Mang Larry's isawan is a good place in UP for really bad stuff. If you're into roasted pig ears, deep fried chicken intestine, or makeshift microphones, you should really check the place out.
Anwyay, Mang Larry apparently has quite a business going - the place is typically packed, and they now offer shakes, shedding off some of that exclusive isaw aura.
But it's still a little jarring when you head over to a nice little isaw cart, place your order, (order!!!) settle on your favorite rock, sidewalk, or jeep, and you get asked...
Dine in o take out?
I know business is booming and all, but, uhm, where?
Hack 1: I know, I know. We could pay people to carry billboards on their backs! Moving billboards for the win. We’ll flood the Ortigas area…
Hack 2: Shomen actually beat us to that, those shameless batstards. But I like the way you think. Anyway, what if we took a giant speaker, put it on a truck, and just blasted out the marketing message like there’s no tomorrow?
Hack 1: Pretty sure that’s illegal.
[Silence]
[Laughter]
Hack 1: So, anyway, I think San Miguel beat us to that. What if, what if, we made real people pose as mannequins, so we’d have mannequins who blink, move slightly…
Most events take a while to influence the world, but on rare occasions, a few manage to polarize or demolish opinions; to change frameworks in an instant; to let people know that the world is one way today, and the next time they wake up, the world is another way.
August 6, 1945, was one instance. The world changed that day. Up until then all the hubbub had been about a science nut named Albert who studied light and had a penchant for saying nothing in reality is absolute. Then, Hiroshima happened. It's not that the technology wasn't available before - nuclear technology has been studied since a lot of people figured out that the science nut was dead on. But on August 7, 1945, everybody knew for a fact that a nuclear meltdown was possible, and people woke up to a different world.
Up until April 26, 1986, nuclear power was a relatively safe power source that was on an energy class all its own. It was on its way to save the world by providing an energy source that doesn't heat up the world the way carbon-based power sources do. Then, Chernobyl happened. It's not like the risks weren't known from day one - nuclear power debates had been taking place for a while. But on April 27, 1986, people woke up to a world where it was apparent that a few corners cut was all that stood between power source and a major catastrophe. Last February, we had another world-altering experience. Up until then, the most evident proof that people on the interwebs were morons had been the fact that MySpace exists. Okay, that’s pretty big proof. But still, there had been no honey pot – you’d have to check out trashy page after trashy page until your eyes had given out to confirm. No more. On February 10, 2010, ReadWriteWeb wrote an article about Facebook – pretty standard stuff, saying that Facebook, like every other site in social networking history, preferred if you stayed there longer, with the site serving as a person’s main login. And then, something curious happened. People started commenting that, and I quote, “The new facebook sucks> NOW LET ME IN.” And it got worse from there. The seventh comment reads “I WANT THE OLD FAFEBOOK BACK THIS SHIT IS WACK!!!!!” Denial and anger dominated the streams.
Clearly, something had gone wrong. People flocked to the blog in droves, angry that Facebook had apparently become all red, angry that apparently, Facebook had become a blog, angry that they had been locked out. They expressed this with all the urgency of a crack addict looking for the next fix. At a few dozen comments, some turned to bargaining.
Comment 113:"You reallllly don't want to know what I think. I was doing pretty good until now. I want a nice EASY login like I had before!!!!!”Some greeted the change with depression.
Comment 353: “I wish I could find my facebook login.”But then, anger slipped back in.
Comment 455: “WHY CNA"T I LOGING TO MY FACEBOOK!11!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT IS GOIGN ON HEAR??????”
At last, after a grueling experience, some shot straight to acceptance.
Comment 873: “CANCELL MY ACCUNT!!”But some refused to give up. They went on to fight the good fight, and you could almost hear their heart breaking.
Comment 2202: “OMG WHAT THE F? Facebook is my life, if this is what it has come to, I'm just going to kill myself... Why would they change it like this, it's terrible!!!! WHY CANT I LOGIN OMG.”
To RWW’s credit, they tried to stop the mess. They had a message, written in bold…
Dear visitors from Google. This site is not Facebook. This is a website called ReadWriteWeb that reports on news about Facebook and other Internet services. You can however click here and become a Fan of ReadWriteWeb on Facebook, to receive our updates and learn more about the Internet. To access Facebook right now, click here. For future reference, type "facebook.com" into your browser address bar or enter "facebook" into Google and click on the first result. We recommend that you then save Facebook as a bookmark in your browser.But by then, it was too late. The juggernaut had started rolling, and there was no stopping it. On February 10, 2010, we created the world’s largest pool of potential Nigerian scam targets, and for crying out loud, it’s what the Internet was made for.Join the party at comment 2261.
