Keep your head up.
So I’m in the process of drafting a partnership agreement and I have no idea what I am doing. This weekend has so much potential for fun and trouble, yet it sees me being the model citizen of responsibility.
Alls hallows eve being this weekend, and myself being geographically located in a place for fun should dictate that I would find myself out and about today and tomorrow. Alas, this will not be the case.
My fantasy basketball draft will take up way too much of my time this evening, coupled with the fact that I have an all day class tomorrow which requires an early rise. Translation: I’m staying home tonight—all those phone calls and text messages inviting one out to this spot or that…are in vain.
What are the odds that we won’t have a president for at least a week after Tuesday? My guess is that there is at least a 66% chance that it will be the case. My other fear is that this will also throw the country into a pandemonium, an absurdity, and an incredible sense of unrest. No one expected 2000 to be the madhouse that it was—I don’t think most will put up with a repeat, however likely it currently appears to be.
Somebody should tell this jackass in front of me that it isn’t cool to sit directly in front of the door. Starbucks has to be one of the strangest places ever.
Gil Scott-Heron - B Movie
Well, the first thing I want to say is…”Mandate my ass!”
Because it seems as though we've been convinced that 26% of the registered voters, not even 26% of the American people, but 26% of the registered voters form a mandate – or a landslide. 21% voted for Skippy and 3, 4% voted for somebody else who might have been running.
But, oh yeah, I remember. In this year that we have now declared the year from Shogun to Reagan, I remember what I said about Reagan…meant it. Acted like an actor…Hollyweird. Acted like a liberal. Acted like General Franco when he acted like governor of California, then he acted like a republican. Then he acted like somebody was going to vote for him for president. And now we act like 26% of the registered voters is actually a mandate. We're all actors in this I suppose.
What has happened is that in the last 20 years, America has changed from a producer to a consumer. And all consumers know that when the producer names the tune…the consumer has got to dance. That's the way it is. We used to be a producer – very inflexible at that, and now we are consumers and, finding it difficult to understand. Natural resources and minerals will change your world. The Arabs used to be in the 3rd World. They have bought the 2nd World and put a firm down payment on the 1st one. Controlling your resources we'll control your world. This country has been surprised by the way the world looks now. They don't know if they want to be Matt Dillon or Bob Dylan. They don't know if they want to be diplomats or continue the same policy - of nuclear nightmare diplomacy. John Foster Dulles ain't nothing but the name of an airport now.
The idea concerns the fact that this country wants nostalgia. They want to go back as far as they can – even if it's only as far as last week. Not to face now or tomorrow, but to face backwards. And yesterday was the day of our cinema heroes riding to the rescue at the last possible moment. The day of the man in the white hat or the man on the white horse - or the man who always came to save America at the last moment – someone always came to save America at the last moment – especially in “B” movies. And when America found itself having a hard time facing the future, they looked for people like John Wayne. But since John Wayne was no longer available, they settled for Ronald Reagan – and it has placed us in a situation that we can only look at – like a “B” movie.
Come with us back to those inglorious days when heroes weren't zeros. Before fair was square. When the cavalry came straight away and all-American men were like Hemingway to the days of the wondrous “B” movie. The producer underwritten by all the millionaires necessary will be Casper “The Defensive” Weinberger – no more animated choice is available. The director will be Attila the Haig, running around frantically declaring himself in control and in charge. The ultimate realization of the inmates taking over at the asylum. The screenplay will be adapted from the book called “Voodoo Economics” by George “Papa Doc” Bush. Music by the “Village People” the very military "Macho Man."
“Company!!!”
“Macho, macho man!”
“ Two-three-four.”
“ He likes to be – well, you get the point.”
“Huuut! Your left! Your left! Your left…right, left, right, left, right…!”
A theme song for saber-rallying and selling wars door-to-door. Remember, we're looking for the closest thing we can find to John Wayne. Clichés abound like kangaroos – courtesy of some spaced out Marlin Perkins, a Reagan contemporary. Clichés like, “itchy trigger finger” and “tall in the saddle” and “riding off or on into the sunset.” Clichés like, “Get off of my planet by sundown!” More so than clichés like, “he died with his boots on.” Marine tough the man is. Bogart tough the man is. Cagney tough the man is. Hollywood tough the man is. Cheap stick tough. And Bonzo's substantial. The ultimate in synthetic selling: A Madison Avenue masterpiece – a miracle – a cotton-candy politician…Presto! Macho!
