Pro Day

On a warm day with a cold breeze in March, I meandered over to Nippert Stadium to witness the closest thing the NFL has to a dog show. For major college football programs, Pro day is an annual event that draws media coverage and fan interest. For UC, this was a new experience as the Bearcats were just getting the hang of looking like a major program.

It was exam week and campus was noticeably vacant. The only people in the stadium were two guys on the field lining up cones. I took a seat in the front row and watched them. One guy would move a cone three feet to the right, take a look down field, remove his baseball hat, scratch his sweaty grey head, and move it back. The other guy then would turn around and point to a place three feet to the right of the cone. The first guy would scratch his head again.

I began to wonder how early I was, when two more guys – high-school aged, in matching grey sweat suits – walked across the field and headed in my direction. I nodded as they approached, but they didn’t even look at me and sat in the next section over. A black Escalade then rolled out from the stadium tunnel and parked. A large man with a straight-billed Dodgers hat that covered the tops of his ears, got out and smiled at the teens. He walked over to them, hugs and hand-pounds all around.

“You sure you can park there?” one of the sweat suits asked him.

“I do every time I’m here,” Dodgers hat replied with swagger.

The three talked and laughed for a bit when another figure appeared from the tunnel. He was carrying a cardboard box. “Where do you want it?” he asked the sweatshirts. They mindlessly waved their hands, indicating anywhere in the general area will do. The man set the box down and soon joined in the laughing.

This man looked familiar; he looked like Caleb Miller. But I thought he was smaller than any NFL linebacker could possibly be. He was dressed casually enough for me to assume that he worked there or was just helping out. I knew he wasn’t playing anywhere at the time. What was Caleb Miller doing there carrying boxes for high-school kids on Pro Day? I couldn’t control my staring.


As a player, Miller always smelled of a failed experiment with the Bengals. Fast but undersized, he was drafted in the same round as Landon Johnson and the pair never materialized into anything special. While Johnson went on to be okay, Miller didn’t learn to tread water in the NFL and drowned.

Before they noticed me spying, a UC cop car pulled up next to the Escalade and a police woman stepped out. Dodgers Hat lost some of his swagger as he trotted back to his soon-to-be-ticketed monster of an automobile, holding up his clownishly sagging pants as he did so. The other three laughed, watching their friend attempt to shmooze and gesticulate his way out of the parking fine. I think I laughed too.

Once the lady had finished procedure (she actually tucked the ticket under the windshield wiper as opposed to handing it to him), she left and Dodgers Hat wandered back, smiling at the other three. Before he could explain what happened, a large flock of men dressed in brightly-colored nylon jogging gear, paraded onto the field. These, of course, were the NFL people, there to see the dogs run and jump and show their stock.

Lo and behold, leading the charge, like the alpha pack-leader establishing his rank, was Marvin Lewis. I didn’t at first notice him, but Dodgers Hat saw him right away.

“Cmon man, let’s go talk to Marvin,” he said to Caleb Miller. Caleb resisted on impulse, shrugging and looking at the ground. “Cmon, man. Let’s go talk to Marvin,” he said again.

Caleb knew he had no choice and trudged behind Dodgers Hat toward the coach. Marvin spotted them quickly, and broke away from the rainbow of scouts, with his hand extended. He shook with Dodgers Hat but barely looked at him, instead he focused on the next one to greet him.

“I know this guy,” Marvin said of Caleb. “He still has his first nickel.” They did the shake/hug maneuver, and Caleb looked immediately relieved. They talked but I moved on.

I began to walk to the other side of the field where I spotted the other press members, smiling and finding reasons to touch each other. The local press is a weird corps of socially awkward men who only have their supreme sports nerdiness in common to yak about until the “action” can spare them from further conversing. They’re always patting backs and shoulders and playfully nudging and pushing one another. I have to stay somewhat nearby as to not miss out on press releases and interviews, but I keep a safe distance from the fratish comradery.

Ryan Kolson, the UC media liaison, did his best to round these guys up like cattle and establish the parameters we were to stay in. Of course, like cattle, these parameters were slowly tested, and he occasionally had to reign them back in. He’s a shepherd of the print media; the camera guys seem to have more range than us. Once Ryan felt satisfied with the amount of pointing and “okaying” he went away to talk with the other AD goons. I really think they feel like the cool kids, god bless em, decked out in everything Bearcats. I imagine their homes and cars are decorated the same way.

Meanwhile, the scouts formed two pockets of socializing around midfield. The Jets & Ravens were talking and laughing and hiding their clipboards from each other. The Bills’ scout was looking for someone to talk to and the Cardinals’ guy had their back to everybody. The Steelers’ scout looked American Indian and had an enormous afro. The Patriots’ scout had a hat with the old snapping New Englander logo. I counted 18 teams total that came to see the dogs run.

Being one the cool kids, Ryan decided to stroll over to the print media section to bless us with some inside information.

“Yeah, as you can see, Marvin Lewis is here, Rex Ryan is here, I don’t know who else.” He nodded to everybody and returned to the AD circle. I had previously seen Rex beaming at those around him and lumbering about. He’s the kind of guy that could get away with being drunk at any time and no one would think he’s acting unusual. To me, he seems like the classic red-faced, back-slapping, in-your-personal-space, extra-loud guy who thinks everything is very funny. I have no factual background on the matter, but I think the Ryan household might do some serious partying during the holidays. Rex’s brother, Rob, looks like a bass player for an old swamp-rock band, plus they’re a family known for crazy blitz-schemes – they gotta be a wild bunch.

I didn’t think there would be any other coaches there I’d recognize, when I heard a sound like a tuba with a thick tongue blabber something out behind me. When I realized I couldn’t understand the words this large thing was saying, I knew it had to have been Mike Tice. The turquoise ogre (now the Jaguars’ offensive assistant) moved past me in long strides and tried his best to fit in with the other bright colors. That was all I recognized; the rest were random faces shrouded under overly-stylized baseball hats.

Finally, the athletes emerged. They were all dressed in the same grey sweatshirts that the two high-school kids were wearing. They immediately began to stretch their limbs and do sudden sprints down-field. The New York Giants scout seemed to be the ringleader of the dog show and announced that the dogs would run in 10 minutes. The scouts huddled around the finish line with their stopwatches and clipboards in hand, and waited. The 10 minutes came and went, then 15 minutes, then 20. Finally, the Giants’ guy yelled out that Connor Barwin would be the first to run.

Barwin was the main attraction to the event. NFL wizards have been salivating over this guy all year. He switched to defensive end from tight end delivered with 11 sacks – best in the Big East. He’s a silly guy with long arms and lots of speed and athleticism (the ability to jump 40 inches from a stand still position is usually spotted on basketball courts: Connor played a season with the UC basketball team, where he rebounded and played near the rim, not fully able to showcase the freakish coordianation, but still contributed on the most basic levels). I’m personally a fan of Connor Barwin because he always gave me the time to talk with him for interviews when I wrote for the student newspaper, The News Record. He seems like a normal guy encased in a superman shell.