There are two kinds of employees. Those who change the world or build an empire, and those who attend fire drills. Yesterday, I found out I was the latter. Bah! Humbug!
In Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote, Borges' character argues that even though the fictional Pierre rewrote Don Quixote word for word, the the second story was vastly superior to the first, because of context. The world has changed, as did the meaning. Metafiction?
Bleh. Welcome to the 1930s, where they didn't take concepts far enough. What if the same author rewrote everything, word for word? Would there be meaning? Would one be superior to the other? Would anyone... hey, where'd everyone go?
Anyway, to take the concept and twist it until it's meaningless...
I just came back from Dos Palmas, home to an array of things you will lose yourself to - a magnificent mangrove beach, a plethora of Rico Yan references, and souvenir items that declare, “God created women and pearl as well.” And as with so many of these trips, the story starts out with the airport, where we arrived after using up enough batteries on digital cameras to run a small village.
The Palawan airport, we would later learn, is a place for contemplation, a respite clearly designed to take your thoughts off of stress, or take them off altogether.
The Palawan airport battle cry against stress reads,
Try and relax the soothing massage Of blind masseurs, While waiting your trip! It is for rajuvination, it releases stress
But the point is, airport. The place is supported by a fee travelers pay, money they use to tend to the cobwebs by the seats and - and this is what I really like about that airport - the guy who walks over the roof, holes on the ceiling and all.
From there, we took a bus ride and basked in the glory of Palawan, complete with a very enthusiastic tour guide. “The specialty food around these parts is... well, there’s really no specialty,” she began, and it dawned on me that it was going to be a long haul. “Notice how clean the place is. Palawan was voted cleanest city in 1994, 1995...”
About an hour and an MP3 session later, we arrived at the ferry dock, a small place with a thing for bathroom use. The comfort room sign reads,
TAKE-A CR - P5.00 SHOWER - P20.00
After having taken a CR, and then staring at the sign for a good few minutes, I got left behind by the ferry I was supposed to be on, and the rains began to really have at it. I got on another one, and there was another guide, replete and bursting with tourist information. “That is the bat island,” she began. “It’s called that way because there are lots of bats.”
“MP3 player, now!” said my feeble, tourist-information-overloaded brain.
“You can’t see it because of the rains but that’s the StarfishIsland,” she continued. “It’s called that way because...”
They were looking for me after the ferry finally docked on Dos Palmas, partly because the rains were really heavy by then, but mostly because I got left behind my designated ferry ride while I was in awe of the CR sign. So after the people from the office realized I wasn’t lost, just signage-inspired, we got to the business of checking out the beach.
The island is called Arreceffi - it’s a sweet little patch of sand and mangroves, and the beach makes some of the others I’ve seen look like a backyard picnic spot, and that’s while there’s vicious amounts of rain. There’s a range of things to do - we kayaked, played an array of beach sports, and watched the fire dancers play with, erm, fire, but we made sure we didn’t break any of their rules including - and this was on the tour reminders - not entering the restaurant topless.
On day 2, there were team building activities, physically grueling challenges that we journ majors refer to as “painful.” Excruciatingly painful, the kind that leaves you wondering later if oxen have been partying on your back - there was a four-way tug-of-war, a log race, and a range of other superb activities, and they warned us not to do “direct assaults on the marshals.”
We spent two nights in Dos Palmas, and there had been bottomless booze and countless cameras, concepts that are dangerous by themselves but taken together become monstrous entities. Want proof?
Sorry if this is not new to you, but I haven't been a member of Facebook for very long. In fact, I had viewed the social network the same with the same glasses that I had for, say, cockroach droppings. I know those things are there, I just didn’t like thinking about the subject.
Eventually, if anyone gave it enough thought, there’d probably be something to observe. (“those things look like black pepper?” or “did you know that image results come up first when you type in ‘cockroach droppings’ on Google?”)
But anyway, I’m trying to make sense of the whole social thing now, and man, have I been missing out. I mean, if anyone told me about what the news feeds read like, I’d have jumped on day one.
“X (or a random name, like Nicolas) commented on his OWN photo.”