“Macho, macho man!”
Put your orders in America. And quick as Kodak your leaders duplicate with the accent being on the nukes - cause all of a sudden we have fallen prey to selective amnesia - remembering what we want to remember and forgetting what we choose to forget. All of a sudden, the man who called for a blood bath on our college campuses is supposed to be Dudley “God-damn” Do-Right?
“You go give them liberals hell Ronnie.” That was the mandate. To the new “Captain Bly” on the new ship of fools. It was doubtlessly based on his chameleon performance of the past - as a liberal democrat – as the head of the Studio Actor's Guild. When other celluloid saviors were cringing in terror from McCarthy – Ron stood tall. It goes all the way back from Hollywood to hillbilly. From liberal to libelous, from “Bonzo” to Birch idol…born again. Civil rights, women's rights, gay rights…it's all wrong. Call in the cavalry to disrupt this perception of freedom gone wild. God damn it…first one wants freedom, then the whole damn world wants freedom.
Nostalgia, that's what we want…the good ol' days…when we gave'em hell. When the buck stopped somewhere and you could still buy something with it. To a time when movies were in black and white – and so was everything else. Even if we go back to the campaign trail, before six-gun Ron shot off his face and developed hoof-in-mouth. Before the free press went down before full-court press. And were reluctant to review the menu because they knew the only thing available was – Crow.
Lon Chaney, our man of a thousand faces - no match for Ron. Doug Henning does the make-up - special effects from Grecian Formula 16 and Crazy Glue. Transportation furnished by the David Rockefeller of Remote Control Company. Their slogan is, “Why wait for 1984? You can panic now...and avoid the rush.”
So much for the good news…
As Wall Street goes, so goes the nation. And here's a look at the closing numbers – racism's up, human rights are down, peace is shaky, war items are hot - the House claims all ties. Jobs are down, money is scarce – and common sense is at an all-time low on heavy trading. Movies were looking better than ever and now no one is looking because, we're starring in a “B” movie. And we would rather had John Wayne…we would rather had John Wayne.
"You don't need to be in no hurry.
You ain't never really got to worry.
And you don't need to check on how you feel.
Just keep repeating that none of this is real.
And if you're sensing, that something's wrong,
Well just remember, that it won't be too long
Before the director cuts the scene…yea."
“This ain't really your life,
Ain't really your life,
Ain't really ain't nothing but a movie.”
[Refrain repeated about 25 times or more in an apocalyptic crescendo with a military cadence.]
“This ain't really your life,
Ain't really your life,
Ain't really ain't nothing but a movie.”
Get yourself a nice Texas virgin and a pack of Oreos
A while back I posted the Guardian's project about writing Ohio voters. Well, the results are in and the voters have spoken.
Dear Limey Assholes
In response to J___ -- blogged from Grace
As most of you know, I’ve been sick as of late. This obviously has precluded both my creative and intellectual output from being at its full potential. On a side note, I am eternally grateful to Microsoft Word for letting me never have to worry whether I’m using ITS or IT’S appropriately.
Like I mentioned a day ago or so, I say I [heart] Huckabees within the last week. I liked it—a lot. It reminded me of this poem I wrote my sophomore year of high school called Everything that is Nothing Forever. If I can find it, I’ll post it for you reading enjoyment.
I walked out of the film and steadily, as I waited for the train, the refrain, “I feel outside myself, inside the rumble of the train” kept repeating itself in my head. It wasn’t a line in the movie, it was my line and I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with it. I still am unsure. I think the guy next to me has a disease.
The film inspired me for a little while and I scribed privately, as appropriate. After a while I realized that it really was all pointless. I felt intelligent for understanding the film and it massaged my ego that I had had many of the thoughts expressed in the dialogue. And then I felt cheap. In sixth grade I was taught to never begin a sentence with ‘and then’. I’m not sure why. But obviously, I digress. The point of this is that there really is no point and isn’t that, in some sick, humorous way, the point of everything? Like I said in my adolescent youth, isn’t Everything that is Nothing Forever?
