges we now face in an economic crisis for paying tuition, working jobs, and balancing your lives
- College miscellany

I would appreciate any replies. Thanks in advance guys and gals.
You can either post the replies here, message me, email me at jplindsey@gmail.com , or give me a call at 414-921-8016.

JP

Musical Update #2 and the Death Of A Band

G. Love & Special Sauce
Superhero Brother
Another installment by the prolific harmonica man G. Love. Traditional fans shouldn’t be disappointed by the standard G. Love groovy jams that constitute most of the album. Then again, most of the songs on the album did feel remarkably standard and familiar. Yet, in an almost completely redeeming way, G. Love creates an acoustic blues extravaganza at the end of the album in his song “Superhero Brother”.

Matt Pryor
Confidence Man
Matt Pryor is another one of those musicians that composes music that can strike you to the core. His lyrics have the potential to stun lovers and philosophers alike. Pryor’s raspy voice has the same beautiful raw quality similar to that of one of Gomez’s multiple vocalists, and his music kept reminding me of my local up and coming band We the Living.

King Khan & The Shrines
What Is?!
Talk about a blast from the past. When you hear King Khan, you cannot help but think, when was this made? A must listen for fans of the Yardbirds and 70’s garage punk rebellion. As a side note, What Is?! is an older album by the band, but they have also recently released a new album entitled “The Supreme Genius of King Khan & the Shrines”.

Rumble Strips
Girls and Weather
Apparently there is a 50’s revival occurring in England at the moment, producing the almost unbearably fun Rumble Strips. The lyrics are not deep by any means, but no one can argue that they are not catchy. The music makes you want to dance like you are in some iPod commercial. (case in point: “Alarm Clock”). Also wise, check out their music videos, it adds a completely different dynamic to the music (not only are they well produced, but the sense of humor is undeniably British).

The Avett Brothers
Emotionalism
This review is a tad outdated, but regardless, I recently rediscovered the band, so you all can suck it. I vaguely remember checking the Avett Brothers out a year or so ago when Emotionalism actually came out, and there was just something I didn’t like about it. Having listened again, I won’t say I love the band, but I can say that much the same way that The Black Keys fused their heavy blues with indie/pop rock on Attack and Release, the Avett Brothers manage to fuse heavy banjo and bluegrass with indie/pop melodies, all producing wonderful album.

Wildbirds
Golden Daze
Now, this album was also released months ago, however, the review is timely given the band’s retirement. I remember finding the Appleton area band two years ago on Myspace (don’t judge, it’s about the only good thing about Myspace). Being a man who loves rhythmic beats and electric guitars, I fell in love with the band and couldn’t wait for their debut album. I followed them through the recording process and acquired the album as soon as it released. Songs like 421 and Shake Shake make you wanna move and head bob and the like. I can’t deny the fact that the Wildbirds and Kings of Leon made some kind of musical connection in my head, which, for the sake of the Wildbirds, meant only good things. Given certain circumstances I wasn’t exactly privy too, the band decided to break up a couple months ago and managed to book one last gig at the Brady Street Festival in Milwaukee. Given the close proximity to my house, I took the short walk to Brady Street and stood at the main stage and politely waited for the drag show that had exceeded its allotted time by about fifteen minutes to end. Finally, about an hour late, the Wildbirds took the stage and played a spectacular set. You would have never known that this was their last show unless the power hadn’t gone out three times mid song (even during the finale). The last outage really showed the band’s true feelings for one another as they all huddled and whispered together. They looked pained and unhappy, wanting to be done with the show and wishing they could keep playing together. The encore consisted of a solo acoustic version of Suzanna and the full band playing 421 with more energy than heard on the album. After concluding the song, drumsticks and picks were thrown, and the band exited the stage. At the end of the night, I released that I had witnessed the birth and death of a band that hadn’t quite lived a full life.

New Music 8/7/08

A little late on the posting. Hopefully I can start posting on Tuesday's, but hell, it's my blog and I post whenever I want.

I've been meaning to do this for some time now and I hope to write these frequently for all of you to read. I tagged those who I thought might actually enjoy/use this. Everyone else who reads it can have fun.


Conor Oberst (Bright Eyes)
Conor Oberst
As usual Oberst produces an excellent cd with his traditionally symbolic and meaningful lyrics. For those who would like to hear "I'm Wide Awake It's Morning" with a rock n roll feel, go ahead and peruse the album.

Neil Halstead
Sleeping On Roads
I could only find this older cd available for download at the moment, however, he also has a new cd out called Oh! Mighty Engine. When I listened to the album, I couldn't shake the feeling I was listening to Sufjan Stevens with a stronger folk influence. His soft voice, the horns, the lovely guitar (and thought I heard a banjo here and there), and the piano all combine for a very melodic, put you to sleep album.

Dr. Dog
Fate
Dr. Dog produces a stunning album with such a variety of influences that upon my first listen, i thought, Dr. Dog and Andrew Bird could create a kick ass band. The song "From" is great for lovers and has hints of the Beatles' "Hey Jude".

Ida Maria
Fortress Around My Heart
If you could combine Kimya Dawson with punk/brit rock, you would have Ida Maria. Some of it just makes you want to dance, some of it makes you want to laugh (case in point, the song "I like you so much better when you are naked"). All in all, a very good album.

James Jackson Toth
Waiting In Vain
I can't quite place his voice, but I can assure you it's incredibly unique. Toth has clear country roots, but fuses an excellent proportion of indie-rock to prevent the country music from being completely overwhelming.

Wild Sweet Orange
We Have Cause To Be Uneasy
This is one of those albums that throws you onto a roller coaster and expects you to follow along. One minute you are listening to a gorgeous, lyrically stunning song, and the next, you are wondering if you are listening to the same band as they rock your socks off. Of all the tracks, however, the song "Sour Milk" proved to me that they were worth the listen

