From Turkeys to Projectile Peaches

The holidays are filled with more stress than needed. My "thanksgiving break" was spent working, and trying to enjoy the holidays around the constant work in a kitchen. My job has a big efffect on my holidays. At 7:00a.m. on Thanksgiving my time was spent prepairing to serve a brunch. All the trimmings, from a carved turkey to scrambled eggs and bacon; the morning proved to be tedious and annoying. To be perfectly strait; my holiday was ruined by having to go to my place of employment.

Another situation that proved to fulfill itself over break so far was to get lit. No beating around the bush here; the kids you went to high school with all come home. The college student's that come home for the holidays without jobs just can't wait to send themselves spinning. And what do you know; I'm gonna join em'.

Yes, the post's are slacking. But lessons had to be learned about peaches, and money had to be made. Tonight will be long, yet again. Bill has been on this holdiay break misson every step of the way. We are almost like explorers in the game of life. Who knows?

'72

Over the past two weeks, my Journalism class has been covering “Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72”. The coverage has jumped around, surveying the months that were closest to the point of the semester. See, the chapters are divided up into the twelve months of 1972, with a concentration on the presidential campaign. Thompson goes through the events of each month, some (chapters) lasting longer than others. We most recently covered the months of November and December. Let’s just say this: the descriptions and testimonies of these two chapters are incredible, incredibly un- believable.
Pg. 397, In the November chapter of the Thompson novel, the mood changes to a serious, slightly saddening tone. The “Editors Note” explained how Thompson went through a series of nervous seizures after a flash back. Now, the editor had resorted to Thompson composing his book vocally, into a microphone on an eight foot chord connected to a tape recorder. The chapter was actually typed out in an interview format with a question and answer outline. Hunter...The poor man...Rambled on and on about the Eagleton incident and the crash of the McGovern campaign. Eagleton refused to cough up his medical records, which still sit in St. Louis. The records prove the information given to the McGovern campaign about “electric shock treatment” Eagleton received, and never notified a soul. McGovern couldn’t follow through with his pledge to back him; but his staff could not provide the records. The whole thing made McGovern sink, in an odd melt of sadness and rage.
The interview is so raw and literal, you can almost see Thompson, pacing around the room...Babbling off answers to the poor editors questions. Imagine the task of deciphering the words when composing the chapter. At one point, Thompson is by a window looking onto the street, the text reads: “HST: Excuse me, but I think I see a mescaline dealer down there in the street; proof of his madness.

The Weekend

Somehow, I have to learn how to controll my weekends. The just develop into one big party. Nothing was posted yesterdayt, because I was busy with work around the house, then a night full of writing. The manusript I composed last night into the dark, early hours of this morning is a private one, but snipits from the piece will be posted and talked about. As for right now, I have to mentally repaire for the battle known as"Goalie". Just another weekend night...or was it?

P.S.- My piece on the Hunter S. Thompson book will be posted tomorrow.

"Like Riding Gods Own Motor Cycle" - HST

That's a quote from a 1972 based book called "Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72" . Soon, I will post a review of the "November" chapter. Today was another day in November; where the cold rips down your neck under your coat. Walking around all day proved to be an un-pleasent reminder of winters abrupt arrival. Celtics won, the new flatscreen tells no lie..(98-80). There is always a game on in Central.
The night has grown old, and the day was longer than ever anticipated. As a thursday, the weekend will prove it STILL will show no mercy. Tomorrow, I plan to have the review done; if it's not posted, the day has once again gone to hell. No, really...that sounds too vicious; if I have the time and ability to edit my piece it wil be posted.
Now.."Casino" belts at my ears from the big screen; Big Brother in it's purest form. I would like to set a goal for myself, and the blog. Upon going through an old notebook, I stumbled upon some of my first real attempts at writing. They were written upside down, in the back of a plastic covered Mead, general rule notebook. Up untill recently, they have gone un-noticied and forgotten about.There..thats to keep the audience interested.
As my parter Kap downlaods a sample to my flash drive that I hold on my keys; for a drum beat im working on...its time to go. Tomorrw is another day. Now i'm being rushed out the door, the travel kit is packed, and away we go.