Barwin finished his lunges and removed his shirt. Media personality C. Trent Rosencrans, turned to a goateed gentleman I see at every UC event yet I remain unaware of his identity, and remarked about how Barwin was going shirtless as if the goateed man had no eyes to see such a thing for himself. Barwin neared the starting line and the scouts prepared their stopwatches.; they resembled assorted Skittles grouped together on each side of the finish line. Barwin blasted off like a Clydesdale and stomped through the finish line. I had no stopwatch, but I was impressed. I tried to gauge the reaction of the NFL wizards, but they’re a cool-handed bunch who gets down to business when it’s time – poker faces all around. Barwin trotted back along the outside of the track, and Rosencrans gawked at him as a teenage girl would, when he passed. C. Trent smiled at the goateed one through his red beard and nodded. I knew not what was communicated with such a gesture.

Next up was defensive tackle, Terrell Bird. When he stepped to the starting point, everyone present then understood that these athletes were forced to run shirtless, as to reveal to the experts their breed and stock. Certainly no one who appeared to be trapped in a human barrel would volunteer to run shirtless. Bird’s girthy, oblong torso, compared to his bathtub legs, looked so cadywompus that he belonged more to the Weeble People than to the human race. His dash reminded one of the movements of clouds or planets; seemingly slow but with great effort. I think I laughed.

Between the scouts, media, spectators and the dogs themselves, there were easily over a hundred people present, yet everyone remained strangely quiet, speaking in hushed voices when they needed to speak at all; I felt like we were watching people putt from 10 feet out.

There were 15 others who ran. Some, like Dominick Goodman, who hadn’t been invited to the Combine, had plenty to prove to scouts that he was fast enough to be drafted; it turned out that he wasn’t. Others, like Mike Mickens and Dustin Grutza, had to prove their health to the NFL by running well. Grutza was fast, but tweaked a hamstring and couldn’t run a second time – some guys are cursed. Before Mickens took off, some teammates reminded him from the stands that he’s “gotta eat”, which I took to mean that this was his chance to get paid and ultimately fed. He ran well enough to eat.

There are select breeds who aren’t born runners; Canfield and El Ahmin were St. Bernards at a Greyhound track. They provided a sense of scale compared to the fastest runners that participated, which was helpful for a novice like me.

I watched the sprints, then watched the suicide drills then watched the cone drills. I followed the print media closer to the groups of scouts before Ryan Kolston shooed us back. When a grey-haired man with everything from jacket to water bottle proudly boasting a Bengals emblem dared to walk within feet of the press, Rosencrans asked him something out of earshot of everyone else. That’s why Rosencrans is a reporter, and I, when it comes down to it, am not. He has that instinct to get the scoop, I’d rather think it over a minute and ask an important question.

Marvin Lewis, away more than twenty feet and speaking with UC athletic director, Mike Thomas, noticed Rosencrans speaking to one of his people. He shouted at him from across the distance, and put on his best sarcastic grin, which he has collected so carefully over the years.

“There are no rules here, are there?” Lewis asked the reporter. “We oughta have rules and put you guys in a box up there.” He pointed in the air meaning the press box, but it was on the other side of the stadium and he pointed instead to nothing. His smile lingered on Rosencrans for that extra few moments that indicated he wasn’t fucking around. Rosencrans, knowing he was in international waters and immune to Marvin’s ire, smiled confidently back.

After running, changing directions, touching a cone, and grunting and yelling for about an hour, the dogs were given a water break and the scouts mingled a bit. I thought I’d eavesdrop if I could. Artrell Hawkins – lovingly known around these parts as third-and-Hawkins, thanks to the soft cushion he gave every receiver he covered and allowed thousands of successful third-down conversions – was chatting with Rex Ryan along the sidelines. As I walked past, I heard him speaking and was surprised to hear the voice of a basso profondo for such a small man. All I could make out were the words, “that motherfucker can play.” It seemed like a forced statement, as if men needed to display that kind of vulgarity in such a testosterone-charged event like an NFL Pro Day. It sounded like a middle-aged father who had forgotten how to use profanity well. I strolled around the field aimlessly a bit without much excitement and when I returned perhaps three minutes later, I heard him say it to Ryan again, “that motherfucker can play.” I never learned of who he was referring to.

Standing nearby was punter Kevin Huber, talking with Bengals special teams coach, Darren Simmons. I spotted Huber earlier waltzing around in his sweat suit grinning like a guilty fool, perhaps because he wasn’t required to run with the big dogs. In fact, in the few hours I was there, all I saw of him was the ability to walk and talk. Either way, special-teams guys stick together, largely because no one else wants to talk with them, so they kept out of the way and chatted.

Bengals linebackers coach Jeff Fitzgerald was there too, leading the linebackers and d-linemen in position drills. I had heard the guy was a fiery coach, but I think what is meant by that, is that he coaches as if he’s on fire. The man was spastic: running and yelling and clapping and good-jobbing all of the troops. If he were allowed to, I think he’d tape his ears to his head and wrestle each player to really test them. He runs on 20 brand new Energizer D batteries every day – it’s probably expensive (and bad for the Earth), but it keeps him alive.

One of his troops on that day was Ryan Manalac. I’d seen Manalac in uniform before, but he, like all the guys, was shirtless, and what that revealed was a chest and shoulders that he must have stolen from Atlas himself. It wasn’t that he was all that chiseled, it was strictly the immensity of his upper-body that caused me to jot in my notebook: Shit brickhouse, which, of course, is the dyslexic version of brick shithouse. He was also the most powerful runner I noticed in the 40 yard-dash. If the players were cars, Manalac would be a Buick from the late 70's with a fender that stretched along for miles, and when he makes impact on other cars, he leaves scrapheaps in his wake. I would invite Manalac to my training camp this summer if I were an NFL team, but I might be concerned that he’d hurt too many of my other players.

A couple hours had gone by and I was beginning to get antsy. I still needed to conduct some interviews but I also had to leave for work. I didn’t want to interview just anybody, so I waited for Mike Mickens to finish his long conversation with Marvin Lewis and pursued them on the sidelines. I wanted Marvin; I’ve always wanted to talk with Marvin. So many pages on my blog have been written about him, and it was surreal to be in his presence. He sensed me approaching him – he’d been keeping an eye on me all afternoon. He knew the other reporters there, he knew the scouts and coaches and members of the athletic department. He didn’t know me. When he saw me coming, he turned around and walked away. Mickens didn’t though, he likes to talk. Interviewing him felt like asking a boxer how awesome he considered himself.

Hey, Mike, how’s the knee?

“I’m 85 percent and I’m still putting up average numbers for everybody at the Combine, so if I’m 100 percent, I’m only going to be better and show that I am the best corner in the nation.”

Ok.

