Jonathan Livingston Seagull and My Mom?

I always wondered why mom wore this huge, horrid, and ugly medallion. Of course, I knew it was because she had read the Novella and must have liked something in the words. She must have found comfort in the self-help, self-centered, and self-searching prose. And since my mom died too early in our lives, I still want to know what was she was like. Foolishly, I waited too long to ask her myself.

Some of the things she loved made sense. She loved John Denver. I mean, that's a no-brainer; whom does not? She loved Constant Comment tea, though I didn't understand why on earth she had to have it for her every-morning commute to Friends Home...in her orange Volkswagen Rabbit...with a manual transmission...and a permanent tea puddle/stain on the dashboard. I'd think, Mom, can't you gulp that shit before you leave? Naturally, I can't leave the house in the morning without a cup of coffee, but I rock the newfangled automatic velocitransmorgrifier.


Anyway, thinking I could visit with my Mom again, I found an online copy, downloaded and printed it and settled down to see how a woman my age, or even younger than I at that time in the '70s when the book was all the rage, could fall in love with what was inside. And presently, I have only the faintest idea.


She was a Christian. A Quaker and a Presbyterian, she sang in the choir at our church, so maybe she was drawn by the allegorical hints though Jon says he isn't a Messiah, and in fact, the whole thing might be considered an atheist's handbook. It preaches individuality.


And that might have been what she was grasping for. Never minding the hints of immortality the story invokes, reminding me of Slaughterhouse Five's meander through time, maybe mom wanted to be the gull that flew higher to see further.

I know when I looked up on my coffee-spilling commute by the reservoir lakes of Greensboro, NC and saw a single gull gliding overhead I immediately thought of my Mom and this book which I had never read. And when I got home, I went to the medallion, the hermetically sealed coin with the quote "You have the freedom to be yourself...here and now," and promptly read the story.


And I guess that's the take away notion from the whole thing. I reckon that's what Mom was thinking when she'd put this giant thing around her neck. But for me, when I hold the necklace, of course I think of mom, but also, now I think how she didn't want to just know "how to get from shore to food and back again."

Six Ways to Sunday

This time of year, there's alot of talk about how to improve upon the way you set about living your life...how to be better...how to be awesome...


It's kinda boring to see and read, but it's only because those that care about "improving" themselves already know what they need to do.


You know you should get off your ass and hump around the 'hood for at least thirty minutes a day.
You know you should put the Doritos down and eat raw broccoli (yes, alive...sigh)
You know you should try new things and meet new people--you can get so much out of just talking to a nerd at Caribou Coffee, or the waiter you leave a three dollar tip to after you eat (hello, won't even buy a gallon of gas these days--leave at least five for ANY meal)
You know you should do more for others--hard to do when you have kids...by god you do for them all the time it can seem. They don't call them crumbsnatchers for nothing.
You have it in you to answer all the questions and find all the strategies that you want. But you, me, no one ever does.


I'll be honest, the world would be a boring a place if we just sat up and figured it all out one morning.


Do you need a strategy to improve? No.


The only thing I would say is:


You got six senses, use them all, everyday.


See: Look to your left, look to your right, look UP! You'll see groundhogs by the road playing chicken with commuters and hawks for that blade of greener grass. You'll see cat hair on the back of your buddy's coat and know he ain't as tough as he says he is. You'll see paw prints in concrete. Eye-boogers on pretty girls, crooked teeth behind tight-lipped, self-conscious smiles, and gleaming pearly whites perched in towers of vanity. See and understand I mean; what are you seeing?


See the sunrise; I've said it a million times. Nothing sets your place in the universe, or on this planet, better than our closest star sneaking up behind you in the morning. 


Just open your eyes, and use that handy swivel under your skull to change your perspective. It's your neck, use it.


Hear: Nothing sounds like a car door slamming behind you. Nothing sounds like a a kid in a shopping cart bargaining for chips, or opening the bag before check out. The worse my hearing gets, the harder it is to listen of course.


Eavesdrop for god's sake. Those people behind you at the deli...laugh at their jokes too. Sure, you're smarter, better looking, but they're funny too. Tell 'em so--the 'funny too' part, not the 'not-as-good-looking' part.


Turn off the TV. Turn off the music. Your kids'll thank you when they have something to say and you listen.


Out of doors, yeah yeah, birds, wind in the trees, etc etc...I know we all know that, but hear the brakes squeal from under the bus, check out that tattoo'd dude's ringtone. Make sure you never miss a thing.