“Nicolas commented on his OWN status message.”
“Nicolas has NO FRIENDS. Help him find people he knows.”
There are few ways to beat that in terms of making someone look like a complete loser, and this is something I am deeply, deeply interested in.
The thing is, these things are not accidents. They’re not missteps – they are calculated moves designed to make people more social, more cutesy, more actively engaged in commenting on anyone’s picture about the latest in flower-growth. And when those feeds are not there, people worry.
But then, what gives? If you’re Facebook, why pull your punches? If you’re willing to make someone look like a complete dope for not being social enough and not understanding the concept of captions, why not tell Nicolas that he needs a clue , and that he’s a complete dope who needs an IQ bump to get the concept of captions?
See, what facebook needs is a good subordinate clause. Or three.
It’s a trend that’s catching fire. Nope, not roughing it, per se, but the wording, although roughing it is no slouch either, and what you’d find is that as more and more people rough it, you see an inordinate amount of leaf pictures, shots of bricks, etc. missile-locking their way into your consciousness.
And the social networks – what did we ever do before social networks – have a nice little feature that emails people and tells them, “hey, your social network male-buddy-sorority-sister-daughter-friend has posted nice little pictures of bricks ‘n leaves, (BNLs) wanna have a look-see?”
Of course, male-buddy-sorority-sister-daughter-friend knows that if he/she/it showed you BNLs in person, literally walked up to you and showed you the latest in cement-drying technology, you’d show him/her/it what it would feel like to have an artery removed.
But he/she/it is not showing you the items in person, and the BNLs are not the point. The point is that what’s taking photos of these BNLs are powerful devices, DSLRs, devices known to capture details as little as miniscule blood clots causing cerebral aneurisms that block logic functions, including those that tell people enough with the leaves already.
But, anyway, roughing it. Catching fire. Not the travel style. The wording. The staccato. On every. Freaking. Thing.
News articles. Blog entries. Micro-blogs. Micro-blog news articles. News blog entries. Random coughs.
The thing is, there used to be dignity in staccatos. And DSLRs. And bricks for that matter, but that was before people collectively figured they should point their cameras at them saying “look at me, looking at this.”
So for all of you posting more leaves and more bricks, let’s take a moment, and celebrate all your leaves, and all your bricks, and how the synergy of the forms encapsulate not just the considerable beauty of those items, but the perspective of the brilliant artist behind the lens that makes rendering that beauty possible. And let’s further rejoice at the defamiliarization that occurs with the otherwise ordinary object, now immortalized by your perspective, like it has undergone object apotheosis. Really, let’s celebrate it here. And then stop.
Because we’re happy that you captured the beauty of your 4,387th leaf, but like it’s been said by other bloggers, it just forces us to think about what you’re compensating for, and how small your penis must be. And we’d prefer not to think about your penis. Really, we’d rather not.
Anyway, with that out of the way, we went to Anawangin last week for beach-drinking, leaf-photographing action. Anawangin looks like one of those places you’d see in monster flicks – it’s an island with a forest right next to the beach, and at night it gets pretty dark, close to pitch black. There’s no electricity, and you can either sleep in the open or inside a tent. Think LOST, minus the polar bears and time travel.
Now, if you’re looking to go there, here’s the least you need to know:
They have a lighthouse, and most tours recommend it. Not. Worth. It. You can get the same experience as going there by running up and down your favourite stairs five hundred times, and then shooting some photos of bricks at Intramuros.
They have a separate beach, Camara, recommended if you want to swim. Not. Worth. It. The beach is rocky, and the view isn’t exceptional. You can get the same scrapes you’d get there by falling off a ditch. You can get the rock photos from Manila Bay.
They have a nice little camp where you can set up tents by the beach. Best. Drinking spot. Ever. Camp is like the environment equivalent of Quinito Henson – a string of really bad clichés. Think breeze blowing away the cares of the world, with the stars lining up to make the experience right, with the sand caressing your feet and blah, blah, blah. To get the same experience, at a minimum, I’m pretty sure you’d have to do several Vicodins.
Shortly after the Sagada trip, the company sent me to the US for slightly over a week. It was a quick trip, but it felt longer. It consisted mainly of me
a) freezing over, and b) watching people navigate using GPS systems that never shut up
Those blasted UPS systems are amazing. They command you, demand things from you, basically tell you you’re an idiot when you don’t follow it’s directions, and sometimes even when you do. “Turn left in three meters,” it would say. And there’s a wall to your left in three meters, so you opt to, well, not go left. “Recalculating,” it would say, with some scorn. The device continues to say that for the next five minutes, before it tells you to turn left off of a bridge and onto nothing.