I moved on to another cornerback who I’ve always been impressed with and who doesn’t get nearly the attention Mickens the Great receives: DeAngelo Smith. I had interviewed D Smith before over the phone. He’s not a big talker but seems to know what kind of quotes are usable and what are generic cliched answers. He was sitting alone on a bench, drinking water.

When I asked how he felt he did in front of the scouts, he told me that he ran better than he had at the Combine. When I asked how important the day was, he told me it was like leading up to Christmas. I asked him if he was still working with Artrell Hawkins, and he confirmed that he was and added that he was also being tutored by the legendary Redskins corner, Darrell Green. This is the kind of seamless symbiotic relationship journalists and athletes should have. The journalist seeks information from the athlete. The athlete doesn’t need to say much, only something informative. The more concise the athlete can answer the questions, the faster everybody can move on with their lives. D. Smith understands this, and I appreciate that about him. As a player, Smith has shown some nice cover skills and tackling ability; I always thought he’d find a place in the pros. He can return kicks too, which is helpful because in today’s job market, the more one can do for their employer, the better the chance they’ll be hired – or in this case, drafted.

Satisfied with my interviews, I began to leave when I saw Hawkins walking alone in my direction. I stopped him and asked if he could talk about his workouts with Smith. Like a vet, he quickly asked me who I wrote for. Knowing Hawkins is a fellow UC alumnus, I confidently stated that I write for the News Record and watched him relax (no one takes the News Record very seriously, least of all those who work there).

He answered my questions fluently, and seemed more comfortable slipping back into his middle-aged father persona. In fact, after the fourth question or so, he seemed to be enjoying the interview and hesitated answering his cell phone when it interrupted us. I had what I needed; I patted him on the arm and left.

My finished article turned out to be a watered down account of the day, jam-packed with numbers and attributions that tend to make news stories generally more boring. My editor questioned the source of my published times in the 40-yard dash. I explained that AD lackey Ryan Kolson, passed out a photocopied sheet that listed all the players’ times and reps and verticals and so on. I too was dubious of how factual these numbers were when they had Barwin clocked at 4.48 -- faster than most receivers and defensive backs – but the athletic department is the best source a News Record reporter is going to score for factual information, so everybody had to take it as that.

I like football games more than dog shows, or gladiator tryouts or whatever it was I’d seen at Nippert Stadium that day. The NFL seemed a little less glorious after that. I’d been thrust into the actual meat market aspect of the sport and there was very little fun about it. As I walked away, I noticed Caleb Miller standing off by himself. I never figured out his role there; I’m not sure he did either.


Mojokong -- Rather be an ape than a dog.

Rain Clouds on a Sunny Day


Today is a warm, 72 degrees. I decided to take the dogs to the park -- the one next to my Dad’s house. We’ve made it here, but with some trouble.

As I arrived today, I was reminded of something that had irked me the last time I was here: two metal signs had been recently posted upright, squarely in the middle of the small plot of land that sits on the opposite side of Dad’s driveway. The signs inform the public to neither dump, nor trespass along the hillside, but the proximity of them suggests that they are constant reminders to my father only. They stand out from the natural scenery of the wooded thicket and block out the view of Western Hills and the Mill Creek Valley that he had cleared away himself. They mercilessly stare at the house, almost shouting their message over and over. Like the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckelburg above the Valley of Ashes, they are aesthetically disturbing.

So I walked up to one these offending, white-faced bastards and gave it a shake to test how firmly it rested in the soil. I was surprised to see that it had been lazily jammed in its place and could easily be removed; as if the person who did it really didn’t believe in what he or she was doing. Just following orders, I suppose.

As my hand rested on the metal pole, I heard a voice call out to me:

“What are you doing to the sign, Bryan?”

It was my Dad’s awful neighbor, Rolf, an Ichabod Crane-like person with unkempt wisps of thin hair and Coke-bottle spectacles. The man seemingly has no job and spends an obscene amount of time wasting it; keeping close tabs on the dead-end street and pretending to be busy with something in his garage. He often sits in his car reading, perhaps to the eight or nine cats that sprawl about his property.

The worst part about Rolf, however, is what he’s married to; a perpetually crabby troll, who’s once normal face has been molded into a permanent scowl, which looks like a catchers mitt making a sour face from living in constant disapproval for so long. She is the generator of house cats. Never seen without her bathrobe and only heard complaining, her mission in life is to -- at all costs -- exude her potent misery upon all those around her, and, if possible, to never leave the house again. If you’re picturing the stereotypical, crazy cat-lady, then you’ve nailed it.

“I’m seeing how loose it is,” I replied. “It’s terrible. Right in the middle of everything.”
“The City came and put ‘em up,” Captain Obvious pointed out.
“Did someone complain?” I asked.
This question provoked Rolf’s eyes to wander into his coffee cup and shrug. “I don’t know about that.”
“All that’s been dumped back there is yard waste. Can’t be that big of a deal.”
“I’ve seen your Dad dump all kinds of stuff back there,” Rolf countered. He began listing off what he’d seen dumped. I heard concrete but became angry before listening to the rest.
“So it was you,” I said. He just shrugged again. I stormed off toward the house, complaining loudly how it wasn’t bothering him or anybody else for that matter. As I turned the corner to enter the back door of the house, I saw a catchers mitt making a sour face peeking through the fence at me. Noticing this stirred me to continue ranting on about how they should just leave us alone and I believe I even called them spies. The troll said nothing, no doubt cataloging the outburst in her ledger of doom under “Revenge to be Exacted”.

Tomorrow I expect to see even more signs from the City commanding I not touch the signs, punishable by fine under City Code: xjbc9-OH-167B.

Mojokong – there all kinds of bad neighbors in the world, but busy-bodies may be my least favorite.

1/19/09
Israel claims that they will pull out of Gaza in time to watch Obama on TV.

Americans are joining the army because they can’t find a job. Neo-cons rejoice! “With a larger standing army, we’ll have to invade somewhere soon.”

1/27/09

It was astutely brought to my attention today, by the lovely and always pleasant Melanie Murphy, by way of a graphic novel which attempts to teach young people the US Constitution, that the United States has not officially declared war on a nation since WWII. Now this to me, is social manipulation brought on by politicians disguising their campaigns of violence as something softer than what it is: war! Armed conflicts, military operations, whatever you’d like, but what has taken place in Iraq since 2003 is as much of a war as any. Go ask the people who live there if that feels like war to them.

Yet when we do declare war, we do so against the convenient, ambiguous threat of terrorism. In the same breath, US officials list off of groups of dark-skinned radicals and leave out the same violent fanatics that are red-blooded, Caucasian Americans and live in compounds throughout this country’s wooded areas! I don’t mean to say that rural America is made of crazy militia men and women and militia babies, but that some extremists and fundamentalists are born and raised right here as white people and black people and Hispanic people and that every Muslim is not trying to kill us.