The Cold

Today, I woke myself up. In a sense, I brought myself up to times. It was almost as if my mental state was falling and not recognizing where the hell the time was going. Then, as I looked at the date it said November 20th. Suddenly I felt a rush of blood to my face and a realization that things were changing. This was a feeling of digging head first into the ground, then having a pickup truck hook up chains with your ankles and pull like hell. It shifted my whole day. The days are shorter, and the weather is colder, it's time to hunker down for the big winter haul.
New England makes the best out of its winter. From ski resorts to ice fishing to pond hockey, it all comes and goes with the holiday winter season; Christmas Season (it just can't be called that anymore...especially if every word out of you're mouth insists on being snivelling politically correct statement.) See I knew this would happen.....this is garbage. The problem with planning on typing a nice long post with meaning is time. My time schedule is tight now, even though all afternoon was spent doing other things. My priorities are in the right place...just at the wrong time. Once I can line them up, maybe the ball will get rolling for me, or someone if not me.

This Morning

At 5:45, my alarm went off. Waffles, I need energy quick. After a quick mental survey of the situation, my decision is to dose back off into a hazy mist of half sleep. My alarm rings again...7:00 a.m.; in a blink of an eye, an hour passes. Whatever the phenomena be, I needed to pick up Bill by 7:15 in Central. Morning traffic would prove to be a snobby bitch, and the law enforcement was out in full force. Driving into Bill's parking spot, in the driveway behind his house, my phone reads 7:15 . Out of the unit closest to the driveway entrance, Bill comes out of the door next to the garage. He's about 5 feet, 5 inches, wears a nice collared winter coat with a grey hoodie under it..hood on, over his Polo winter hat. In his right hand he holds his backpack, while the left closes and locks the back door to his house; the man is constantly on the move, ready for the day ahead.

The ride was slightly long in fact, winding through Central with the sounds of Opie and Anthony making us think and have logical, un-biased discussions about the topic that day. We were very critical on the topic this morning, "the pregnant man"...thats a whole different argument. Arriving to the O'Keefe lot in my over a decade old Jeep Cherokee Sport is more invigorating than ever before. The breaks need fluid, and my hand always rests on the top of the "E -Break" level in my center console. I'm in the process of getting fluid, but the days are just too short.

Upon arriving to school, Bill's class was canceled. So, my waking up early (I had no class until 10:00a.m.) just got us to Salem for nothing; in the literal sense...the ride always serves its purpose. So, we turned around, and headed back to Central..class wasn't till 10:00, right?

Not sure

I am really lost with this blog thing. I just want to post pieces of my writing, and not have it as a journal. This is confusing. Maybe I need actual events to write and report about? Maybe I do make it an online journal...just with thoughts about life that day. Then again, my full day might not be the best thing to share over the internet. New things have worked their way into my life, and thats always changing. Every day posts don't seem realistic, I wouldn't give a shit about what someone is writing everyday ex: I went to school, then did this, then did that...I dont care. Now, on the other hand, a person with insight is different. Maybe I can comprise my blog of just thoughts, opinions and logic about everyday life...or situtations. Possibly it can be somthing to just check into every day? (if your a follower...which I have none of yet). Or..possibly, it can be small posts, daily, then a feature article or story. All of this really is just getting me used to writing everday, which is positive in itself. There...I figured it out...daily post's with featured articles and stories. We'll see how it goes. In the meantime, I will keep writing and keeping fiddling with this crazy new outlet I have found. Everyday there is somthing new to write about, its just the person that needs to be vigilant enough to take in what can be the subject of composition. Oh, you can quote me on that.