If you’re built to withstand the GPS onslaught, you’d find that San Diego is a really nice place. Offices next to beaches, quick access to everything, wide roads, great restaurants, and lots of places to go see. Columbus was…
I’ve been on what is, for me, a bit of a traveling spree. It started a couple of months back, when we went to Sagada, a quaint little town where the people appear to be from a bygone era, the views appear to jump out of postcards, and shopkeepers appear to be on crack half the time.
The town is proud of it’s heritage, with all the subtlety of a jackhammer - you get a sense, when you’re there, that everybody’s proud of this place on a scale that doesn’t even register on your system. They talk about the history of the place with a confidence that you rarely see, and they are very protective of that place. And there is much protecting to do. One restaurant, for instance, indicates in an obvious manner that there will be “no taking of pictures.”
No, it’s not “do not take photos IN here.” You can shoot yourselves half to death, and they couldn’t care less. There will be “no taking OF PICTURES.” People literally swipe photos off of their walls.
It is rampant enough, it’s so commonplace, that they feel it warrants putting a sign reminding people, say, stealing pictures off of restaurant walls is not very nice.
Now, if you’re wondering, like I wondered, what would motivate people to actually go into a small town, travel hours over hours to get to that place, and literally grab a photo off of someone else’s wall, I blame all of this on yet another proud tradition the place protects, which is pretty much doobie.
But the point is, protective of the pretty place, and man, it is pretty. It’s pretty around the Kiltepan viewpoint, which sets the standard for beautiful places where you can fall to your death. It’s pretty around the Bomod-ok, a waterfall several stories high that will take your breath away. Before you get there, that is - the mountain trek is over an hour, with hardly any flat surfaces. And it’s pretty around Lake Danum, which looks like it was sculpted into reality, and which, for some reason, refused to let rocks float when you throw ‘em at it.
This past week my earphones stopped working, finally settling the debate in my head that unlike underwear, you cannot use the same earphones for decades. It sounds extremely trivial, but I love those earphones; over the past year and a half, I have become increasingly reliant on that nifty little device.
“That is the bat island,” a tour-guide would say. “It’s called that way because there are lots of bats.”
At points like these, something in your head triggers. The brain has a way of coping, of course-correction, faced with this type of sheer lunacy. So you smile, knowing you’re going to be all right, and the people beside you hear a desperate rustling. “You can’t see it because of the rains but that’s the Starfish Island,” the tour-guide would continue, this time intending to do cause nerve damage. “It’s called that way because...”
Aaaaaaaand Coldplay.(Or if you prefer, Bonnie Tyler)
That’s the thing about earphones; you can elect not to finish that sentence.
So when my earphones finally gave out, there was some pretty heavy nostalgia, followed by a speedy trip to CDR King.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty happy with the way earphones work. Earphones are friends. You grab em, latch them onto an MP3 player, pull the cord and snap the earpieces on, and boom, Viva la Vida. (Or if you prefer, Total Eclipse of the Heart)
Tech stores are sporting a new trend, a dangerous trend, a trend that endangers the very fabric of technology. The items are called earbuds, and they are built for people who - saving precious seconds in the hygiene department - intend to clean their earwax while listening to music.
Here’s the thing - they work almost exactly like the earphones do. You grab em, latch them onto an MP3 player, pull the cord and snap the earpieces on, and boom, the earpieces FALL OFF. You wonder about this for a second, your brain going, and I’m quoting in verbatim, “huh.”
So you pull the cord and snap the earpieces so close to your eardrums that any form of movement will cause deafness, and hope that you remember never to, under any circumstances, keep the earpieces within 20 feet of any surface, unless that surface for some reason requires globs of earwax.
I say this is an outrage. I say we stand up to this before the gadget encroaches our very primal need to not listen to people talk about their bowel movements. Or to pretend to be listening to music while actually taking notes. What do you say? Come again?
I’m not going to talk about what I’m talking about because talking about what I’m talking about entails talking about what I’m talking about in a way that I can’t talk about it. But if, through reading that, you’re thinking, “he’s yammering like crazy so it must be kind of important,” then you’re right, and you’re probably thinking about what I’m thinking about, and you’d know that I’m really, really happy right now.