Timothy McVeigh. Ah yes, Tim McVeigh. The white American guy who blew up a federal building in Oklahoma City to retaliate against his own government for their Tyrannical rule on the federal level. A guy who grew up attending daily mass with his father in Pendleton, NY, enlisted in the Army and trained to become a Green Beret, but somehow failed the psychology test and never made it. The guy who wore White Power shirts around the Army base, and later distributed ATF hats with bullet holes in them. When the word terrorism is thrown about, the average American person doesn't immediately recall McVeigh, or The UniBomber or the numerous assassinations of public figures by the hands of white men.

Ultimately, the government has used the word terror to mask imperialist motives of establishing itself more thoroughly within the Middle East. The word has nearly become a code word to mean radical Muslim, yet terror knows no racial divide. As long as one group or individual feels oppressed by a threat it feel cannot be defeated in an all-out war, than that group or individual will strike in smaller, more precise attacks. That's what has been branded terrorism.

So to declare war on something with no tangible face provides the government an open-ended span of possibility to follow their dangerous whims whichever way they please.

Not declaring war on actual nations is a slick psychological tool of the spoken word in order for men in charge to form a villain against what they call our freedom, but is more against their imperial agenda.

1/30/09

Reason No.319 that car ownership is vastly overrated: Snow!!

I’ve watched society struggle so mightily with their automobiles in the last 72 hours that it makes me wonder why anyone would bother with four hours of shoveling or heaving and pushing or slowly wrecking into one another. One person died after being struck by a snowplow! It’s nuts. If I owned a car – stop laughing! – I’d treat snow days with the same mentality as I would if my car were in the shop; out of commission. The public transit sucks in this city and everyone knows it, no point railing on it any further at this time, but it does exist, and it can maneuver you around the city while your car pretends it’s preserving itself through an ice age. Sure you got to go work, school, daycare, whatever, but snow happens, and the bosses, teachers and other authority figures need to take it into consideration as well.

For thousands, this isn’t a possible alternative thanks to the poor infrastructure and general lack of public transit. But for those in Clifton, it seems you could survive without your car for up to even a week! – Gasp!

The cars here are barricaded by three-foot walls of ice and dirty, gray snow that the plows pushed into parked cars along the streets. Those who’ve managed to dig their way out of the parking space have returned their cars parked at jaunty angles; afraid they’ll be trapped in again.

1/29/09

My Apartment should be called Hotel Distraction. Here I am, approaching 30 and graduation from the University I knew I couldn’t avoid forever. By way of weakness, both for women and for dogs, I took on the responsibility of a puppy about ten years ago. Here he is now, in his twilight, dragging around his giant and arthritic feet, groaning every time he lies down, and still addicted to chasing the tennis ball. There will be stretches, sometimes weeks on end where neither of us own a tennis ball. But the field we visit – and have lived, and even grow up next to – somehow, provides tennis balls for our enjoyment.

Recently, I had a quiet moment at night in this field. I had both my own dog and my roommate’s dog, Lex, and they were off exploring the general parameters of the grass area. I sat down and looked over the Mill creek valley and all of the church spires and train-tracks and twinkles of street lights throughout the rolling hills of the West Side.

I listened to the hum of the traffic of I-75 and the eerie squeals from the breaks grinding against the rails, far off in the distant train-yard. This sound is wonderful at night. The notes sing out clearly and die out gradually. It’s a soft piercing that only occasionally is consciously registered, and when is, provides the listener with a sense of ethereal satisfaction. It’s the sound of a woeful, yet entirely sweet instrument. It has pain and it would like – but never insists – that you to feel it too.

That night wasn’t very cold and I felt very appreciative to be alive. I started to think that maybe time forgot to elapse a minute or two and that it was a good opportunity to thank whatever’s responsible for such a thing. But my serene meditation was broken by a bark from my dog off into the night. Mojo isn’t much of a barker; you can expect to hear one if there’s a knock at the door or if he’s convinced that a person is trying to eat his toys, but otherwise, he communicates through growls, howls, snorts and whines. He’s a helluva dog.

I wandered over to the fence where the field meets the woods and there he was digging at the soil near the fence. It was dark, but I could make out a light-colored sphere just beyond the fence. There it sat, laughing at my dog and reveled in its safety. Mojo became incensed at such a mockery and was determined to kill it slow and methodically by chasing it to death, but he needed my help to exact his revenge. It took a while for me to pull it out from under the chain-link fence, and Mojo squirmed and moaned while I tried. Once apprehended and chewed on vigorously for a minute or two, we threw it around the field for a while; Mojo can track it with his ears at night. All this time, Lex aimlessly meandered around the field, oblivious to what the two of us were doing.

Recently I read that once a tennis ball loses its bounce, a night in the oven with just the pilot on will restore it back to playing condition. I brought the ball home with us to find out.

It turns out, I should have left the ball in the oven for good. Mojo has lost his mind since that little, fuzzy green thing has entered the house. He sets it in my lap and I absent-mindedly throw it and he brings it back and sets it in my lap and I brush it off and yell at him and he sets it in my lap and I get mad and bean him in the head with it and yell at him some more and he sets it in my lap, and so on. As I write this, he gazes up at me trying on his most pathetic facial expression and when I meet his stare, he glances at the ball as to indicate what’s on his mind. I won’t indulge him with my attention but now the ball is in my lap again. Dammit.

My neighbors are far worse than my dog; I love my dog. I’m wedged between two apartments that seem like nothing more than giant speaker boxes. The one upstairs is the absolute worst. Here is a man in his thirties, who is a rave disc jockey! Rave music was made for 16-year-old girls who experimented with MDMA in 1995. It was a failed marriage of trendy music and drugs and it should have died once America decided that maybe glow-sticks and pacifiers and enormous pants were stupid after all. Yet this man above is a true veteran of the “scene” and has apparently found some meaning of his existence in the constant, nerve-racking thumps which pound through his floorboards and Dave’s ceiling. I loathe this individual for this reason alone.

The man underneath is far more reasonable in the frequency of his jam sessions. He tends to be respectful of the hour and rarely plays his music for long stretches. But the audio system he owns is one of great amplifying power, and the music played through it has shaken objects on the tables and desks of our apartments. It stirs the dogs and they look up at us with mild concern. You can feel it in your feet. It’s unsettling.

There are times when I feel that the downstairs apartment competes with the upstairs apartment, each thinking it is the middle apartment that rivals their volume.

--- B. Clifton Burke

The Horror

This story is one of the scariest things I've read in a while.

To think a person could be killed for putting their daughter in a school is beyond comprehension and reason. This is monstrous behavior that cannot be tolerated under any circumstance. This kind of tyrannical rule is a dangerous ideology that is crazed and blood-thirsty. If someone doesn't intervene, many undeserving people will be intimated into a miserable existence or killed for noncompliance. This is the worst example of influence by intimidation; the murderers institute rigid rules that forbids learning or happiness. I can't stand to think of those people huddled around radios every night waiting to hear if they had violated one of the many rules that could result in a missing head. Protect human rights!!