EVERYTHING THAT IS NOTHING FOREVER
Close your eyes relax
Let your mind take control
See the reality of what isn’t
So you can feel what’s not
Understand insanity so you can see reality
Feel pain so grief is irrelevant
No joy equals relief in life
Somewhere between life and death
There is and there is nothing
Nothing is in everything that is and everything that is not
Without nothing there is everything in everyone
With everything in everyone there is always
Without always there is never
With never there is
Open your eyes and see the moon
Close your eyes again and a new world reappears
Enter it so long as you’re not gone
Come back to visit insanity
Then return to reality
Reality is everything that insanity is not
Enjoy life to not feel pain.
Picture me Rollin'
Sometimes the law makes me laugh. See if you can figure this one out--
"Subparagraph (A) shall not apply to an alien who is a native or citizen of a country in the Western Hemisphere with whose government the United States does not have full diplomatic relations and who arrives by aircraft at a port of entry."
Isn't there an easier way to say this?
Under my weather.
So I’ve been feeling like shit all weekend and have got nothing done. Illness and I don’t sit well with each other.
Saw I [heart] Huckabees the other night. It was a good movie.
I am too sick to even write…I’ll try again later.
vote
I don't know if I can handle any more of the influence of these crazies...case in point follow the next two links: one, a healthy dosage of hate and ignorance; the other just insane ignorance kind of like that displayed by the former National Socialist Democratic Party.
http://www.missionamerica.com/
http://www.pabbis.org/
Jerry: I don't even want to talk about it anymore. What were you thinking? What was going on in your mind? Artistic integrity? Where, where did you come up with that? You're not artistic and you have no integrity. You know you really need some help. A regular psychiatrist couldn't even help you. You need to go to like Vienna or something. You know what I mean? You need to get involved at the University level. Like where Freud studied and have all those people looking at you and checking up on you. That's the kind of help you need. Not the once a week for eighty bucks. No. You need a team. A team of psychiatrists working round the clock thinking about you, having conferences, observing you, like the way they did with the Elephant Man. That's what I'm talking about because that's the only way you're going to get better
Anyone up for a holiday?
Postcard from hell
Eighteen years ago, it was the site of the world's worst nuclear reactor disaster. Now Chernobyl is becoming a tourist attraction. Imogen Wall takes a trip
Monday October 18, 2004
The Guardian
Mariana Kushnir was just a little girl when reactor four exploded. As with everyone else in Ukraine, it was days before her family had any idea what had happened. She remembers coming home after playing outside with her brother and being caught in the rain, and her mother insisting that they strip and wash all their clothes immediately. She also remembers that for weeks afterwards, not allowed to go outside, they looked longingly through the window at the spring sunshine.
Eighteen years later, Kushnir is PR manager for the Ukrainian tourist board. She has criss-crossed the country as part of her job, but until now has never made the trip to what is almost certainly Ukraine's most famous spot, and is becoming one of its hottest tourist destinations. For $250 (£139) per person, Kiev-based tour agencies have begun to offer all-inclusive day trips to the scene of the world's biggest nuclear power station disaster, Chernobyl. "Observe object sarcophagus - concrete-and-steel shelter covering radioactive masses and debris left after the explosion," enthuses one travel agent's website. The price includes transport inside the zone, the military permit required to enter, and they promise to return you safely to your hotel by 6pm, in plenty of time for dinner.
It was late into a spring night, April 26, 1986, when an explosion ripped the roof off Chernobyl's fourth reactor, causing the building's walls to bend like rubber and hurling tons of radioactive waste into the air. The red light could be seen from miles away: some said afterwards it looked like it was coming straight from hell. No one, though, knew what it was they were looking at, as the authorities did not tell them: the only thing on the government's mind was how to cover up the fact that the whole of Europe would shortly be sitting under a radioactive cloud. So effective was the political strategy that even today the death toll is not known: casualty figures range from 40 (official Soviet figure) to over 15,000 (the UN estimate).
Kushnir is taking this trip out of a mix of duty and curiosity. As we turn on to the main road out of the city and its outskirts of identikit slab-grey housing blocks, Chris Rea's Road to Hell comes on the radio. She leans forward and turns it up. "Good song, no?" she grins, nervously.
The road to Chernobyl, which lies around 70km north of Kiev, winds through a set of country scenes as pretty as they are unexpected. There are wide fields of ripening crops, dotted trees heavy with fruit, postcard perfect little farmer's houses and horses clopping home in the summer sun. But the nearer we get to the 30km exclusion zone that surrounds the site, the fewer the people and houses, until even the sunlit forests start seeming a little sinister in their emptiness.