Man Fails 11th Suicide Attempt

Chicago, IL

By JP Lindsey

Only minutes before the Super Bowl officially began this weekend, Chicago resident Scott Adams tried, for the eleventh time, to take his own pitiful life. Adams was watching pre-game commercials when his third wife, Anita Adams, declared that he was a “miserable and depressed sack of shit not worth giving a single solitary fuck about”. Adams, who was not prepared for this, and was, in fact, in a quite sensible mood, broke down and began sobbing immediately. According to Anita, Adams started crawling on the floor like a little bitch. “I honestly think that if I said, ‘Bark like a dog and I won’t leave you’, that he would totally do it.” The medical team at Lutheran General Hospital who treated Adams noted that this is now his eleventh suicide attempt. Doctor Saranjaleep has dressed Adams’s many wounds throughout the past several years and cannot, for the life of him, understand how Adams is such a failure at life. “He sucks so much at life that he cannot even properly, or effectively, terminate it. I just don’t understand. It is so easy.” In a pathetic interview with Adams, who was still sporting the bloodied bandages on his wrists, he explained his terribly uneventful life, spending two hours describing the sappy, typical tale of the hundreds of times that his drunken father beat him for no reason. Adams’s father died at the age of 36, when Adams was only twelve. “As I was slitting my wrists I was thinking, Dad, why did you beat me? Was it my fault? Now I’ll never know.” He also went into detail regarding his ten previous attempts at suicide, saying that, for whatever reason, he couldn’t aim the pistol correctly, take the appropriate number of pills, jump in the right direction, or throw himself in front of a semi trailer that wasn’t moving the speed of an ice cream truck. Anita commented that he copes with the problems of his childhood by “jerking off” as soon as he returns home from his job at the local library. “The douchebag [Adams] lived with his mother until he turned twenty-five. Scott isn’t going anywhere. He just should have followed simple protocol and gone up the highway and not across the street.”

Draft

i starting writing this one in fragments, so it's difficult to follow, however if you read what I have (mostly dialogue) you will get the gist of the story, which i find incredibly, the bottom has more quotes that i want to use, ummm, definitely an anti-war story, haha, but very clever

FARLEY: Mr. President, since we continue to police the world, how do you intend to maintain our military presence without reinstituting a draft?

BUSH: Yes, that's a great question. Thanks.

I hear there's rumors on the Internets (sic) that we're going to have a draft. We're not going to have a draft, period. The all- volunteer army works. It works particularly when we pay our troops well. It works when we make sure they've got housing, like we have done in the last military budgets.

An all-volunteer army is best suited to fight the new wars of the 21st century, which is to be specialized and to find these people as they hide around the world.

We don't need mass armies anymore. One of the things we've done is we've taken the -- we're beginning to transform our military.

And by that I mean we're moving troops out of Korea and replacing them with more effective weapons. We don't need as much manpower on the Korean Peninsula to keep a deterrent.

In Europe, we have massed troops as if the Soviet Union existed and was going to invade into Europe, but those days are over with. And so we're moving troops out of Europe and replacing it with more effective equipment.

So to answer your question is, we're withdrawing, not from the world, we're withdrawing manpower so they can be stationed here in America, so there's less rotation, so life is easier on their families and therefore more likely to be -- we'll be more likely to be able to keep people in the all-volunteer army.

One of the more important things we're doing in this administration is transformation. There are some really interesting technologies.

For instance, we're flying unmanned vehicles that can send real- time messages back to stations in the United States. That saves manpower, and it saves equipment.

It also means that we can target things easier and move more quickly, which means we need to be lighter and quicker and more facile and highly trained.

Now, forget all this talk about a draft. We're not going to have a draft so long as I am the president. ------

October 8, 2004

The Second Bush-Kerry Presidential Debate

SECOND PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATES' DEBATE
WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY, ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI

SPEAKERS:

GEORGE W. BUSH
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

&

U.S. SENATOR JOHN F. KERRY (MA)
DEMOCRATIC PRESIDENTIAL NOMINEE

Chapter One

Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come. ~Carl Sandburg

The internal alarm clock woke him up at 5:30 a.m. exactly. After months of waking up at 5:30 a.m. for work, his body simply adjusted to the god forsaken hour. James soon discovered that he now only had to tell himself to wake up at any particular time and his body would do it, disregarding any pre-established sleep pattern. If he had dreams, he could never remember them.

He sat up in bed. His eyes were not blurry. He was not tired. He was fully functional, awake, and ready for the day. He quickly made his bed and took a cold shower to make his muscles alert. He ate some toast, drank some orange juice, brushed his teeth, packed his back pack, put on his winter cap, and walked out the door.

The walk to work takes him two hours. Every day his legs strengthen and his calluses harden. Sometimes, just for fun, he will run the six miles to work to prepare himself for a day when, by the off chance, he wakes up late for work.

On the way to work he passes a park with basketball courts and a playground with swings. The park is never without children playing, even in the coldest of weather. He smiles at the kids as the fall down and get back up laughing. At night, he sometimes walks to the park and will climb on top of the playground, playing more dangerously, testing his strength and balance. He often takes off his shoes and socks to climb the smooth, metal poles. The calluses on his feet allow him to run around on the wood chips without any care.

The park was at the bottom of a hill, the street almost towering above it. In the winter, the slope became a monstrous sledding hill. A bench sat atop the hill, overlooking the playground. During the day, parents could watch where their kids were playing and would never lose sight of them. At night, there were no parents, the playground desolate. One night, a man stood behind the bench, leaning forward with his arms resting on the backrest. James looked up at the figure, seeing only the shadow’s outline. James stood sideways, head cocked and carefully watching the figure. Neither moved or made a gesture toward the other. The stranger then slowly stood upright and walked away, only looking away a moment before falling out of view.

Training:

The pain becomes unbearable. Some faint while others wait until the nerves dull. Those that faint are washed out, “reprogrammed for society”, which really means chopper dropped into some vehemently anti-American insurgent camp. Those whose nerves dulled soon longed for the adrenaline rush associated with the excitement of pain.

The Discovery:

“Sure, we’re under some third party military contractor. But there is an elaborate front over the whole damn thing. We’re supposedly some security agency helping protect the military and establishing safe, workable businesses uninfluenced by insurgent backing. We sure as hell know that’s not what we are doing here. I have a friend in Washington who I asked to look into some stuff for us, mostly money trails and the like. This company is neck deep in a shit storm cover up, and they are doing a damn good job of it too. There is this guy, some top level military official who has been getting paid in substantial grant, payments way out of his pay range. I’m talking millions upon millions of dollars over just the past couple of years. The strange thing is that this money just disappeared. It hasn’t been done in research, hasn’t been sitting in some fund, it isn’t sitting in this guy’s bank account. Not in an offshore account, not invested in any other programs. Just gone. At the same time these grants were awarded, Raven Security, the umbrella corporation that owns us, was created simultaneously. The first stock investment was by a guy under the alias of Simon Adams. As it turns out, Simon Adams is the same alias used by our same top level military executive. He only invested a third of the money brought in by grants, three months later he invested another third, and then six months he invested the last third, totaling exactly the money awarded. I mean, it’s careful, but still sloppy enough to piece together. Now, what’s really intriguing is that this same guy was supposed to be preparing all of the information and documents necessary in the event that a draft was reinstated. But the bottom line is that Bush and the higher ups had a no go on an official draft. Yet, shit still had to get done. It was getting pretty bad for a while, troops kept getting stretched further and further until they started just snapping. Hell, look at us, insurgents could walk through our lines with a horde of elephants and we would never notice. So the government must have decided to have this program created under some false corporation to get an illegal draft going. That program is what brought us all here. You, me, and every other guy. The snatched you guys off the fucking street. It was abduction. They told your families, if you still had any, that you had gone missing and that everything was being done to find you. Thing is, you’ve been here the whole time and they threaten your family if you try to leave. We have no choice but to work alongside the official military. We get the same objectives, same intelligence, same communication lines, same weapons, some of the same training. Only difference is that we are non-volunteer. We do all the dirty work. Mercenaries for exploitation. We don’t get pay, or benefits. We fight for our lives and the lives of our families. Just think about it, all of you were selected with similar criteria. Males aged 18-30. Healthy. Physically fit. Observant. Adaptable. Quick to learn. Studious. All they had to do was grab you and break you down mentally, threaten your families to get you with the program. Even then, they tried to select the loners, the guys distant from the families, the only child whose parents died tragically in a car crash. Shit like that. They had to make warriors with nothing left to lose. They made you thirst blood and the fight. You are a soldier who doesn’t exist. You are most definitely not in the employ of the United States Government. When they are done here they will move you onto the next battlefield. You will want that battlefield. You will crave it. If not, they will throw you away. Shove you onto some street or desert and everyone will think you are crazy. Then we do all the dirty jobs and if we get caught then the accountability rests on some third party contractor who didn’t have a handle on its people. If you think that you can get out then you are dead wrong. If you think that the bona fide US certified military personnel are expendable, we are ten times that. They leave no one behind, we are trained to walk away. James, we are the real forgotten soldiers, we just don’t get a fucking monument.”

“Sometimes, in order to win, you have to sacrifice yourself. You can’t sit back and watch anymore. You have to take the responsibility onto yourself and fight for everyone else so that the greater good is achieved. If you are cut down on the way there, hopefully someone will take your place and lead the rest. At least you die knowing you did something.”

Iraqi Police Officer (befriends):

“You take out a leader, but the people fight on. Not for the fallen leader, but to get you out of their damn country. You don’t belong here. You never did. You can’t walk in and blow up the factories and crush their industrial strength. It simply doesn’t exist. It’s a different war here. They fight for Allah and their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters. You will surrender to save your life in the hope of living another day, but they will die in order to preserve a future generation. You and the rest of your soldiers are fighting a war you cannot come to terms with. If you cannot understand it, you will lose. You fight only to kill. You kill and you kill. Your generals tell you to kill until all the insurgents are dead. But they don’t understand that you will either lose the war or kill until the entire people have been exterminated. If you eliminate a people you are no better than the leader you claimed to oust in the first place.”

He paused for a moment. He looked out the window into the orange, setting sun over the rooftops and then returned his gaze to James.

“We are just pawns you and I. This is a very complex game. If only we could move the pieces. If only we could step back from the playing board, shake hands with the enemy and walk away. A mutual understanding of conflict, of boundaries, of each other. Sadly we know that is not the case. One day we will be taken off the board and others will get ready for another game. ‘Just another game’. They will say. ‘Come on, just play one more game’.”

Police Station Bombing

The ringing still in his ears and vibrating his skull, he slowly brought himself to his feet. He grabbed for his rifle, but it was not there. “Where had it gone?” He asked himself. The noises around him were very dull, but slowly getting louder and more distinguishable. As his hearing returned, so too did his perception of the chaos around him. Dozens of Iraqis were moaning, crying, running, screaming, bleeding, stunned, alone, confused. One man was carrying what may have been his wife, her head limp, unconscious or dead - James did not know. The man did not seem to know either, and amidst his anguish he did not notice his own gaping gash in his side, blood slowly pouring from his wound. James turned, attempting to discover why his body had been pressed to the cement so violently. Before looking up, he noticed that his entire left leg was covered in blood. He felt no pain but decided to investigate; he rolled his fatigues up past his shins and over his knee, revealing his thigh. Although his skin was red, he saw no cuts, gashes, or holes to illicit such bleeding. He looked at the ground where he had been lying and noticed he had fallen in a pool of blood from a limb no longer attached to its owner. Thankful that he was not bleeding, he looked up at the police station where, less than a minute ago, he had been talking to Mahmood. The station was now devoid of any glass, most of which littered the street and pestered those who had lost their sandals. James looked towards the fourth and highest level in the building. To his astonishment a large hole had been created in the face of the building. Flames poured out anywhere they could reach their precious oxygen. Smoke, they later said, could be seen for several miles.

James slowly walked towards the building. It was a bomb, his mind finally relayed to him. He stepped over bodies, rubble, twisted metal, shattered glass, clothing, dropped baggage and baskets, fallen bicycles and backpacks. He arrived at the front door. The metal doors had been blown ajar. Iraqi officers who could still walk assisted the others, propping them up on their shoulders. Other officers found cots or long boards to carry the more severely wounded out to the street. James stepped onto the thousands eight and a half by eleven sheets of paper that were gently floating to the ground. Glass crunched under the soles of his feet. Smoke and dust still lingered in the air, illuminated by the unfiltered sunlight. The chaos and destruction gave James felt surreal among all of the carnage. However, the smoke that choked his lungs reminded him he was most certainly alive in the fiery depths of hell.

James’s brain related another news flash. A memory now seemed to come from the smoke flowing around his head. He remembered walking down the stairs after talking to Mahmood. He saw the man carrying a briefcase. Strange he though. Their eyes met, but the man looked away as they passed. James still watched him. Months of training to notice strange behavior. James dismissed it. Just a briefcase he thought. He stepped into the bustling street. A car honked. Then a yell, perhaps a shriek, pierced the noise of the traffic. A shot rang out from behind James, and as he turned, crouched, and reached for his sidearm simultaneously, a brief silence fell over the street. Then a blast thrust him to the ground. Now he was here.

James left the main entrance and went into the stairway. Some of the stairs had collapsed, making the climb difficult. Dead soldiers and police officers filled the doorway. The smoke grew thicker, forcing James closer to the ground to hint for oxygen. James finally reached the fourth floor. There was no doubt that the black mark on the floor near the security desk was the center of the blast. Nothing remained of whoever had detonated the blast. James walked straight to Mahmood’s desk. Small fires raged James first saw Mahmood’s carefully polished black shoes, now scratched and covered in a light brown dust, sticking out from behind the desk.