This Week in News

1/14/09

Ethiopia is experiencing a transitional government from a military to regime back to an Islamist regime. The people were reportedly pleased with this development, but infighting between moderate and extremist Muslims is expected. Look for the US to eventually become increasingly interested in this matter the more “extremist” Ethiopia’s government becomes.

1/16/09

A plane went down in the Hudson River yesterday after a flock of Canadian geese knocked the craft off course. Apparently, there’s now a plane-bird debate happening online at the New York Times. Some people are actually arguing that there are too many birds in the sky and credit a bird increase to wildlife conservation efforts. Rich airline guys want to kill birds to allow their planes to travel undeterred – what a shock.

1/17/09

Israel is beginning to posture as if it is interested in a cease-fire with Palestine, but really, they want to come out looking like the sensible one in the conflict. It’s pretty easy to start a war, pound your opposition to oblivion, and then say “what we’re doing is crazy! In a sign of good faith, we’re gonna put an end to this.” Cowards.

I know, I know. You’re thinking that I have it all wrong; that I’m siding with terrorists who refuse to reason like sensible human beings – and you may be right. But not everyone living in Gaza is a blood-thirsty maniac unwilling to listen to anyone.

Huge digression:

* In a sure-fire sign that I’m getting old, I can hardly bare any MC who raps on the mic anymore. I feel so many quality beats are wasted by demanding that they be accompanied with lyrics. Most of what these young men and women have to say is the opposite of irrelevant: it’s annoying. Every now and again, somebody will surprise me and say something clever or halfway sensible, but that happens less all the time. Some have enough intelligence, but feel the need to scream at me, and I just don’t like that. Although J-Live is an interesting new guy. Check him out.

That’s another old-person thing that has taken hold of me: I hate loud noises – of all kinds. There are some people who use noise as power – typically people with the look-at-me syndrome: teenagers, nearly attractive women, men who spend too much time with cars, etc. They’re loud to the point of distraction which makes you acknowledge their presence and award them the victory. Whether it be their obnoxious ring-tone which is played out in its entirety before answering their phone, a bolt-rattling car stereo that’s playing Miami bass music made in 1991, or the young thug who must rap aloud wherever he/she is. And by no means assume I’m speaking only of the black community when I mention these annoyances; the loud guy/girl exists in every culture, I’ll betcha.

Sorry, back to Israel:

The point is, anyone can see that when you’re up 1100 to 13, that is running up the score, not defending yourself (and for those who may consider using a death-toll for a score is both callous and monstrous: what is war if it isn’t that?).

The Palestinians are still pissed that Israel has taken the land that used to be their home; they just can’t get over it. I kind of understand, but not to such an extreme. To make matters worse – and I do mean worse – this little plot of coastline has to be the holy land for both of them. If only one side could realize that it’s only land and that on planet Earth, there’s a decent amount of it. Since each claim that they were there first – like children feuding – perhaps both parties should have to find new continents to settle. Then again, if we really did give the Jews Montana, they might start air-raiding Calgary. Also, if Israel thought Hamas was crazy, they haven’t known the likes of insane US militiamen armed to the teeth on compounds and shit. Maybe that’s not such a good idea after all.

Mojokong -- Sam Smith: Best Brewer on Earth

Election Day Goes Smoothly

by B. Clifton Burke

Where were the long lines? Where was all the excitement, the hubbub?

Election Day went off without a hitch at the 12-b voting precinct at Little Sisters of the Poor on Riddle road in Clifton. Poll workers said there were some lines early in the day, but were surprised at the lack of lines and intense political activity as the day winded down.

In other polling stations throughout Cincinnati, lines grew to a two hour wait, but pollsters said they felt that the high volume of college students within the precinct, likely translated into many voters casting their ballots before Election Day. One worker pointed out how many students also may have casted absentee ballots to the areas that they have moved to college from.

Voter turnout was historically high city-wide around Cincinnati, and many voters anticipated a crazy day of long lines, intense political debate and perhaps even civil unrest. Instead, all the excitement a voter came away with after they voted was the sense of making a difference and receiving a sticker.

“I’m relieved that it wasn’t a huge process,” said Becca Dugan, 23, of Clifton. “I set aside a lot of time to get this done, and now I can get some work done around my apartment.”

Campaigners and other people with flyers and written material stood outside of the polling station and were required to stand at minimum of 100 feet from the entrance. Campaigners and politicians were allowed to vote, of course, but they were not permitted to wear any electioneering clothing or accessories into the polling station.

Polling workers said they hadn’t encountered any problems as of 4pm in the afternoon on Tuesday.

With the flood of daily news reports warning the world of potential economic doom, many Americans are looking to the next president to lead them to financial safety. The level of government involvement in future domestic markets has become a premier issue in the presidential race in recent weeks. Some fear that the nation is moving toward socialism.

Democratic presidential nominee Barak Obama, has been labeled as a socialist by Republican opponent Senator John McCain and by right-wing media outlets throughout the country. Prompted by the now legendary exchange with “Joe the Plummer”, McCain called Obama a “job-killing socialist” at a rally in Belton, Missouri in mid-October. Fox News host Bill O’Reilly accused Obama’s economic plan as “class warfare” in an interview in September. But would a self-proclaimed socialist consider Obama the one of their own?

“Absolutely not,” said Seth Johnson, a 33-year-old UC graduate in political science and a branch member for the International Socialist Organization on campus. “Obama’s plan is McCain Lite, meaning it’s only a different kind of tax break for the wealthy.”

The term socialism has provoked a negative response to the average American, even before the Communist regime of Joseph Stalin. The atrocious legacy of Soviet labor camps, the Gulag and the Cold War, still resonates in the minds of older voters. John McCain has used this response as a strategy to try to discredit Mr. Obama.

Jane Anderson, a University of Cincinnati political science professor, says that she thinks the strategy has been an effective one simply because it has served as a political buzzword. She explains that some of the working class who would consider themselves religious people, often identify socialism as a godless political system and that the McCain campaign is fusing these concepts together.

“Because he’s closing the gap at all, is proof that it’s kind of ringing a bell with some people,” Anderson said.

Anderson thinks Americans have a mind set of deep rooted individualism, and mostly identify themselves as middle-class. These, she says, are factors which contribute to the negative attitude American’s have of socialism.

“The appeal of America was once the frontier and the rugged individualism, and achieving on your own efforts,” said Anderson, “Any ideology that looks at individuals as a collective is kind of contradictory to the American concept.”

Anderson, 67, explains that regardless of a person’s income, except for the very poor and the extremely rich, people in America like to think of themselves as middle-class.

“Some pretty desperate people fall into that huge middle-class range. Blue-collard workers still have dreams of upward mobility in this country, and wouldn’t readily identify themselves as working class, like workers would in Europe and other parts of the world. Not much room for socialism there,” Anderson said.

Socialism is often associated with Communism, yet the two are not technically the same.

Shane Johnson defines socialism as the temporary transition period from a bourgeois democracy of capitalism to a classless society which is the ultimate goal of communism. Anderson agrees, but she points out that some socialists around the turn of the 20th Century opposed a revolutionary overthrow and felt that the communist vision could be achieved through labor unions and more bureaucratic means. This group, according to Anderson, became known as democratic socialists and were something distinct from the revolutionary communists of the Bolshevik regime.