Touch: Hard to touch everything you ever wanted to touch, in fact, in NC, it can be illegal.  If you want to stomp in the mud barefoot, do it. Is that pear ripe? Is that real fur? Is her hair wet or is that just mousse? Is that a BB in your son's head? Is that a new mole on my back? 


You also know, there are things you can do with touching that I won't even write about...things you can do, and never use your hands--and that's all I'm gonna say about that.


Taste: You can stretch Taste's legs by trying new things of course. I mean, you already know what you like now, but food you hated, you may like now as well. I marvel how I can eat Lima beans and pintos and asparagus and disgusting things I never ate as a kid...still can't choke down green peas, but I ain't dead yet. In another ten years I'll try them again.


Food is only a smattering of tastible things out there. Why does your dog like MilkBone dog biscuits so much? Find out. What's that stain on your shirt? White chocolate? White. Chocolate?


An acorn on the ground, a free hickory nut--hopes you have a hammer handy. Blackberries, blueberries--all by the side of the roads of NC--but you have to LOOK (see above). In November, pecans (that's PEE-cans) fall out of trees like manna from heaven...and persimmons dare you taste them.


Smell: Ah, the forgotten one. There is no taste without the nose. Like looking up, the art of sniffing has become somewhat lost. Those surrounded by food and the preparation thereof think they have that one all figured out, but we don't live in our kitchens.


Remind you what a baby smells like and your heart may melt. (Of course, mine won't--babies *shudder*) Feel like the world is moving away from under you like a speeding escalator? Take a second to sneak up behind your child and sniff his filthy head. No kids? Sniff your dog's smelly paws, her forehead.


That sickly, sweet smell when you turn on the heat in your car means you need new head-gaskets. 


The cloud of Axe that swirls around teenage boys reminds you of your Polo days, and when your girlfriend wore Lauren...


The insides of the deer you're butchering, reminds you again, of your place on the planet, and how you can't survive, live, without utterly destroying something. That's a humbling smell indeed that many of us skip.


Want a shock? Smell your self. Rub your chin with the back of your hand and smell...Lick the back and your hand and sniff the chlorine left on you from your last shower...is it any wonder we all get cancer sooner or later. Leave off the deodorant, find out what your ancestors (and the French do now) smelled like.


Don't be afraid to use your nose to see things your eyes cannot.


Balance: The sixth sense--has nothing to do with seeing dead people. It's the cliche you hear over and over: If you don't use it you lose it.


Instead of walking down a sidewalk, walk on just the curb--try not to look at your feets. Walking by a retaining wall? Do the edge. See what you can see two feet higher...your buddy's crown, the one his mom sniffs when the world gets a way from her and he's in town. 


Carry a tray of food in one hand over your head like the waiter you stiffed on the tip. Four bowls of soup sloshing around above your head is a challenge.


Keep your wits on an icy sidewalk. Teeter from the dizzying height of your truck's tailgate as you shovel out mulch, or ice cold beers from the cooler. Change a light bulb from your chair. Walk along your counter tops unscrewing dead bulbs from your kitchen can lights. See what the cabinet guy left on top when he was done. A can of spit (Sniff that! Was it Skoal or Copenhagen?) or a tiny block of wood with measurements scrolled on it. To see that stuff you have to look...


These are things you already do but pay them no mind. Start paying.


Anyway, you know what you want. You don't need bloggers and Huffington Post nor Ghandi or even Jennifer Aniston telling you what you want/need. I guess for some it's fun to read this time of year. And I browse over them sometimes sort of half-assedly taking it all in. And sometimes, I make up my own.

Boys and Guns

For the third time in as many years I got to take Jaime hunting up at the honey hole. I spent two mornings and an afternoon watching him sit and hunt, spotting deer that my old eyes couldn't even see without the ten by fifties. I was amazed at the deer he did see; excited by the real ones and the phantom ones that pop up as the sun climbs higher in the sky changing the lighting as it goes, making a brown stump magically look like a doe, head down, sneaking up to the stand.

After he shot, he glassed for his dad. And dad took his picture.

The last evening we hunted together in the same stand (probably for the last time--no fifteen year old's gonna have sitting in a stand with his old man) and when I looked behind us, tip-toeing down the trail, was an orphan fawn. A doe, to be sure, but all alone, and as the sun was just about done for the day, I told him to shoot. Two predawn mornings up at 4:15 and one long day is an eternity to young boys (and some old men too) and since the range to the doe was minimal, we were both what I'd call confident, with extreme prejudice. He'd earned it.

A quick shot through the vitals and the doe was done. We stared at the spot on the ground the exiting bullet had made, and felt like we could sit a while longer and let me wait for something to show...of course, another deer stepped out and thanks to my hesitation, was chased away by a non-shootable buck. That's okay, next year when he chases dinner away, he'll have even more antler and won't get that golden ticket in his proverbial candy bar.