If we let people see that kind of thing, there would never again be any war. ~Pentagon official explaining why the U.S. military censored graphic footage from the Gulf War

If it's natural to kill, why do men have to go into training to learn how? ~Joan Baez

In war, truth is the first casualty. ~Aeschylus

They wrote in the old days that it is sweet and fitting to die for one's country. But in modern war there is nothing sweet nor fitting in your dying. You will die like a dog for no good reason. ~Ernest Hemingway

Anyone who has ever looked into the glazed eyes of a soldier dying on the battlefield will think hard before starting a war. ~Otto Von Bismark

O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it. ~Mark Twain, "The War Prayer"

The aim of military training is not just to prepare men for battle, but to make them long for it. ~Louis Simpson

The Funeral

this one i have been writing myself, at or around the same time as "Good Movie" but i abandoned it due to the fact that i got really busy, however it's definitely really classy material that's sure to raise some funny eyebrows (i am really funny)

A story about a kid working at a funeral home

He is best friends with the son of a mafia don, accepted as part of the family

Fine pressed suits by day, indie kid by night

(start in blackness, gong of the church bells, shot from directly above the casket showing a man with a content smile on his face, fade to black again begin music by The Colour – Chariot of Gold – show Danny waking up at 6 a.m. and falling out of bed, throwing his suit on)

Danny: Not many people can even imagine the life that I lead …Well, let me rephrase … It’s not that they don’t know people like me exist, I think it’s more that they don’t want to think that people like me exist.

(begin showing sky shot of New York, insert a slow moving pan shot from right to left of a grieving family, begin low aerial filming across rooftops of an old neighborhood - Bronx, Brooklyn – insert filming of a church funeral service, pan at back of church from right to left, everyone dressed in black, family sobbing, freeze to sobbing woman)

Danny: Now, see people like that woman there? Those kind of people just really piss me off. I know it’s harsh. But in my profession you become calloused, desensitized. You have to. I see death everyday and it doesn’t bother me anymore. Sure, at first it was pretty gross, but after a while, you just don’t care. I mean, if you actually cared, hell, you wouldn’t last a single minute in this job. (show Danny and another man playing with a dead body, dancing to techno while embalming the body and making the body do “the robot”)

(return to filming of neighborhood, closer this time if possible, showing people on rooftops – woman drying clothes on a clothes line, old man fiddling with a bird cage, return to the end of the church service, slow motion close up on the hands grabbing the casket, move back to show only the torso up the chest and below to the feet which are all moving in unison, shot from outside the church, see kids run across along the sidewalk as the casket exits the church with crowd in tow, see the upper bodies of the men put the casket into the back of the hearse, shot of Danny walks out of the house at dawn, see him look at his neighbor’s flower garden, look on, then walk into the yard and pick a white flower and place it on his chest, back to the funeral procession going through town, aerial footage as the procession goes through red lights, shot from the hood of the car showing the front end of the car but still showing the red light. However, the hearse goes through the light, in doing so, another car slams into the front of the car, spinning the hearse out, shot from inside the car as it’s spinning and the casket slams against the back doors of the hearse and opens up, shot from outside the car showing the open doors and the spinning car, screeching tires, the casket slips out the back, add bell sounds as the casket rolls on the ground, breaking the casket open, landing face up, showing the face of the dead man with a frown on his face)

(show the funeral now, laying the body to rest in the earth, the family is seated and standing to the left, same woman weeping even harder because of the car accident, the priest is ridiculously old and has enormously thick glasses which enlarge his eyes, however, he still has problems seeing. Al is the older black partner to Danny’s father, who owned the funeral parlor. Danny’s father died when he was 10 and Al now is a part owner with Danny, however Al runs most of the business. Danny and Al are standing back from the ceremony, waiting for it to finish, the priest is delivering his condolences and about to read a passage from the Bible.)

Danny: Jesus H. Christ. Who the hell was this guy? Everyone looks stunned or weeping like a little bitch.

Al: Didn’t you hear? Look at the front end of that hearse man.

Danny: Hot damn. Was it a roller?

Al: (smiles slyly) Oh hell yes, boy. That casket rolled a good twenty feet in the middle of an intersection.

Danny: Hmm, that’s almost a record isn’t it?

Al: Nope, not even close. In the summer of 87’, the year before your father died, the hearse driver, Trashy Ted we called him. (cut to the late 80’s, showing the scene described below) Whenever the parlor business slowed, he’d collect garbage and cans and return ‘em for extra cash. Anyway, he was in a hurry to get to his wife, see. Big date. So, he decides to take the procession onto the interstate and go seventy. I mean, ol’ grannies were getting lost in the traffic, people were just dropping like flies. Ted didn’t give a damn as long as the body got to the cemetery. Well, in the midst of a three lane change he cut off a semi driver and happened to clip the front of the truck. The hearse spun out and the casket became a seventy mile an hour projectile, this poor guy in the casket was ejected over the bridge, took a seventy foot fall, then rolled for a good thirty feet before coming to rest in the side panel of a Cadillac.

Danny: (return to cemetery where conversation is taking place) Objects in motion stay in motion until acted upon by an equal or greater force.

Al: Damn straight. (the two of them look at the funeral service with awkward faces)

Priest: First letter of Paul to the Semenites. (wife and family pause from their crying for a moment and look at the priest strangely)

Danny: (with a smile) Huh, never heard of that one.

Al: Must be the unabridged version.

(moment of silence just showing the Danny and Al looking on)

Danny: What’s that thing on top of the casket?

Al: Oh, back in the old superstitious days they would put a bell on the casket in the event that they came back to life or were simply confused for sleeping. The bell has a string attached to it which can be pulled from inside. So, some poor bastard who had been drinking heavily the night before and mistaken for dead could wake up, ring the bell, and be taken out of the casket. Easy as pie. Don’t see those too often these days. Must have been the dude’s last wishes.

Danny: No shit. Looks like it’s rigged with an intercom though.

Al: Must be a new age thing, just in case someone doubts the bell you can ring up and say …

Danny: (interrupting) “Save me, bitch!” (both men laugh)

Al: (still chuckling) Not what I was thinking, but close enough.

(another moment of silence)

Priest: And now we lower the Martin Wood to rest, ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

(the workers begin to lower the casket but the machine breaks down and starts smoking, one of the lowering wires snaps and the casket falls and hits the sides and thuds to the bottom, the wife lets out a terrified wail)

Danny: Tough day, Martin. Tough day.

a mobster had bet his left nut and the debt collectors came to pay him a visit, causing a heart attack

Good Movie

Co-written with Jonathan Stepp, my boi, we have created the beginning of one of the best movie scripts ever to walk the face of the planet, if you liked Superbad, you would like this one, now, the beginning stuff you will see is just brainstorming material, so ignore it, if you want, its simply comedic fragments and dust that may or may not become something later, the actual script begins lower and is very evident that it is script and not comedic fragments, you must remember, this was written in a matter of hours on only two separate occasions, so cut us a fucking break

Ideas:

Killzone and little Caesar’s palace (with mike Tyson)

Any character must wear am “I survived Auschwitz” t shirt, hahahahaha

Rip on Ulysses

Dietary, especially fast food, burger king road head!