As many social democratic parties and governments in Europe today move closer to capitalism by supporting private ownership of various state-controlled industries and the removal of free market regulations, some argue the US government’s bailout plan is a bridge leading to the opposite direction.

“I don’t think anybody could have imagined Bernanke and Paulson ever saying that this was a good idea, but what they are proposing is by every traditional definition, genuine socialism,” Anderson said. “One could even consider programs like social security and medicare socialist programs, but the direct state investment and ownership into these banks under the bailout plan, is truly a socialist act.”

Once again, socialists disagree.

“The bailout plan is only feeding the gambling addiction of Wall Street,” said Johnson. “It doesn’t address the human needs of the working class. It isn’t redistributing that $700 billion to them.”

Johnson, and other socialists do not foresee either candidate overthrowing the capitalistic society we currently have in exchange for a socialist one, regardless of the economic uncertainty the world faces. The next president will be looked upon to not only save our economy, but to do so by preserving traditional American capitalism.

Debate - 10/7/08

Last night's debate surprised me in how detailed the questions were. I thought the question of how the candidates would prioritize the current question was especially telling. McCain seemed to try his best to skirt around the question by saying he would attack all three at once. Obama, however, was candid and honest about his take on the issue. I also felt the question about invading Pakistan if Osama Bin Laden was found there demanded some specific answers. I again commend Barak for answering that yes he would invade. McCain used his time to discredit Obama's response.

All I'm reading in the media today is of how most people thought it was boring, and that McCain referred to Obama as "that one". The nation appears underwhelmed by the whole affair.

Overall, I think McCain talked his way out of the election by giving his financial solutions as rebuilding the housing market. I don't think home ownership is the way of the future for today's youth.

1991 NBA Finals Game 2

Game 2 showed us that in order for the Lakers to have a chance at beating the spry Bulls, they would have to get 20 points from Perkins, Magic and Worthy every time. LA tried to play 30-and-over ball by resorting to backing defenders down and complaining to the refs.

The Bulls adjusted in game 2 with Jordan looking to pass first, setting up some very easy buckets for teammates, especially Horace Grant. Grant had a walk-in-the-park 20 points thanks to the gift wrapped passes Jordan was delivering. The tactic worked and the Bulls ran out to an early lead without MJ having to shoot much at all.

In the second half Jordan decided to get in on the scoring action a bit more. He started shooting and didn’t stop until he had reeled off 13 baskets in a row, including the dazzling change of hands shot that’s rerun in highlight reels all the time. The Bulls sensed the Lakers wearing down and went for the jugular as they pushed the tempo even more, leading to easy transition buckets. For as great as a scorer and finisher MJ was, his cross court bullet passes to Grant underneath were almost as spectacular. Jordan finished with 33 points and 13 assists, helping out Grant and Pippen who had 20 apiece. Paxson made all eight of his shots and the Bulls shot 61 percent as team.

The Bulls had beaten the Lakers by 21 points without making a 3-pointer (0-5). They had outhustled and outscrapped the Lakers and learned that this was the easiest way to take down the veteran team. The Lakers knew it too. Once the game started to get away from them, they turned their focus on the refereeing instead of running down to the defensive end. The Lakers just didn’t have the legs to compete with these young men.

1991 NBA Finals Lakers at Bulls Game 1

The Bulls had to crawl before they could walk. They had paid their playoff dues and after sweeping the Pistons, the team they had lost to in the playoffs three years in a row, they finally had found themselves in the Finals against a seasoned Lakers squad.

Jordan wasn’t particularly young when he reached the big stage (29), and Magic wasn’t all that old (31) as he was exiting stage left. It was the ninth time Magic had played in a finals, but this wasn’t his Showtime Lakers of the 80's. This team liked to slow things down and get a good look in a half court set. Magic himself had lost some quickness and endurance, but he was as crafty as ever and could run the point blindfolded. He was still good for a triple-double in almost any game, but the run-and-gun style he became famous for had vanished almost completely by then.

James Worthy had sprained his ankle in the series before against Portland and wasn’t the high flyer of his youth. He still could knock down his turnaround jumper and rebound well enough to be pretty effective. Sleepy Sam Perkins was the assassin who could hit shots from all over the floor. Similar to the clutch shooting of Big Shot Bob Horry later in the decade, Perkins knocked down key buckets during crucial stretches for his team. Kareem was retired and Vlade Divac was the new Lakers center. The Yugoslavian silly guy didn’t have the majestical passing skills he would later demonstrate in Sac but he was far more active and could even jump a little back then. While never a defensive enforcer, in ‘91 he had good timing on his shot block attempts and seemed good for two or three a game. Byron Scott was there too, always flying under the radar. Scott could shoot (53 percent from 3-point in '91 playoffs), could dunk and could play aggressive defense (had over 100 steals in 1990-91 season).

The one thing the Lakers didn’t have was a bench. AC Green could help spell Perkins or Worthy for a bit, and Terry Teagle found some minutes on this team but that was about it. An aged team coupled with a light bench doesn’t work out well.

Chicago on the other hand was young and hungry. The superstars drafted in the mid-80's had blossomed and Jordan was the crown jewel of them all. He and Pippen had slugged it out with the Detroit Bad Boys for what seemed like decades, and had finally overcame them in ‘91. The dynamic duo were slasher extraordinaires that easily found their way into the paint and glided past defenders in the air. Neither was the shooter they would later become, but they hit enough to keep the defense honest. Chicago started the triangle offense, but in it’s infancy, it was a face-the-basket variety. Horace Grant and Bill Cartwright would post up but the shots were designed to come from the two slashers and the spot up shooter John Paxson. No one tried to back you down on the Bulls team then. Instead, they would either shoot jumpers over you or take it to the rim showing off their controlled acrobatics. John Paxson had the quickest release in the game and he could knock down threes with consistency. It was easy for defenses to lose track of Paxson when Pippen and MJ demanded so much attention. If he snuck off and found an open shot, you could mark it down as good. Like the Lakers, the Bulls also had a very limited bench. Will Perdue, Cliff Levingston, Craig Hodges and a light dose of BJ Armstrong was about it.

The Bulls were fast and wanted to push the ball when they got it. Typically, Pippen ran point guard and let Michael take the shots. Big guys underneath were to stay around the basket and clean up misses when necessary.

Many of the Bulls admitted to being nervous in the first game of the finals. For the Lakers, it was simply that time of year again.

Jordan blew up early in Game 1 scoring 15 points in the first quarter which came mostly on dunks. Perkins kept the Lakers in it with his stroke from the outside. LA started throwing the whole team at Jordan when he got the ball. The strategy worked limiting MJ to under ten points in the second and third quarters combined and wearing him out in the process. Jordan became winded late in the third quarter and had to check himself out of the game. The breather helped him take over when he returned, as he shot on every possession for the Bulls. Chicago was up two and looking good with the Lakers down to their last possession.