At the entrance to the zone, there is a roadblock. It used to be easy to get in here: visitors a few years back reported that a $20 bill, a packet of cigarettes and a bit of chat would do the trick. These days, soldiers man the gate 24 hours a day, checking our government passes against our passports.
The first sign of human habitation is a set of houses; once the homes of villagers, they are now occupied by the hundreds of scientists and plant workers who still operate here, studying and monitoring the site. Our guide, a portly Ukrainian gentleman called Mykola Dmitruk, climbs into our van - travel within the zone is only allowed in closed vehicles, because there is still a lot of radioactivity in the site's dust. Some tours make you change into protective clothing but Dmitruk waves such suggestions away: the site isn't dangerous, he insists. "The dose of radiation you receive here is the same as the exposure on the flight over." All we take is a battered old Geiger counter. "Now," he says pleasantly. "We go to the reactor."
Our tour bus bumps through a post-apocalyptic landscape of rusting, skeletal pylons. "On your right," says Dmitruk, in the sing-song tone of tour guides the world over, "we see the remains of reactors five and six." These were being built at the time of the disaster, and haven't been touched since. The first three reactors are fairly intact - they actually carried on operating until 2000 when they were closed down under intense pressure from the EU. But it is reactor four that we have come to see.
It does not look like a power station now. All that can be seen, beyond a wire mesh fence, is the vast, concrete block that covers the devastated reactor. It is painted white but stained with rust. Birds swirl around it: they nest, says Dmitruk, in holes in the brickwork. Terrifyingly, underneath this crumbling hulk is around 90 tons of radioactive waste. Our Geiger counter is clicking, registering levels around 10 times those at the edge of the zone. We pose in front of the reactor, feeling for the first time a little uncomfortable about being here. There are plans for a new concrete cover, but the money is coming not from the penniless Ukrainian government, which still resents that it is stuck with this deadly, expensive mess, but from the EU. At present, it is all mired in paperwork, and while the bureaucrats bicker, the sarcophagus decays. This, says Dmitruk, is the real reason the Ukrainian government is letting visitors in: they want visitors to maintain pressure on Europe to help protect and monitor the site. "If we let people in, tell them the truth, they and their governments will not be able to forget."
Yet for all this waste, one of the oddest things about Chernobyl is that it is not entirely a wasteland. Most of it looks more like a nature sanctuary, with abundant forests, lush grass and herds of a rare species of wild horse. The lack of human activity has allowed wolves, foxes, wild boar and myriad other species to flourish. That does not mean, says Dmitruk, that they have not been affected: he cites a study involving fruit flies exposed to the blast in which problems of genetic mutation did not emerge until the 26th generation. But in the meantime, the flourishing ecosystems have prompted the UN to suggest that Chernobyl should be developed as, of all things, a nature reserve and ecotourism destination.
Our next stop is the abandoned town of Pripyat. Built in the 1970s for the workers at the site, Pripyat was home to 48,000 people and with its communal living blocks, cultural centre and sports stadium, was a model Soviet town. It wasn't evacuated until 36 hours after the disaster: for two days all 48,000 men, women and children went to school, did the washing and relaxed in the town square. Then 1,200 buses were brought up from Kiev and the army forced people to board them. No one was ever allowed back.
Today, the schoolrooms are a damp, rotting tangle of rusting children's chairs and desks. Outside some flats, tattered washing still flutters on the line; in the silent town square poplar trees have sprouted through the concrete. At the sports stadium, the track is barely discernable and the football pitch has become a small forest. Everywhere is broken glass, and inside the buildings feet crunch on fallen masonry and rotten ceiling insulation. The first tour groups here were so unnerved by the total silence that they asked to leave. It is a modern Pompeii, messy as the disaster that created it.
We wander down deserted streets and into the old cultural centre on the town square. On the second floor we find what must have been the town library: a room now open to the elements stacked high with rotting books, their pages flapping in the wind coming in through the broken wall. Trying to find our way out, we creak open a door leading to the back of the building and walk gingerly into what we soon realise is an old theatre. Faded scenery is stacked at the back of the stage, and out in the auditorium, stripped of its chairs, there are glimpses of gold on the ornate curls adorning the dress circle. There is no museum exhibit, no tour guide that could explain as eloquently as this the awfulness of such abandonment.