Anything involving the south

Ok, ok, southern epic about working at kohl’s (or any form of clothing outlet), involving the home life which inherently includes drinking, video gaming, and fantasizing about women (baby momma’s)

Plots:

- Manager not being able to grow anything and asks Fred for help, Fred grows pot, and boys find out, and Fred uses them to find markets, and they get entangled in the pot business.

- Walk for the AIDS

Characters:

Fred: middle aged, 42, overeducated, alcoholic, slacker, lives near the department store, games all the time, internet porn (webcam’s, chat room’s), into fat chics and disapproves of skinny white, blond girls, still turns out to be old men who live in India, installs tv cam’s in the dressing rooms to watch on his hand held tv, buys the main characters liquor frequently, fred is the failed hero, never accepted the call, Marxist thought, Licensed gynecologist

Kids are both hard workers, trying to pay their way through college, trying to get out, one loving Nietzsche and the other Kant, creating interesting debates, which fred participates in

Scenes:

1. Burger king road head
2. Fred’s apartment
3. I survived Auschwitz encounter
4. underwear sniffer
5. senior citizen days
6. husbands looking for more underwear for women
7. manager, klan member invites them to a BBQ, company picnic
8. professor’s office

Scene 1:

Narrator: Some stories should be told. Others not so much. Yeah …. this one is up to you to decide. (pan to city) This is the city where Scott and Bill live. Greendale, Arkansas. Not very green, and whatever the hell a dale is, it’s most definitely not that. (pan to Shop-Mart) This is where is Scott and Bill work. Shop-Mart, the nation’s prominent retail chain. This particular outlet prides itself on the NASCAR department which spans two-thirds of the store. Scott and Bill work in the NASCAR department, they hate their jobs. This is Fred, their coworker (show drinking out of a flask at work).

Old lady: Can you help me?

Fred: No. I don’t work here.

Old lady: What? You have a Shop-Mart vest.

Fred: Look lady. I got this at a rummage sale. I don’t work here. I never did.

(Old lady walks away disgusted)

(Rick walks up) Rick: Fred, what did you just tell that woman?

Fred: I told her that the laundry department was that way.

Rick: But we don’t have a laundry department.

Fred: I don’t give a damn, this is a union job and you know you can’t fire me. (Takes swig from flask again)

Rick: Fred we don’t have a union.

Fred: No shit?

(Fred shrugs and walks away)

Scott and Bill go to the local college (pan to college) Trinity Baptist Southern University. They teach intelligent design there.

Teacher: Now the atheist liberals out there want you to believe that we randomly formed from nucleotides and then became monkeys and now we are human beings. But that’s liberal poppycock. Now I’ll tell you how we really formed.

Scott: (mutters) Jesus Christ.

Teacher: The Lord came down 18,000 years ago, not the 10,000 those crazy fundamentalists will tell you. And he did not create humans the way we are today. He created Cro-Magnons, the same one’s found in Africa, where it looks like some of you are from.

(glares from angry black men)

Bill: Where is he going with this?

Scott: Hell if I know.

Teacher: Through the intelligent design of God, Cro-Magnon man “evolved”, if you will, into modern human beings. (shows two slides, two pictures on each) Here we have Cro-Magnon man, figures 1 and 2. (cro-magnon man and a generic black guy) You can clearly see the resemblance in the broad nose and depressed skull. In figures 3 and 4, you can trace an extremely slight evolution of cro-magnon man (shows pictures of two black students in the class. The black students are in awe. All the white kids are straining to see the students that they recognize on the slides)

Bill: Is this actually happening?

Narrator: This is Scott’s family (pan to hick father with mullet, a haggard white trashy woman, and an obese black woman standing in front of their home, and a younger brother) Scott’s father, Charley, works down at the lumber yard. (pan to the lumber yard) Scott’s mother, Charlene is a hair stylist in her friend’s house down the street. (pan to the home)

Charlene: Did you hear about those little negro boys down at the school?

Tammy: Yes’m. I heard they’s makin’ trouble wit the teachas and graffitying them walls in the boys bathroom.

Narrator: This is Maybelle, Charley’s mistress. (pan to showing Charley and Maybelle standing together) Every Sunday afternoon, they take down the confederate flag, wash it, and perform a flag raising ceremony. (pan to flag raising ceremony, Maybelle is raising the flag as Charley salutes and has his shotgun in the other hand, 24 pack on the ground next to him)

Narrator: This is Bill’s family. (pan to father, mother, and Bill) (show trailer) They live in a trailer. (awkward pause) Bill doesn’t enjoy living at home.

(Trailer shaking while Bill attempts to do homework)

Bill: For Christ’s sake, keep it down!

Hank: Don’t use the lord’s name in vain!

Scarlet: YES! YES!

Bill: (mutters) God damnit …

Hank: (enters room wearing only confederate flag boxers and holding a belt) What did I just tell you boy?

Bill: Oh shit! (runs out of the trailer, father in tow)

(pan to inside shop-mart)

Scott: Rick, we’re going on break.

Rick: Wait, you can’t, there’s no one else working in the department but me.

Bill: I’m sure you can handle it by yourself, Rick.

(Scott and Bill enter surveillance camera room)

Fred: Hey boys, break time?

Bill: You can bet your snakeskin belt on it.

Fred: I only wear twine belts.

Scott: (looking at one of the monitors of a woman changing) No shit, Fred. When’d you set this one up?

Fred: Oh, just last Saturday. I did some research and I found that the hottest chicks, for whatever reason, always picked the furthest stall on the right. So I set up a camera in that corner of the room. I hooked it up to broadcast on a tv frequency of my choice. Right now it’s Local Channel 67.

Scott: So you are telling me I could go home and turn to channel 67 and watch this right now?

Fred: Well, as long as you are close enough, yeah, yeah I think you should be able to.

Scott: What kind of radius are we talking about?

Fred: 2, maybe 3 miles if the wind is right.

Bill: That’s nearly the whole town Fred, anyone could be watching this.

(pan to kids at home)

Kid 1: Oooo, what’s this?

Kid 2: Those would be BOOBS!

Kid 1: (giggling) Hahahaha, I love boobs.

(pan back to shop mart)

Bill: So why did you decide to install the camera?