"Routine"

Finally, it’s Monday morning. The previous week was too long for a man with stitches in his mouth. The eating of soft foods has to change. I’m sick of the mal-nutrition these wisdom teeth have provided for me. Today marks the end of my battle with the stitches. No more worrying (hopefully) about the wounds being infected or not. At 1:00 p.m., my oral surgeon will be elbow deep in my mouth, extracting the mess of rope he tied down over a week ago.
My mouth’s hygiene however, could not be better. I have quit smoking for over a week now, cold turkey. The habitual rinsing, with my home-made saline solution of table salt and warm tap water, hopefully rid my mouth of germs. I wish that someone, at some point, could have told me how much this procedure really throws off your lifestyle. Just the ability to eat what our body is used to is a huge part of our routine.
Routine is about sleeping, eating, and going about your day in the most natural way possible for a specific person. When sleeping, eating, and stress levels fluctuate (never mind spin out of control), keeping a solid routine is usually disrupted. This is what happens with serious wisdom teeth extraction. Your routine is abruptly called to a halt, and the decisions are up to the medication. This the medication prescribed by the doctor who put you in the situation in the first place. Yes, I have possibly dug far too deep into the subject, but there was nothing else to do besides sit around and think about the pain inside of my swollen cheeks.
Truthfully, the time I spent licking my wound’s was not in vain. There was an ample amount of time for writing and reading, mainly getting caught up on things. Would I gladly lay down for the procedure again? Not unless the life of my family depended on it. Hopefully everything is well and my mind can let go of wisdom teeth for a while.

"Wisdom Teeth"

As you mature, your body grows what they like to call “wisdom teeth”. These four annoying little fucks sprout up every which way in the back of your mouth, two on top and two on the bottom. Their typical orientation is to push through the existing gums. They don’t really do much, besides crowd the other teeth in your jaw, cause incredible pain, and cost a hell of a lot of money to get removed. One thing I would like to protest is the fact they are called “wisdom” teeth. The only wisdom I can see gained from these little bastards is learning about the drugs the doc gives you to dull the pain once they have been ripped out. I’m trying to take what god has given me (useless teeth), and turn it into somewhat of an experiment.
By no means am I a drug addict, or ever intend to be one. But, on this occasion, narcotics have been prescribed to me legally, by a doctor, and taking them is beneficial to my situation. Being an avid advantage-taker of burned plants, and the distilled byproducts of plants, man-made drugs have never made a distinct appeal to me. Things that are produced in a lab to create any type of high just leave too many ends un-tied. Oxycodone is a pain reliever, used for the relief of moderate to severe pain from injury or operation. The drug is a substitute for Percocet, a commonly abused prescription pain killer. My goal was not to abuse the drug, but as a first oral narcotic at twenty years old, I planned to do some mild experimenting. There were no thoughts of snorting or injecting, merely just trying to figure out the buzz as it came and went. The “buzz” was not as I had expected at all, in fact the 325mg pills were mellow. My doctor suggested that I start with half a dose, for fear that it may be too strong; and I accepted this advice, but almost instantaneously let it trickle from my memory bank at once.
The pills killed the mental pain. What the drug actually does is shut off the part of the brain that lets a person know where the hurting is coming from. It is almost like dulling the blade of an axe; the pain still does its job, but your mind could care less. For me, it was motivating. It allowed me to slow down, sit, think, talk, and rationalize about whatever was going on. For some odd reason, the drug makes me focused, and incredibly enthusiastic about any work I had to do. From schoolwork, to personal work, to regular household chores, nothing seemed that big of a deal. Right now, as I type this, I’m about a half an hour into a fresh Oxycodone, and I can feel myself loosening up, and accepting whatever is thrown at me. As my parents walk in the door from work, all of their grievances are released, like any American household during these times. Usually, it bothers me, but not today, not with this drug.
There is now no question in my mind about why people get addicted to these little pills or any little pill for this matter. I think the cause for the addiction is based partly in the reason for distribution. If you’re given the pills to dull pain, any pain without access to the pills is amplified; mental or physical. The brain refers to what has been aiding it through difficult times (the drug), and somehow cannot get passed it.
Enough about addiction, it’s an ugly word. Sitting here, my face wrapped with some ice-holding contraption to reduce the swelling from my jaw, I just get frustrated. A considerable amount of money was given to my oral surgeon to remove teeth that I never even saw. The damn things didn’t even have a purpose, or maybe they did. My conclusion of using this damn narcotic is this: only use when prescribed. I am forever a fan of the natural lift, not the man made. In fact, I would make an argument for the substance of my choice, but with m particular situation, further complications would occur. Any other injury could have served as a beautiful base for a debate towards natural relief, but that is not the case. Wisdom teeth are nothing but a hassle, a potentially dangerous hassle if you don’t know yourself, and your drugs. Whenever I hear of someone undergoing the procedure, now I’m going to wish them luck. Not luck for surviving the procedure itself, but for surviving the hold of narcotics. Narcotics prescribed by a doctor to help with the pain when in fact they could do more harm than the useless wisdom teeth themselves, or a person can gain wisdom about the dangers within the man-made high.