For foreigners, Chernobyl is easily added to a long list of tourist attractions whose fame turns on tragedy or disaster. Millions a year visit Auschwitz, and no trip to Cape Town is complete without a day on Robben Island. But for those in Kiev, who live daily with the knowledge that their surroundings and probably their bodies are poisoned, such a perspective is hard to explain. "This is not a right place for tourism," says Dmitruk. "It was a place of tragedy, and is a place of tragedy still." As we drive back to Kiev, Kushnir is silent. It has, she says, been a long day. She is glad she came, but is exhausted and can't see herself returning.
Back in Kiev, the Ukrainian tourist board's executive director Iryna Gagarina smiles wearily when asked about Chernobyl. Her frustration is understandable: Kiev, with its leafy streets, hills, curling river and cobbled streets is one of the prettiest cities in Eastern Europe, a place where golden onion domes mix with untouched Soviet architecture and the beer is ridiculously cheap. It could and probably will become Europe's new hot weekend-break destination before long, and yet all people seem to want to talk about is the site of a national disaster. "The name Chernobyl is better known than Kiev, or Ukraine itself," she says. For her, as for most in Kiev, the memories are too raw for exploitation. "Chernobyl is not a historical place," she says. "It is a sleeping lion. And when the lion is sleeping, you don't open the cage."
Guardian Unlimited © Guardian Newspapers Limited 2004
The rain.
Still at the escuela and it is 23.36 on the clock. Think its almost time to depart and head to my weekly date with Grace.
Yesterday was so much nicer than today. Luckily, I think most of my work for tomorrow is done.
It is almost time for me to translate myself into Mandarin; that and I have yet to receive my voter card for the NY—once the license is gone, all non-personal ties to the CA may be gone…for now at least.
L—sorry for forgetting to call you back tonight, we must catch I [heart] Huckabees this week.
Off to the mother ship…
Do moral properties supervene on natural properties?
Meandering amongst every magical object
I love flower tortillas.
And.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Luckily today allowed me to enjoy both, along with a healthy dose of Central Park and a flea market somewhere on the Upper West Side.
My life is good.
Now is the time for the more educated and cultured peeps (you know exactly who you are) to help answer this question…I am too lazy to google him yet. There was this Italian violinist in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century who apparently wrote and performed his own music. Legend has it that his music was so difficult that he had to be possessed by the devil. I think his name was Nicolo Paganini or something. Help me out?
Came across another line today…
I’ve been working all day on all sorts of fun things like immigration law and the limits of the 10th amendment in the modern era of constitutional jurisprudence.
Then I started backing up and cleaning up my computer and came across a great line. I don’t know if I can take credit for it, but even if I can’t I would still like to share it with you:
The traffic of coat noise clots my sight.
It was one of those lines that vaguely resides somewhere in the shadows of my memory—I think I was going to use it to write a poem with it. That hasn’t happened. Instead of discarding the words to the trash heap of my unrealized brilliance, I decide to share it with you and have it somewhat memorialized here for posterity.
In other news…the weather is great, really my favorite kind. It is not cold, just overcast and rainy sometimes—very fall and very moody. Perfect.
I need to travel soon and to a place where English is not the primary spoken language. The funding issue along with time is the current constraint.
Funny that Serena Brinderson’s name came up—it was one of those that I had completely forgotten. If memory serves me correct, she was quite pretty.
Luckily, my string of weird dreams came to an end. I shared the cruise with this space and the episode from the following evening was even more bizarre. I might try to turn it into a short story or a film. The synopsis is below.
I am a member of the Union Army stranded in the sub-Sahara. I wake up covered in the fine sand and look around to realize that I am strangely aware of my surroundings. Turns out that I am found by some Zulu looking voodoo priest who befriends my and is my guide through the surreal landscape. I am thirsty but do not drink.
As far as the eye can see, sweeping dunes covered in bright colors embolden the horizon. I scale one with the help of my friend and find it very strange. You see, apparently I am in the desert, there is sand everywhere and no water. But on these dunes all is different. The dunes are carpeted by a wide assortment of cana and cala lilies. What’s more is that where there is open space, there are all sorts of African wildlife, elephants, lions, gazelle, monkeys and the like. The thing is is that they are all buried up to their respective knees in the dunes—that and they are made of plastic.
So…its strange. I turn to my friend, the Zulu voodoo priest and as I am about to speak, a heard of wild mustangs thunders over the adjacent dune and up to the one we occupy. I am swept away and returned to the encampment from which I apparently left.