Fred: Customers apparently don’t like to see a creepy middle aged guy staring at them from above the stalls. If I was a chic and that happened to me, I’d find that quite flattering.

Scott: Eh, understandable.

Bill: Oh, Christ, look at her!

Fred: I would totally tap that ass.

Scott: Too bad, she probably has the clap.

Fred: Then I’ll wear my latex gloves.”

Scott: What’re you going to do, fist her?”

Fred: Hell yeah, chicks like that love it rough!”

(Rick enters, flustered)

Rick: Guys, I can’t handle it. I need to go back to my office. A customer needs help over by the toy cars.

Fred: (grinning mischievously) I can take care of it Rick, my lunch break is nearly over anyway.

Rick: Thanks, these people are driving me mad. Oh, guys, don’t forget. The company picnic is over at the Wilson place this year.

(Fred and Rick exit, pan to toy department)

Fred: Hi ma’am, how may I help you.

Customer: Do these actually work?

Fred: What do you mean?

Customer: Can I drive them?

Fred: Ma’am, they are just toys.

Customer: Are you sure? Cuz it looks like you could get a little person in there, you know, (voice hushed) a midget.

Fred: No. No, little people can’t fit in there. The car isn’t real. The doors don’t open and the engine is plastic.

Customer: I don’t believe you.

Fred: Ok, yes. You can drive it. We have a shrink ray in Isle 73 that would get you right down to size. You can’t miss it. It’s the isle next to the Unicorns and Leprechauns.

Customer: Are you pulling my leg?

Fred: No ma’am, not at all.

Customer: (gleefully walking away) I always knew unicorns were real. Wait till I tell Pauline!

Narrator: This is Fred in one of the six bars within walking distance of his church. (camera pan from church, across parking lot to bar. Bar has many more cars than church). Fred likes to get his drink on. (pause) Tonight he is drinking jack and coke, but he substituted the coke for more jack.

Fred: Bartender, I want a jack and a coke on the rocks. Hold the rocks and the coke. (does bad dance move while waiting for drink, chick looks at him moves away quickly). Yeah, I want to fuck you that badly too. Bartender? Who was that, she just checked me out.

Bartender: That’s my wife.

Fred: Really? That sucks. She looks worse than my anemic blood hound.

Bartender: I’m going to fucking kill you.

Fred: Can have my drink first (bartender hands drink over, as Fred sips, fist enters screen, sends glass flying into biker gang. Biker gang member draws studded bat from pants and walks towards bar. Bartender shoots biker. Freeze frame as the biker gets hit in the shoulder.)

Narrator: Good thing that was Saturday night, and the next day meant Sunday’s glorious redemption at Holy Baptist Trinity Word of Jesus Evangelical Adventist Rejuvenation Church of America. (shows man with arm in a sling, the bartender with bandage on head, and a man with a bruises all over his face, pan to Scott and Bill’s families sitting together, with the two boys in the middle, show Fred sleeping with hands down pants in the back of the church)

Pastor: Fuck the liberals! They don’t know shit! Praise the lord!

Maybelle: PRAISE THE LORD (jumps up and raises hand as if to testify)

Pastor: Join hands brothers, sisters, and negroes alike. We address this prayer to god’s angels Strom Thermond, Jerry Falwell and Jack Daniel’s. (Fred wakes up confused as to where he is)

Bill: (Desperately) Oh, fuck me sideways.

Scott: Sideways?

Bill: Yeah, just like I did your mom last night

Scott: You and half the police force.

Bill: Fuck.

Pastor (continuing): We pray that George Bush will be given the strength to conquer the North, Liberals, A-rabs, Darwinians, the Bravo channel and Clay Aikin and his plot to turn us all into homosexual lovers.

Fred: (stands up, screams): FUCK CLAY AIKIN!!!

Maybelle: AMEN!!!

Pastor: Damn the homosexuals and their pro cancer agenda straight to hell. We pray that god will give us the strength to crusade against the a-rabs, communists, gypsies, science and menstruation.

Fred: YES, FUCK MENSTRUATION, RAG TIME IS THE WRONG TIME!! (everyone in church turns awkwardly and stares as Fred mimics a Pentecostal dance and pretends to speak in tongues which is really just a long list of NASCAR drivers)

Maybelle: LORD ALL MIGHTY, AMEN.

(pan to the appliance section of the store, by the refrigerators and microwaves, Fred is standing conspicuously by the largest refrigerator in the store)

(Bill approaches, microwave is on but unnoticed)

Bill: What are you doing in Appliances, we work in NASCAR?

Fred: Want a drink?

Bill: What?

Fred: A drink, (annoyed) you know? Liquid. Liquid with alcohol.

Bill: No, but it’s the beginning of the shift, why are you asking me now?

(fred opens fridge, removes beer, opens on LCD display, putting a large scratch on screen)

Bill: You fucking idiot, you have beer in the fridge, you’re drinking on the clock, and you just ruined a forty-five hundred dollar TV.

Fred: So? We’ve got more in the back.

Bill: Beer or TV’s

Fred: How the hell am I supposed to know about the TV’s? I work in the NASCAR section.

Bill: Oh, Jesus, we’re going to get fired

Fred: nah, Rick is a pussy, and I disabled the security camera in this section. (Fred walks away and throws empty beer bottle over head which crashes into another expensive tv on display, clearly ruining it. Fred pauses awkwardly, and begins to walk toward Bill)

Bill: Where am I? Satan’s arm pit?

Fred: Worse kid, Satan’s festering herpes sores. (opens same large fridge, removes one of many large wine-in-the-box’s, removes swirly straw from pocket, inserts into box, microwave rings) SCOTT, YOUR SHIT IS READY, COME GET IT.

Scott: Thank god, hot pockets look like pussy, this will be my entertainment today.

(Fred sips wine, Scott takes oversized bite of hot pocket, immediately spits onto same TV Fred opened bottle, Fred who is alarmed by the sudden motion, jumps and spits wine on Bill’s face)

Fred: Sorry

Bill: (anger building) It’s ok.

Fred: No, I meant about the hot pocket, but speaking of pussy, You guys want in on a little secret?

(pans to exterior rape crisis center)

Fred: Listen, I know you’ve been through a tough time, that’s why I think you need to get high with me.

Distraught woman: What?

Fred: Listen, right now, what do you want to do? Just forget it all happened, right?

Woman: Yes, I’d give anything.

Fred: (slyly) Anything?

Woman: Well..

Fred: (jokingly) ok, ok, bad joke, (regains serious composure) but seriously?

Woman: I just want it all to go away.

Fred: That can be arranged (removes large bag of pot, pipe and lighter from pockets) one hit of this and you’ll be effectively an Alzheimer patient.