Sam Perkins cooly knocked down a big three, his third of the game, and gave the Lakers a 1-0 lead as MJ’s eighteen foot game-winner rimmed out.

Magic ended with his day-at-the-office triple-double (19 10 10), and MJ ended with 36 points and 12 assists in the loss. The Bulls role players failed to hit some key shots when they got the chance, and Sam Perkins made points when the Lakers absolutely needed them. The Czar, Mike Fratello, expected the Bulls to change their strategy for game two.

Where Lightning Strikes

The Earth rotates at 1000 mph but it doesn’t seem like it’s moving that fast. That’s what watching Usain Bolt is like. How can a human move at quantum speeds without being in a hurry?

Say what you will about Michael Phelps, but Lightning Bolt is the stuff of legend. Never before have I seen an athlete dominate the best competition in the world without giving it his or her all. The 6'5'’ Jamaican road runner eased up at the end of the 100m dash to wave his arms and pound his chest in celebration on his way to a gold medal and a new world record.

The Bears’ Devon Hester has a fifth gear. Spanish soccer star Fernando Torres could maybe get it up to sixth. Lightning Bolt coasts in eighth. Speeding near 30 miles-per-hour, the other competitors could only catch a fleeting glimpse of Lightning as he separated himself from the rest of the pack seconds into the race.

Bolt matched his glittery gold track shoes nicely with his new Olympic hardware, Jamaica’s first ever gold medal in the event. He’ll drop the worlds jaw once more in the 200m, his preferred event. I’ll someday tell my grandchildren about the great Lightning Bolt. About the man who moves so fast he looks slow. They won’t believe me, but would you?

Mojokong - mouth agape

China, Brazil and North Korea

A good time to be a human taxi.

For those of you unfamiliar with my opinion of cars, it briefly sounds like this: cars are waste of money, resource, and all too often, lives.

China, the beast in the east, the country that gives the middle finger to time zones and free speech, is banning people from driving cars to help with pollution and congestion for the upcoming Olympics. If your license plate number ends with an odd number you can’t drive today. If it’s an even number, you can’t drive tomorrow, and so on. I realize that schematically this would take a while to fly here, but it’s an idea worth mulling over.

Maybe we could try it two days a month for starters. Allow working folk to plan ahead with car-pooling, grocery shopping, and the like. Then, when people seem to be getting it, try it one day a week. If the shift away from privately-owned automobiles is to someday happen, it would take gradual measures like this to wean the American public from the gasoline teat.

China certainly isn’t taking such measures for any other reason than to save face concerning the putrid air quality in its Olympic-sized cities - they’ve always been more red than green - and the last thing China needs is more rules imposed on its people, but the notion should be encouraged to America to someday give an idea like this a shot.

News from Bizarro World

Reports surfaced last year of some infighting in the Bush camp between Cheaney and Condi over the strategy of handling talks with North Korea. Last week, Ms. Rice seemed to have won the battle, making breakthroughs with the bass-ackward country that has finally allowed food and medical aid to its starving population. Of course, Darth Cheaney and his “hard-liners” are disappointed with the outcome saying we gave away too much in the deal, as if it were a trade for young pitching prospects. Skeptics on the left complained the agreements took too long and that they could have plenty of weapon-grade plutonium by now that could still be used or sold off to other evil nations.

Either way, literally millions of people should be spared from starving to death thanks to the recent agreements and while it’s painful to write, the Bush administration seems to have actually done something positive interacting with an ‘enemy’ nation. I’m still extremely skeptical that there isn’t some super-shady, behind-the-scenes corporate involvement in all of this humanitarian optimism, but for now, it looks good on paper.

- B. Clifton Burke

Brazilian Energy

Short piece on Brazil seeking entrance into OPEC. Also gives some insight into President Lula. Seems to me the left is moving to the center in Latin America, thus gaining more of a political foothold - Lula seems to be a prime example, someone in power that understands the reality that capitalism is going nowhere, therefore solutions (realistic ones at least) must work within the system. In the past many leftist candidates were overtly Marxist-Socialist-Communist oriented.

I think leftists in the US could take some lessons from this type of thinking - that even if you cannot find the perfect candidate, realism must take hold. I tend to believe that the major political parties in this country are more similar than different, but certainly having Obama in power versus McCain would be good news for the most people in the world. That's enough to get my ass to the polls I suppose. I think we need to encourage this type of thinking among fatalistic/apathetic liberals. Living life on principle at all times won't get you very far...

So, that was very tangential to the article about biofuels, but oh well...

- Aaron Howell

June 25, 2008

Exxon/Exxoff
Looks like Exxon Valdez was let off the hook by the supreme court, cutting the total they owe to local inhabitants of the disaster area from $2.5 billion to $500 million. Interesting note: Judge Alito was not allowed to vote because he owns stock in Exxon.

The real story here is that Exxon will continue to appeal the ruling for the next few hundred years. They will drag their feet on this issue until they're knee-deep in concrete. The surviving animals and people harmed by this spill will all be dead before Exxon writes a check. Or, the oil company will have successfully dwindled the amount to $0 through shrewd legal manuevering. Either way, a drunk sea captain's mishap will be swept under the rug and only those directly affected by it (which is mostly wildlife) will remember.

What about me?
Four Americans died in another roadside bomb yesterday in Iraq. Three were soldiers and one was an interpreter, yet the New York Times headline reads, "3 U.S. soldiers killed by bomb in Iraq." In the lede sentence, the paper mentions the fourth casualty but being concpicously absent from the headline suggests that soldiers deaths are more important than others working in some non-combative capacity in the war. It's subtle, but we need to keep a close eye on the way media outlets provide us with bite-sized nuggets of information.

More and more, our rushed, overworked society read about current events as they tick across the bottom of the screen on cable news networks or skimming the small blurbs on internet news sites. Ignoring "the whole story" gives tremendous powers of influence to the storyteller, highlighting what sells, and hiding what doesn't. We should be a nation of skeptics when it comes to spoon fed news.

Flying bats
I've said that it's only a matter of time before somebody on a baseball field is hit with a shard of broken bat. An umpire suffered a gash to the head by a sharp piece of a maple wood bat last night in Kansas City.

These bats are splintering all over the infield these days and it truly is dangerous. These pieces can be large wooden stakes that would have no problem impaling someone. Maple bats are made of cheap, light wood that simply can't hold up to baseball's standards. Players should have to adjust to ash bats (although I hear the Emerald ash borer is a current problem concerning ash bats), and eliminate the greater threat of injuries to everyone on the field and in the stands. It's one thing to get hit with a ball - that has to suck and could still be lethal - but a heavy broken bat is a lot harder to catch, or even avoid.

Adam Dunn has used up an entire forest of maple trees this year alone. The man breaks a bat a week it seems. Maybe a heavier ash bat would make him go the other way sometimes and raise that batting average. Just a thought.

