Honestly, I should apologize to this website for using it's space to post shit like pictures of a black Jesus with braids. That's about as low as it gets.
Would anyone be interested in coming with Literello, Kaputsos, Andrews, Vinicombe and myself when we travel to the hallowed grounds of the Meadowlands to see a MANLY football game? Jets, of course. You have to have a pair of testicles with you. That's the only exception.
Final goodbyes are over with, and the Book of the Jerks is pretty much closed. As much as I hate to say it; we may have one thousand meetings in the future with whoever we can find, but it will never be like it was in the past four years. The past year has undoubtely been the greatest year that I can remember, and everyone who spent time with me during it really holds a special place in my heart.
Do I think I took what the past year has given me for granted? No. I'm just recollecting all these memories and all these images in my head in a time span of about 30 seconds and giving you my thoughts on them because the time warrants them. But what I can say is this...no matter how much we change, no matter how much we forget memories, and no matter how much we drift, deep down inside, we'll always be the kind of guys who cherish hot afternoons at an elementary school baseball field or the kind of guys who run down long fire exits screaming at the top of their lungs. The kind of guys who can turn a school period into a sentence game forum, creating stories that nobody would be able to conjur up. The kind of guys who could grab a hallway by it's throat and yell out random food items, making everyone laugh. Except that one fatass black bitch who always seemed to be around to shout something stupid.
We laughed at what we wanted to laugh at. What the world thought wasn't funny, we thought was hilarious. We made sure mundane never existed, we were special. And like we always used to say when thinking about our adult future, one day we'll be sitting at the dinner table with our families and, out of nowhere, we'll have the strongest urge to twist the salt shaker cap loose for when our wives pick it up. And then we'll laugh.
Because that's why we were Jerks. God bless you guys.
I walked into the school in the morning full of sleep with just the immediate proceedings not blurred by my eyes trying to shut themselves. I couldn't hear much, as the whole cluster of classrooms produced a continuous wave of constant chatter from all of the 3rd graders; like hundreds of little chicks in a box, chirping away. D-3 was my cluster, and I remember sitting down at my desk, taking out the things in my backpack and sorting them out. I put my lunch in my cubbie for later and my homework on the corner of the surface to make sure my teacher didn't overlook work I was proud of doing as she passed by.
Then I took out my pens. This is kind of silly, but me and this kid Danny Cicciaro were fucking passionate about our pens, man. We would kill down time by just taking them apart, messing around with them, looking for some spare ones on the floor. The most covenant of all the pens were called Zebras, only because they were shiny and heavy, which meant that they were more expensive to us. I guess. That day, though, those damn Zebra pens would cause more trouble than they were worth.
Mrs. Snead was reading us a story, as she always did on Friday afternoons. During the story, I got up for a reason I forget and went back to my desk, only to notice my Zebra pens were gone. I was pretty confused and pissed, to say the least, and as I looked back on the class sitting indian-style and listening to the teacher read, a "Dano's Auto Shop" t-shirt caught my eye. That was the shirt Dan always used to wear often, it was the family business, I guess. But as I adjusted my angle I noticed...he happened to be playing around with three Zebra pens. How did I know they were mine? Because Danny's broke. I held in my frustration until play time, and I approached him. We argued about it for a good while, and the rest has since slipped my mind. I do know, however, I got them back and we made up; still remaining active in the pen industry for the rest of the year. I didn't talk to him again.
I always wondered what happened to him. Now I know.
Proof: a website that's purpose is to advertise clothes. Until you realize what they're really advertising.
I wonder...will sex ever become as openly accepted in this country as it is in many European nations? Can you picture advertisements like these played in between Family Guys?
By the way, if you clicked on the 'man-man' one, be one and let everyone know. Fucking gay faggot bitch.
