Birthday Blog

Twenty-eight years worth of radical, spanning four decades. To all those that said I'd never win male model of the year four years in a row, I say In your face!

Sweet Rides

Whatever happened to TV shows that relied on sweet cars to carry the plot and dialogue? Screw "Lost" and "24", I want a talking car with rocket boosters!

Don't think for a second that the fact that you never see a Pantera anywhere except in Vegas hasn't factored into my decision of possibly moving there.

Who doesn't love a racist car?

For those of you who never watched quality television as a child, this is the Coyote from Hardcastle and McCormick. Definitely a sweet ride.

Don't tell me you wouldn't be the coolest kid in your school if you drove up in the A-Team ride.

Some people call this an El Camino. They are wrong. It's a cartruck.

Remember, remember . . .

Remember, remember the 5th of November,
The gunpowder, treason, and plot.
I know of no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
T'was his intent
To blow up the King and Parliament,
Poor old England to overthrow.
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.

Mushaboom

This has been a long, slow-simmering crush, but maybe it's time to tell the world that Feist and I are in love and are going to be married on a mountain top with flowers and flutes and garlands of herbs and she will sing beautiful melodies to me as we watch the sunset.

We are registered here, but we can always use another toaster or gear for our beautiful Arabian steeds as we collect moments one by one. (Please no saddles, we prefer to ride bareback through the mountain meadows).

Concrete is AWESOME!

This is just cool.

Take THAT you over-sized runaway dumptruck!

And I just liked this picture. Screw the Escalade, when I'm a rich rapper I'm going to buy a CAT dumptruck and go drive over top of everyones else's puny little pimped-out rides.

The Skulls

While I'm still waiting for my exotic sportscar, political and business connections, access to all the hot chicks I could ever want, and a life free from the consequences of my actions, I assure you that I am in fact a member of an elite fraternity that includes many of the most powerful men and women in the world. I even have a certificate to prove it.

Apparently they're cutting back on the wrist branding and accompanying Rolex watches this year.

R.I.C.E.

Well, it happened again. A freak occurrence has yet again ruined an otherwise enjoyable athletic endeavor. I decided to get a couple runs in at the courts at Gold's after a little convincing from the 9 guys trying to run 5s. While I didn't play very well--mostly due to the fact that I had just completed a rather exhausting full-body workout with my pops--my presence on the team alone was enough to carry us to several consecutive victories (even beating the highly-touted team led by none other than former Cougar standout, Mike Hall). The competition declined rather precipitously the last couple games and I was about to call it quits and head for home and homework, but hoping to get in at least a couple more decent shots, I decided on just one more run. I can't believe I haven't learned my lesson yet. Everything bad always happens in that "one more game." So we started out to a quick lead and then after successfully defending a one-on-three fastbreak, I grabbed the ball on the rebound and pivoted to head upcourt. In the midst of the pivot my non-basketball shoes turned awkwardly and so did my ankle. While I wasn't greeted with the typical burst of heat that accompanies an ankle injury, I knew I was done. This wasn't the time to gut it out and finish the game, this was the time to retreat quickly and immerse my ankle in a large bucket full of icewater. Lest anyone feel the need to question my courage or competitive drive, this picture is actually from intramural football when I sprained my ankle after a stupid former cheerleader fell on it right before halftime. In the face of overwhelming odds and totally bitchin' pain, I came back in the second half, completely dominated the opposing team with a balanced offensive attack, and handed them a crushing defeat. This, however, had nothing to do with winning an ever-elusive intramural t-shirt and garbage ball at Gold's is not worth worsening an injury.
So anyone that wants to come comfort me and soothe my wounds is more than welcome. I'll be lying on the couch with my foot immersed in icewater. Except of course when I'm blogging when I should be working on my 30-page lobbying paper.

Senior Night

My four-year run as a ballboy for the men's volleyball team came to an inauspicious end this past weekend. I handed my camera over to Natali, hoping to photodocument at least one small part of my lengthy tenure. As it turns out, she is not a very good photographer and I now have several digital depictions of royal blue blurs that I can only guess are me in the Smith Fieldhouse. Here is by far the best of the bunch, a keen representation of the comaraderie that was shared by Ben and I this year. Ben came out and showed a lot of enthusiasm and hustle and his efforts were greatly appreciated. While Ben's efforts were truly commendable, Bracken left shoes that could never be filled and was deeply missed by his ballboy counterpart, as well as by the players and fans. In a fitting tribute to all that we accomplished on the court together, no one made mention of us in their parting speeches and I left alone. (Well, at least on one of the nights).