-B. Clifton Burke

Stepping Out of the Kiddie Pool:
Monday, May 02, 2005

Today I woke up with one of those, “I need to grow up a little bit” attitudes. It’s time to really step up to the plate and live like an adult. No more excuses to myself, nor to anyone else. If I want to create some type of immediate family - which I do - it’s time to prepare for one. I would like to embrace the true meaning of carpe diem, which is “seize the day”. Not my meaning which has morphed to, “fuck it, I’m playing hoop with you guys instead of going to class”.
My academic progress is controlled by one thing...my lazy ass. I enjoy thinking aloud that I take less classes in order to ensure that I’m not overwhelmed, and achieve higher marks because of this. But if anything I’ve become underwhelmed in my studies. I do well without trying, which is obviously comfortable. But what lesson do I learn from success that comes easily? I’ve become a ridiculous procrastinator often times turning in decent work instead of well thought out, organized work. My time management is bad, my study skills worse, I’m less than punctual, and rarely appear in control of much responsibility. I have vast potential to blow this Earth out of the water, but have yet to muster enough courage to tap into that potential.
It starts with the small stuff. Wake up!!! Dreaming is cool but it accomplishes little. At night, ask yourself, “Self. Is watching the fourth quarter of a thirteen point game in the first round of the NBA playoffs worth sacrificing a shower tomorrow morning for”? My mind usually counters with, “what if I miss an amazing buzzer-beating comeback win”? But the more sensible question would be, “what if I miss the number seventeen bus, and miss the review for an accounting three test, which I fail and get a ‘C’ for the term”? A healthy, young, strapping buck like myself, probably doesn’t need eight hours of dreamy bliss every damn night. Drink more water, and get ya ass outta bed! (Any advice can be accompanied with drink more water).
General consideration for others is another quality which needs constant attention. I’ve become selfishly numb of friends/family/strangers feelings, which can build, quickly sometimes, into a volcanic eruption. Thinking even more before reacting might be a good practice when interacting with people.
Time management. Whoa... that’s a biggie. Let’s face it, I’ve got a shit load of time. Admittedly, much of that is wasted on ...um...forgettable activities that I’ll wished I’d stayed away from when I’m dying. I don’t want to live with much regret of the ways I’ve spent my time. So the challenge here is discovering the fine line of enjoying life to the fullest, while handling moral responsibilities. I need to get tougher with the latter, or I’ll never truly experience the former. Realistic planning and goal setting, then sticking to it, is the recipe to successful time management. I know it, so why do I not execute it? Laziness, weakness to temptation, selfishness to do what I want. Whack!
Let’s watch me gain some positive momentum into a crucial stretch in my life. Pound out school, acquire some more financial stability, provide more diligently for Mojo, help out more, watch TV less (including sports), read, don’t forget about God, finish your story then write others, think about my future and how I want it to be. Also, the whole relying on other people for major logistic support, has grown tiresome for myself and all involved (you know who you are). If it can’t be done without the assistance of friends/family than find another way dammit. I need to suck it up and stop being “that guy”. The next few will be the window years. I better at least be able to look through as many as possible. Play time’s not over, it’s just gotz to chill.
Mojokong the Contemplative

Some religions are a collective agreement of an ancient person’s interpretation of their natural environment.
In various time frames throughout history, select men have, on paper, spoken with God. These men were blessed with such an honor for living the way God had intended we humans to live. There are, of course, no more such privileged men now because Mohamed perfected God’s message, which was perfectly written down and has been preserved perfectly ever since.
By and large, people concede there is an outer space which does contain other planets, like the one we live on here. God probably created those too, right? So now we go into the fact that we’re intelligent life forms. That’s why we have the intellect to understand our relationship with God enough to have a soul. Unlike dogs, or dolphins, we have free will, and that already puts us on a higher spiritual plateau. It’s how we use it that will separate our souls once the big Apocalypse rolls around.
The point is this, if life cropped up on, lets say Saturn’s moon Titan for instance. Just a basic simple organism, growing from an environment made up almost entirely of nitrogen. God isn’t concerned with that because it isn’t intelligent enough to understand God, cant make free will decisions, and is therefore ignored by God. And if life evolved on Titan (not that life evolved here, I’m not saying that), and became intelligent enough to send us an encrypted radio signal that made no mention of any God fellow in it, they would still be ignored by God because they would not look like man, and therefore wouldn’t have been created in God’s image. After all, God likes the human look with hair and hands, not some weird crustacean submerged in an ocean of liquid nitrogen.
The prophets never spoke with God, because of a variety of reasons.
1. God is cosmic, not Earthly, except for the fact that Earth is part of the cosmos. God is nature not human, except for the fact that humans are part of nature. God’s favoritism toward Earth and it’s humans is, like the wind favoring leaves to blow around instead of sand. The wind blows everything it touches, no matter what’s in its way.
2. What the prophets thought was God speaking to them was the powerful combination of wisdom, reason, and logic, forming truths of reality. Sometimes ideas that have lived a long time alone in the shadows of someone’s mind, will come out, have a drink, and start to mingle a little with other lonely ideas. Eventually these ideas hook-up, and produce a new idea so sensible and helpful, that the man who owns the mind and it’s ideas will believe that he is incapable of forming such a truth of reality. Now here’s the kicker. Other people will say that this logical, practical, reasonable, clear truth of the world is indeed false. In short, it sounded so good at the time, that it was hard to believe any man could have such a thought in his human brain. So they decided that God must be communicating to that person in some obscure way. Not directly per say, but through some means of telepathy. The term Angel was born to describe the telepathic communications they perceived as taking place.

Beads! We know the story well. Four hundred years ago, the Whites came across a new continent, a big one, and needed a massive workload to properly dominate it’s resources. They certainly didn’t ponder this issue long. Hmmm...who could we work the hardest and pay the least? “I know”, said a white man with a white wig, “Got any shiny beads?” The Africans fell for the bead trick. So did the Indians. So did the Mayans, Incans, and Aborigines. Damn beads!

“Chain of Events”


The space between continents is vast, separated by sea. The space between planets is vast, separated by junky satellites and government issued sound waves. The amount of physical land, on which humans dwell is microscopic on a larger scale. There are only three billion people in existence. Not on planet earth...anywhere. And somehow, you and I are one of those.
How did I get a ticket to the big dance? I suppose I don’t really care. I’m here, breathing oxygen, laughing, smoking pot. In fact, I’ve had the ability to become friends with another species of mammals, who happens to be more rare than humans. I am truly grateful to stand on our little rock, and alter the lives of others. To that small organism that once lived on a blade of grass, in a park, next to a river, in Ohio... I am sorry I killed you.
Mojokong 2004 A.D.

“The Wading Pool”

There is a woman who wants me.
There is a woman I want.
They aren’t the same woman,
yet both have a cunt.
So when the woman I want suggests that I punt,
I call up the other and forget with a blunt.

Mojokong - 2006A.D.