(scene of both taking a hit, fade to black. During the darkness, begin loud sex noises until climax and then fade sound. Still no visual. Pause. Brighten into sun rise. Excessively happy music with birds chirping and a happy family walking to church. Show same view of rape crisis center. Show Fred and Distraught Woman cuddling on the floor with posters of how to resist male manipulation in the back ground)

Woman: (waking up): Oh Jesus, it happened again.

Fred: Yep, sorry about that.

Woman: (insanely outraged) You abused my trust. You fucker. (gets up naked, and starts slapping him) YOU FUCKER! YOU SICK FUCK! FUCK YOU! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A LOWDOWN BAG OF FUCK! (she punches him in his good eye, and freeze frame briefly, then fade to church.)

“You have five levels. D, C, B, A, and … Max.”

The Very Intriguing Christmas

Part II of the Ross family tradition ... that's only two years old, fun to read even if you don't know my girlfriend's family simply due to the absurdity of the story

Chapter 1: Santa’s Unfortunate Backstory

April had only just unpacked her yellow and black J.K. Lees duffle bag when JP suddenly grabbed it from her and bellowed, “I bet you wish you were using this duffle bag in San Diego, California. Dontcha guuuurlfriend?”. April simply stared. JP smiled idiotically.

“No, I wish you would be with me and my family this Christmas. You deserter. You won’t even be here for Steve’s birthday.”

“I said I was sorry.” JP replied.

“No you are not.”

“Mayyyyyyyyybe.”

Over two hundred miles away, and just a little to the north of Eau Claire, Santa Claus was tracking April’s every move after installing a heat tracking device that followed the course of her purpleish red hair as it melted the snow on her return trip home. Sitting in his “home base” where no one could catch him, Santa Claus was up to his yearly sinister plan.

Dearest Ross Family, you all must wondering, Santa, our robust and jolly Santa Claus, what kind of sinister plans could he be up to? He comes to our house with reindeer and delivers fantastic presents. He just lives with all of the elves and they are so selfless. Well, although many of those things are true, poor Santa Claus, contrary to popular belief, does not have a “significant other”. How shall I say, he lacks a female counterpart. Or, as we say today, he is not married to a lovely, caring wife. A few years ago, after having several children, the former Mrs. Claus could not handle the northern Wisconsin cold anymore, declared that the marriage was a farce and that no woman in her right mind would shack up with a fat man who did nothing but make toys ‘til all hours of the morning until “The Big Day” where he stressed out even worse than a woman around that time of the month. As a result, Santie Claus would kidnap any woman that seemed to meet his fancy and keep them in an underground ice “lair” where they would have to perform the daily functions of a maternal house wife. They had to do things like scold the children, wash the laundry, prepare and serve the food, clean the house, etc etc. Things which Mrs. Ross can rightfully say are no fun at all and wish that other people could do for themselves.

Now, Santa Claus, living only twenty minutes away from Eau Claire, would dress in some raggedy clothes that Mrs. Ross would not approve of and mumble to himself on the University of Eau Claire campus in order to pretend to be the local insane man. When he saw April, he thought he must be hallucinating. Her hair was such an odd color that he knew that she must be added to his collection, not to mention she had a pretty face. However, as Santa Claus was about to make his move, another woman showed up in a van. April went to go hug the woman and then April’s face went quite cross.

“What took you so long mom?”

“I hit traffic.”

“You always hit traffic.”

“Were you aware there is a way around traffic?”

“I don’t need your badittude young lady. If you want, I can leave you here right now.”

“No mommy! … ma! Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma ma!

“Shut up April!”

“But ma ma!”

“April …. This is gonna be a long ride.”

Mrs. Ross and April climbed into the car and got settled in. Mrs. Ross put Steely Dan into the cd player. Santa steamed in disappointment, but being one who doesn’t give up easily, he decided to follow her with Weather.com.

JP’s flight was unfortunately cancelled. He hoped he could go visit Steve on his birthday, but his dad freaked out and decided to drive the whole way. No big deal, only a thirty six hour drive, watching hours and hours worth of nothing. While April and Rachel were staying up super late for no reason, Santa was outside their house, having made all of his yearly Christmas rounds elsewhere in the world a little bit early so that he would have enough time to take April in her sleep. Finally, after about three a.m., April and Rachel fell asleep, cuddling together because of their intensely cold room that they will soon change the color of. JP, on the other hand, was probably awake staring at the white sands of Arizona.

Chapter 2:

“I’m so tired-uh.” Deanna proclaimed.

“Then go to bed-uh.” Mrs. Ross said.

Deanna sported a grumpy face to her mother’s reply.

“It’s time for bed, Deanna. If you don’t go to sleep and get rid of that attitude, Santa will take back all of the gifts he set aside for you..

“Nuh-uh. Santa can’t watch everyone when he is out on Christmas night. He has his radar at home and that’s how he knows about the rest of the year. But other than that, he doesn’t know about tonight. So there!”

“Oh really, is that what you think?” Mrs. Ross said with a smile.

“Yup … uh.” Deanna giggled.

Mr. Ross got back home from last minute Christmas shopping just as Deanna giggled. Without warning Steven, who was supposed to be sleeping, emerged from behind a chair and fired numerous Nerf balls at his father.

“Haha, touché Dad!”

“Touche what?

Steve fired two more nerf balls. “Touche!!!”

Mr. Ross responded by grabbing Steven by his ankles, lifting him upside down, walking up the stairs, and then by tossing him into the bed. Steven chuckled a bit.

“Do that again and you will have an early bed time.”

“Not on Christmas!”

“Yes on Christmas!”

“Nooooo. Not by bed time. Can I please not have it back.”

“I didn’t take anything away.”

“I want it back! Please.”

Mr. Ross simply looked confused but decided to make the best of the situation.

“Well, if you are good and don’t whine tomorrow then you’ll be able to get your bedtime back.”

“Ok, it’s a deal dad.”

“Ooooookay then.”

Mr. and Mrs. Ross tucked Deanna into bed, kissed her goodnight, and then went to their bedroom, you know, the room with all the towels and washcloths. They climbed into bed and slowly fell asleep, they too waiting for Santa to come bring them their gifts.

Chapter 3: When Santa Brought More Than Just Gifts

Santa Claus saw all the lights go off one by one in the Ross household, and he began to peer into the windows to “double check”. Santa tried to get in the doors, but Steven had locked every single one. The chimney was definitely too small, not to mention that Steve had only recently extinguished a raging fire. The only option was a little B&E, also known as breaking and entering for those who don’t live next to a not so good neighborhood, like JP does. Santa walked to the sliding glass door, took out his glass cutting kit, and cut a perfectly circle out of the glass, not making a sound. He climbed through the hole in the glass, but suddenly tripped on a bunch of miscellaneous items that Steven had put in front of the door in case robbers came to steal their Christmas presents. Santa fell towards the floor, bounced off of the couch, and crashed through the sliding door.