I just came back from Dos Palmas, home to an array of things you will lose yourself to - a magnificent mangrove beach, a plethora of Rico Yan references, and souvenir items that declare, “God created women and pearl as well.” And as with so many of these trips, the story starts out with the airport, where we arrived after using up enough batteries on digital cameras to run a small village.
The Palawan airport, we would later learn, is a place for contemplation, a respite clearly designed to take your thoughts off of stress, or take them off altogether.
The Palawan airport battle cry against stress reads,
Try and relax the soothing massage Of blind masseurs, While waiting your trip! It is for rajuvination, it releases stress
But the point is, airport. The place is supported by a fee travelers pay, money they use to tend to the cobwebs by the seats and - and this is what I really like about that airport - the guy who walks over the roof, holes on the ceiling and all.
From there, we took a bus ride and basked in the glory of Palawan, complete with a very enthusiastic tour guide. “The specialty food around these parts is... well, there’s really no specialty,” she began, and it dawned on me that it was going to be a long haul. “Notice how clean the place is. Palawan was voted cleanest city in 1994, 1995...”
About an hour and an MP3 session later, we arrived at the ferry dock, a small place with a thing for bathroom use. The comfort room sign reads,
TAKE-A CR - P5.00 SHOWER - P20.00
After having taken a CR, and then staring at the sign for a good few minutes, I got left behind by the ferry I was supposed to be on, and the rains began to really have at it. I got on another one, and there was another guide, replete and bursting with tourist information. “That is the bat island,” she began. “It’s called that way because there are lots of bats.”
“MP3 player, now!” said my feeble, tourist-information-overloaded brain.
“You can’t see it because of the rains but that’s the StarfishIsland,” she continued. “It’s called that way because...”
They were looking for me after the ferry finally docked on Dos Palmas, partly because the rains were really heavy by then, but mostly because I got left behind my designated ferry ride while I was in awe of the CR sign. So after the people from the office realized I wasn’t lost, just signage-inspired, we got to the business of checking out the beach.
The island is called Arreceffi - it’s a sweet little patch of sand and mangroves, and the beach makes some of the others I’ve seen look like a backyard picnic spot, and that’s while there’s vicious amounts of rain. There’s a range of things to do - we kayaked, played an array of beach sports, and watched the fire dancers play with, erm, fire, but we made sure we didn’t break any of their rules including - and this was on the tour reminders - not entering the restaurant topless.
On day 2, there were team building activities, physically grueling challenges that we journ majors refer to as “painful.” Excruciatingly painful, the kind that leaves you wondering later if oxen have been partying on your back - there was a four-way tug-of-war, a log race, and a range of other superb activities, and they warned us not to do “direct assaults on the marshals.”
We spent two nights in Dos Palmas, and there had been bottomless booze and countless cameras, concepts that are dangerous by themselves but taken together become monstrous entities. Want proof?
Oh, man, Shangri-La. Look at all those places to eat. Cool. You’ve got Jap food, specialty restaurants, heck, look, they’ve even got - would you look at that - Philippine cuisine. I’ve got to check that out.
Wonder what that they serve... can’t be that bad, considering what that reviews say. I mean, check this one out, from the bastion of truth, the Manila Standard.
A huge part of its success is [restaurant]’s penchant for reinvention. [Restaurant] is known for regional classics given a twist by incorporating Western techniques while at the same time preserving their distinctive tastes. Lest it be tagged as a fusion restaurant, [Interviewee], one of the chefs headlining [restaurant}, explained, “It’s not a mix of dishes, but we try to use indigenous ingredients to present the dish in a new light.”
The results of all this kitchen wizardry? A plethora of Filipino dishes, several of which having descriptive names that tickle the taste buds even as you read them on the menu.
Yes, yes, penchant for reinvention. Plethora, baby! I have got to try this joint.
Well, anyway, lest I think it’s Asian fusion, anyway. And I think, I think, these are actual items on an actual menu, conceived by actual human beings.
Bibingka soufflé Sinigang naPrawn Salabat Soda Seared Tilapia in coconut emulsion DurianBrulee
I have not seen my hometown, Bolinao, in a couple of years. I spent some really good years there; back in high school, the place had a pristine aura to it.
People are generally nice and they go out of their way to help you, the beaches are wicked unspoiled and downright beautiful, and at any given point, you could watch a beauty pageant involving a contestant who would - and this was her talent number - bite off parts of a chicken, feather and all.