So it's August 7th, and you're neck-deep in the dog days of summer; except this summer it's proven to be more along the lines of the megazord days of summer with this ridiculous heat wave, but we'll all pull through. (unless you're a fatty)
Save a few bumps and bruises along the way, I've been extremely, extremely content with the way the past month and change has come about. From movies galore, to trips to the ice cream man warehouse, to classic TFH hangouts, to obscure summer activities, I really could not be more pleased with how it's been going along. I have met and made many new friends and I can honestly say I've found a comfortable niche in the world as I kick start a new exciting chapter in my life. I wouldn't honestly be able to tell you when, why, or how it took place...but I've been overrun with a feeling of cleanliness and joy and the ridiculous need to extend my hand that extra inch towards whoever needs it. Too much love for a straight man to handle, sometimes. :P I'm proud of my choice of being straight edge, and I hope to meet others that have proven to themselves that they can do it as well in the near future.
I feel like I've found a nice security in the job I have now, too, even though 3/4 of those who I've become used to working with are leaving within the next two weeks. But not Jessica, so you guys are still fucking banned. Assholes.
So all in all, things are neece. Florida trip is still up in the air...hopefully we get some more obscure, cliche summer activities out of the way...Sufjan Stevens show coming up...orientation in a few weeks...senior music mega bash soon...snakes on a plane...oh, and the Mets are playing like fucking champions. They've become family. <3
Good luck to everyone who is leaving and staying. Make good choices, and stay safe.
I know, I said I wouldn't write here anymore. I lied. Well, until I find another place to write, I'll write here. Because I love to write.
Here's a rant you can read if you want, because I need to get it off my chest.
. . .
I just finished watching a movie called Chungking Express. I ran across it by chance with a help from Netflix and my love for asian cinema. I watched it, and I loved it, because Kar Wai Wong is a superb director. Then, as I flip through the extras, I see that Tarantino has thrown in a little 'introduction' for the film, because as I later discovered, the DVD Netflix had sent me was the one his dumbass company Rolling Thunder Pictures released. Great, I said, let me see what this arrogant piece of shit has to say about it, because the cover implies that he himself wrote, directed and produced the film, so he must have some really insightful comments on it.
Aside from the fact I couldn't pay attention to him because he was too busy stumbling over his words as he obviously scanned some fucking cue-cards, he had absolutely nothing to say that meritted anyone's time.
"So, you see, this movie has an excitement to it, like most Hong Kong films, and I really enjoy this movie's excitement."
"When I saw this film for the first time, I was doing Pulp Fiction, and during the filming...*insert shameless plugs and mentions here*...I stopped by Stockholm to see it at a film festival..."
"As wild as Hong Kong movies are when you watch them in America, it's not as wild when you see them in Hong Kong, because that's, like, how it really is in the streets of Hong Kong, you know? It's very strange."
Then he invites me back to watch his 'wrap up' after I finish the movie, so since I obviously already did, I proceed to the 'wrap up' right away. There he is again, although this time, he's sitting comfortably in a ugly Phat Farm jacket that accentuates his big fucking head even more.
He starts off by telling me how Kar Wai Wong thought of this movie while filming another movie, and as he does, an obnoxious scroll with the description of the movie he is talking about is going up the green-screen behind him, with letters you can't even read because they're so tremendous and blurry. What the fuck. Then after he describes how doing Ashes in Time jump started him to do this movie, all he continues to do is describe the next few movies in his library as "reccommendations" and then compares one to Pulp Fiction.
I turned it off after that, because I tasted the fries from Checkers I had just eaten a hour or two before. It really is disgraceful how such a pompous film maker can take a film out of it's country, "bring" it here, and decide to plaster his name on it bigger than the director's so everyone buys it for the sake of his company.
No, Quentin, it's not yours. It's someone else's. Now go away, and leave good films alone. People who care about them can find them by themselves. And even after Rolling Thunder flopped, he's still running around putting his name on shit he had no part of. He's a decent screenplay writer, but back the fuck off. Keep paying homage to your favorite movies in your own films, because that's basically the meat of your screenplays, anyway. Slut.
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