“ROBBER ALERT!” Steven cried.

Mr. Ross ran out with his boxers, bathrobe, and a baseball bat. Steven ran out with the nerf gun. Mrs. Ross followed Mr. Ross with a blanket. Deanna came out of her bedroom with some Hannah Montana apparel. Rachel emerged with a sour face and a Wii controller. April stayed in bed, sleeping through the whole thing. JP was still in a car over a thousand miles away, looking at mountains that never seemed to be getting any closer.

They all walked downstairs, seeing shiny black boots sticking out from behind the couch. They finally approached the red and white figure, who was clearly knocked unconscious.

“We killed Santa!” Deanna said.

“You jerks!” Steven said.

“No one killed Santa, he’s just, … very cranky that you kids are still up.” Mrs. Ross said.

“No, he looks pretty dead to me.” Rachel said dryly.

Mr. Ross checked Santa’s pulse, and ending all discussion, Santa was alive.

“Wake up Santa.”

Santa didn’t move. He only groaned.

“Come on Santa. Get up.” Deanna said.

Slowly but surely, Santa managed to get back up to his feet. He was still groggy, but he could finally make out the people who had suddenly woken him from an uncertain sleep. But where was April.

“Santa, why did you break our window?” Steve said.

“It was an accident, but I’m here for your women. How much for the little girl? How much for the girl?”

“What are you talking about Santa?” Mrs. Ross said.

Santa jumped from his seat and ran up to April/Rachel’s room. Grabbed a sleeping April and jumped out the window. Everyone heard a thud outside the window and went outside to check it out. Santa was again unconscious and April was just starting to wake up.

“What’s going on?” April said.

“Santa just tried to kidnap you.” Rachel said. “Too bad he failed.” She rolled her eyes.

Santa groaned again.

“Let’s get him into the house.” Mr. Ross said.

With a team effort, the Ross family managed to get Santa into the living room and on a couch. He woke up when Neo started licking his face. Slowly, Santa began to sob. No one knew quite why. He sobbed and he sobbed. Soon all the tissues and papertowels had been used. Santa’s beard was drenched in tears.

“If you don’t tell us what’s wrong, my mom will take an hour off of your bed time tomorrow.” Steve said

“Not my bed time.” Santa said. “You can’t do that.”

“Yes I can, I’m the mom.” Mrs. Ross replied.

So Santa explained the whole situation with his lack of a female counterpart and the Ross family felt bad for him. April suggested that he let the rest of the ladies go, because they would like to celebrate Christmas with their families, which Santa agreed to.

“You should go out to the clubs Santa. There are a lot of nice girls there. Or even Starbucks, you might find some smart ones there!” April said.

“Maybe you’re right.” Santa said. “That certainly would be better than all the kidnapping, sneaking around, and breaking and entering.”

“You think?” Rachel said sarcastically.

And Santa went home, released the girls, sent them all home via his awesome sleigh, and later went into the local tavern, where he discovered a very pretty bar maid. The Ross family, unfortunately, had to cover up the broken glass that they hoped their Grandpa would fix very soon. And everyone, lived happily ever after.

What the Winter Thunderstorm Brings with It

The movie finished and the tears started streaming.

She didn’t wear much makeup or eyeliner. She knew she didn’t have to around me. Beauty wasn’t in the appearance, it was in the demeanor I would tell her. Not that she didn’t look pretty. Quite the opposite, in fact, was true. Her eyes, even teary, emitted a sparkle of light. Or maybe that was just the reflection of the dim lighting from the screen. Either way, her green eyes looked stunning.

We sat in the seats for longer than necessary, enjoying the last bits of music during the credits. I stood, ready to leave. I reached for the plate that once held the overpriced sausage pizza. She reached for the last few drops of Diet Coke. Ice rattled in the oversized cup. Her motions seemed slow, not at all deliberate. She seemed as though she was torn between two conflicting thoughts and couldn’t make up her mind. She paused and looked up. I smiled and her face scrunched up a little bit, the way it always does just before she unleashes a torrent of tears. I wasn’t afraid … or worried. She looked gorgeous, despite the tears. No, I’m wrong. Not despite them. Because of them. She approached me and I took her into my arms, bringing her head to my chest. I looked into her eyes when she would glance up at me. Slight giggles would erupt between humming sobs. This was a happy cry I thought. I did something right. I smiled to myself. I smiled at her, at her beauty

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I replied.

Nothing more needed to be said, really.

The music changed to something a little more upbeat. Without any provocation, without any spoken words, we slowly moved our hips and feet to the rhythm of the guitar. She cried and I held her.

The theater was empty anyway. It appeared that maybe only four people seemed to be working that night. All of them waiting for the late night showings to end. In front of the large movie complex, only three cars sat unattended in the parking lot. Theater Eight had at least one hundred seats. And there we were, from nine forty-five until eleven thirty, all by ourselves, free to laugh or cry together. No lewd activity occurred.

I held out my hand for her to hold, and she took it gently. I beside her through the movie exit doors and out into the wet parking lot. A thunderstorm had raged earlier, thoroughly soaking anything porous on its downward path to the earth. There had been thunder, lighting, and torrential downpours. It almost got rid of all the snow on the ground. Odd weather for January. Fifty some degrees outside and rainy. Imagine if it had been a blizzard.

“I loved the movie.” She said while looking at the blacktop pavement.

“I want to live with you. I don’t need the insurance.” Her mother threatened to take away the health insurance if she decided to live with me.

I avoided the puddles. I realized that there was nothing more satisfying, nothing more comforting, that waking up in the morning with the person you love. I looked up at her and smiled. Mistake. I stepped into a large puddle. It doesn’t matter in the whole scheme of things.

We got into the van and she started craving ice cream. Women and their odd cravings. At least I got some ice cream. I never refuse ice cream. Even when I’m full.

We stopped at a popular ice cream eating establishment. The tears that had temporarily abated suddenly flowed harder than before. I couldn’t stop smiling. I hadn’t been this happy in a long time. My smiles made her smile. My smiles do tend to be contagious. I work mysterious magic with crying babies. Maybe I look like a clown. I do have a large Roman nose, and I personally think Roman noses are quite amusing.

“It’s a good cry babe.” She said with a tearful smile.

I know. I know, I thought.

“Do I cry too much?”

“Nope.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I replied. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

And nothing more needed to be said, really.