That is the place I remember, and those memories are good.
Enter 2008. The place itself has not changed much. The buildings in town were as dilapidated as ever, the beaches were as picture perfect as they had ever been, and an antediluvian feel to the place still resonated. There were facilities that improved here and there, but overall, you’d get the feeling looking at the place that you’d kept it in a time capsule; you can visit any time and it’d still be there to greet you, a haven no one can take away.
But then you’d hear the bus operator say “Wake up, Bolinao station na tayo,” and your world falls apart.
A bus ride to Bolinao takes about four and a half hours from Manila if you leave around midnight; I left with four friends and we were asleep by the time we got there. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m used to getting this warning “Nasa (wherever the heck you are) na tayo,” or even “Gising, nasa (wherever the heck you are) na tayo.”
“Wake up, Bolinao station na tayo.”
The place has changed. Between visiting the falls, lighthouse, and a couple of beaches, our contact for the ride told us, as we coordinated what time he’d get to us,
“K.” “K,” for crying out loud. You’d get water to wash that down, but then the water bottles there say- and I wouldn’t show this without proof - “Buy Mo Water Ko.”
Something tells me my time capsule went all coñotic on me.
That having been said, it was phenomenal. Getting drunk near bodies of water, always cool. WARNING: Pictures here, if you don’t like seeing geeks go shirtless, do not click the links.
The Olympics is approaching, and as dictated by tradition you’re required to hear at least 437,256 quotes about humanity, some of them good, most of them lame, a few downright phenomenal.
Let’s take the initiative and feed humanity-fest with the Olympics theme here.
You are my adversary, but you are not my enemy. For your resistance gives me strength. Your will gives me courage. Your spirit ennobles me. And though I aim to defeat you, should I succeed, I will not humiliate you. Instead, I will honour you. For without you, I am a lesser man.
It’s a pretty well written piece, my slight problem with it being that it’s not something the Dwight Howard would say after the Dream Team takes home the bling. No sir. He’s going to be all like, “Dude, what the heck is ennoble?” and that would start a hoopla over whether or not Gatorade affects people’s IQ, and we just can’t sit back and let that happen.
So I think it’s about darned time we had a version that caters to that demographic.
You ain’t from the same ‘hood, but you still mah hommie. Your toughness feeds mah aggression, Your aggression feeds mah toughness, You down with it, dog. And though Ima try to whoop your ass, if I do, I ain’t gunna gloat. Instead, Ima honor you for sho. Cuz without you, I ain’t nuthin, fool.
It’s something of a ritual. You put guys in their mid-twenties on a beach, and regardless of how colorful their background, how sophisticated their concerns, or how convoluted their views, something else takes over. It’s quintessential; it’s primal. It’s bigger than us - an instinct hard-wired to take control, setting aside nuances and, ultimately, uniting us.
This primal force says – as a friend of mine very eloquently put it – “Pare, chicks!”
It’s a very curious thing, that “pare, chicks.” Last week, we headed to a beach in La Union, and I heard that about 634 times, not counting conversations about KFC.
It’s like fowl have collectively taken control over every single brain of every single creature with a Y chromosome. And some that don’t. I think it’s a global thing; somewhere on the other end of the planet, the Ys are waking up, some are heading to large bodies of water, declaring with wild abandon, “Buscar, chicks!”
Thing is, it’s not like there’s nothing to observe in La Union. The place was beautiful; there were few enough people that you could get your piece of action whether what you’re into is throwing a football by the beach as the sun sets, or drinking by a hut near the pool, hopefully not intending to jump in.
The waves on the beach were the size of small monster trucks – if you wait long enough, there’d be a few with enough force to throw a fridge a couple of dozen feet back. What that feels like when it hits you… well, that’s kind of fun.
They have a pool near a speaker that’s on all saxophone, all the time. It’s weird as hell, yet strangely endearing.
But nobody’s thinking about that.
Because someone, somewhere, at any given point is saying, “dude, chicks.“
Dendrites stop the synapses about football. Brains stop taking in the view. They’ve got business to attend to.
I'm a Spielberg and Zemeckis fan. A J.J. Abrams, Aaron Sorkin, and David Kelley zealot. A Dave Barry buff. A Frank Miller, Joss Whedon and Chris Claremont freak.
I like playing table tennis, I love comic books, and I can't live without reading and writing.
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