"The Doctor of Weather."

- What I am planning on doing, for the time being, is posting little pieces that I write throughout my days; assignment for class or not. As a college student, some of my posts will be small writing assignments, or just excerpts. Other pieces to come are coverage of sports games (two at once in fact), pieces from a journal kept for my Intro to Communications course, and many other Gonzo-inspired works.Here is a piece I wrote in class, enjoy.

“The Doctor of Weather"

The start of class is always a struggle. Morning burns into my eyelids like a red hot brand. I glance at the clock, 10:02 a.m., what a drag. Just shut your mouth. The young man sitting two rows away is insisting that what he has to say has actual relevance… when it doesn’t. His mindless piddling combined with the confused and awkward sound of my professor’s voice annoys the shit out of me like the sound of a wood chisel on a chalkboard.

Finally, the class begins. The intervals in this class are just ridicules. This poor woman speaks with breaks in her sentences, and she’s constantly asking questions, as to think that her mouth isn’t sure where her brain is going with the next thought. Between her vocal chords and brain nerves, there is break in the circuit, they disagree as Archie Bunker and an African American neighbor. Damn, the woman just isn’t right. She teaches three classes, all at different locations. Her late nights must be filled with Wild Turkey lullaby’s…and she is no Hunter S.

Lost, and still fumbling through her words, she habitually mutters, “Today’s gonna’ be a stutter day”. This statement leads me to doubt the woman’s intelligence. Her repetitive instruction of the material to three classes has possibly had a brainwash effect on her and makes things habitual, including excuses. Fifteen minutes, and this woman hasn’t spoken a full solid sentence since class began; it’s all going to hell for her. She clumsily mutter’s, “I should have had some caffeine this morning”, the reality of this situation is ironically hilarious yet quite un-comfortable.
People sitting around me shake their morning-bent heads and roll their bloodshot eyes at the sight of our tripped-up professor. Upon reference, our semester syllabus confirms; the woman is a Doctor. Twenty minutes left in this room. Hopefully she survives her Wednesday morning, or, for the sake of my education…she doesn’t. Who knows what is troubling her mind today, it absolutely foolish to rule out the possibility that this is her true character. She could very well be under the influence of absolutely nothing at all. Whatever the case may be, extravagantly ironic or not, the broad isn’t right.

Ten minutes left until our heads are released from this questioning. I can safely speak for the general MTV generation of washed up minds in the room. Well, that’s not fair; not everyone in the room is as washed up as me and bill at twenty years old. But I guess even the “intellectuals” in the room can’t bear to continually sit through this lecturing. What am I kidding? Billy and I are well established intellectuals in our own right. A glance around the room and a sip of my water shows the entire class roster is in another world. Through the individual eyes of my fellow classmates, I can see abandonment in their current education; the blank stare of the brain can not quite making a connection with reality, and it is giving up on the situation at hand.

-Dango

First post...here we go.

This is my first post, my first baby step into the blogging world. There is much learning to do about blogs and all of the components. It could take months for me to become successful at this song and dance. Keeping up with this will be a chore, but I'm ready to learn.