It gets even more strange….
question?
Is there such a thing as a butter farmer?
Write an Ohio voter
I like the fact that the rest of the world cares more than some people in our own country. I can't wait to see what the voter turn-out numbers are in the 'most contentious' election season ever.
I am tempted to start writing letters myself...
http://guardian.assets.digivault.co.uk/clark_county/
Here we blog again….
Kinda bizarre that right when I start typing the clock says 9:11—
Watching the debates---WHAT A BUNCH OF BULLSHIT!!!
A plan is not a fucking soundbyte…they are both idiots…Quixotically, I wish that politicians weren’t beholden to people who only care about themselves…
More later…I’m too fed up right now…
Today is Monday….
And it now feels like fall has finally arrived.
I had the strangest dream last night. Point of fact: normally my dreams don’t really include anybody I know—the people are usually faceless (analyze that as you wish). Last night, however, was different. It was different in the sense that I both remembered the dream, that it stuck with me all through today, and that the people had faces. To say it was bizarre would be an understatement.
It went a little something like this. For some reason a menagerie of people that I have known throughout my entire life from first grade to the present were all assembled to take a cruise—which in a strange twist of fate was leaving from San Diego. I could list the cast of characters, but it would be quite pointless on two fronts. First, my readership is limited and does not know all of them, many of them probably. Second, it is somewhat disconcerting that I remembered such strange people with whom I haven’t had contact with in years. Anyways, for some reason I knew of this cruise in honor of me—I think—and ended up having some other commitment in San Diego that caused me to fly in. And then I forget about the cruise for the R.
I remembered at the last minute due to a note at my hotel room from a friend that could never be more—but I did find it most kind of her. I had a problem. The note merely reminded me of the cruise, but provided no details. Conveniently, I had no cell phone and even if I did, I didn’t have any contact information for anyone I knew. I was screwed. I decided to return the car to the airport and catch a flight back to New York. I knew my friends would be disappointed.
Back at the airport, I had parked the car and for some reason the ship that I was supposed to be on was there in the parking lot, and all my peeps were in line to board. No one seemed to recognize me. Finally, I asked what time the ship was boarding from my good friend from Santa Fe. I received a most curt response, looked at my watch (why I was wearing a watch I don’t know—I never wear a watch), and realized that I had 45 minutes to make it. Most curiously, and quite out of character, I freaked out. Following no logic whatsoever, I inquired if I had time to make it to the rents place and pick up my things. Never mind that I don’t live there any more, never mind that I was traveling and possessed luggage; I asked. Logically, the response was in the negative—so I went anyway.
I missed the boat.
When was the last time you had a Werther’s Original?
I have been so sedentary this weekend. I haven’t left the apartments since I arrived early Friday morning. Amazingly, I have been somewhat productive.
If a career in law doesn’t work out I might become a garage storage space analyst. This could make both of the parents most proud.
Watching the debate last night left me even surer that this country is going to hell in a hand-basket. w must be one of the most incompetent kindergarten presidents ever. How many times do we have to be told that you’re a leader? Take a look at your business card buddy—IT SAYS PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA! I hope John Kerry does become president just so his wife can become first lady, I’d vote for her any day over either of these guys. Right now, until Obama becomes president, I am not going to be happy. The other reason I like John Kerry more, the cabinet and assembled lower-level cabinet members are the real axis of evil and I want them removed.
Time to go and take a break and watch a replay of the Trinidad/Mayorga fight—I heard it was fantastic.
It’s a blog!
Internet and tv are now hooked up…I have a feeling that I’ll be writing a bit more frequently based solely on my ability to connect to the world wide web.
The apartments are pretty much settled and the arrangement is working out fine.
I have decided that I need a job…I need some positive cash flow; nothing crazy just a little bit. Ideally, I should do something legal, but recently I had a slightly better idea. Back in the days of my youth we had these fantastic fundraisers to build a field of dreams—the concept was some sort of toned down version of child labor. They made kids run around a track of sorts until the point of exhaustion. Oh, and the reason this came to mind was because in order to ‘volunteer’ you had to be sponsored.
I don’t want to run. I want sponsors. We can come up with some type of arrangement that we find mutually agreeable, but I will not run.
Like I said the tv is back, so I’ll write more after the debates.