Well, we got down to collect the doe, and that's about the time we realized the ground shrinkage that occurs after the adrenaline's gone from the first blush of seeing a deer heading your way. It's pretty common, and it's nothing new, but I don't think there's any shame in it--not for a boy (or girl) afield! In my mind, a boy can hardly do any wrong when hunting.

Now I don't mean that young-uns should be let loose and allowed to clobber any and everything they see like bloodthirsty savages, but they ought to be able to collect a deer, any deer, for their first of the season after hours of talking about it, hours in the car to the range, and long boring, shoulder-pounding hours shooting their rifles. You might disagree, but after so many hours of watching so many deer saunter away after having been in range, you might think different.

Take your kid hunting, saddle him (or her) with all these rules and regulations about what he can shoot, what he can't...it'll wear thin, and you'll be getting up in the morning by yourself, riding by yourself, and hunting by yourself. It's why I don't play Hearts: too many rules. Curb the kids' enthusiasm enough, and there won't be anyone hunting anymore--it's us old mens' job to get a younger crowd into the woods, and what better way than to let them shoot deer.

I'd already stopped him from shooting this doe and that buck before, but now was his turn and he took it. And I'm happy for the boy. Sure, I took a ribbing from the guys, but I was and am happy to take it, because there's a tender fawn's meat in the fridge aging to perfection before Mom slowly roasts it in the crock pot or magically grills it "indirectly" so it's just as juicy but with the hint of smokiness that reminds us of woods and pioneer pasts.

Yes, the next time we go out, maybe the next baby'll get the golden pass too...or maybe not. I've said it a hundred times, the little ones taste better, are more tender, and are easier to handle after the fact. I'm sure my son'll start "editing" his own choices when he hunts alone in the stand in his coming years, I can only hope he'll continue hunting. When he's my age, maybe he'll be taking another Mothershead-ito out into the woods, up a tree, and feel the thrill when his son takes his first deer of the year to get on the boards. I just hope he buys his own rifle and gives me mine back!

Exercise in Mortality

If you're like me you blow your nose in the shower.
If you're like me, sometimes you overdo it.
Want an exercise in mortality?
Hold your hand out and let your bleeding nose drip into your palm.
See that bright red bloom spreading?
Watch the next drop double into the first.
Watch the third, the fourth.
Bright red because you're still alive.
Get the feeling that if you didn't do anything,
In thirty minutes they'd know downstairs that something was wrong;
They'd find you in a cold shower, bloodless and pale.


Step back and let water splash into your hand.
Your red blood dissolves and dilutes until Kool-Aid coloured.
Your nose tries to keep up, but the water flows like time;
Tilt your hand and let your blood hit the tiles.
Watch long enough and bright stars of fresh red explode between your feet,
Chasing the diluted pink with a droplet's red glare.
But the more water you spend the more you blend;
And the cliche continues,
And your crimson cocktail;
Water, time, and life,
Goes down the drain.

The White Deer 2

    Part two of my serial in an attempt to get me to finish something I started. Here's a link to Part 1 if'n you need it: http://dumbasscarpenter.blogspot.com/2011/09/im-still-drunk.html

2

     I'm sitting on the tailgate of my truck waiting for Brian to snap shut his 1990's phone and teach me how to shoot a compound bow. Everything's here--his bow, his arrows, which I hope not to lose, and some beer, which I plan to lose down my pie-hole, and a little foam cube about 20 yards away that we're supposed to hit with said arrows.

     I don't know shit about bow hunting except that an arrow will kill a deer. 

     I reckon he's talking to his girlfriend because he's waving his hand around and cussing. He shoots a glance at me every so often to make sure I'm not getting all of it, but I am. I try to act casual and pick up the bow laying on the gate. He eyes me under his hat and finally sees me seeing, and hearing him, and walks around the corner of his house.

     I don't really care about his love life, but I don't quite get how a guy like him--bald, need I say more--could even get a chick to fuck him. Maybe it's the awful earful he's giving her that keeps her coming back. The old saying, treat a queen like a whore and a whore like a queen never seemed to fit so well. Not that she's a queen. The one time I made a pass at her, she ratted me out to him.

     So now I'm left all alone with his crazy rig thanks to her. I look down at the bow and can't hardly believe what the hell these things have come down to..or up to I guess. It's the regular old compound configuration with the ex-ed up string wrapped around two cammed pulleys on each end of the struts which are bolted to the mainspringy arm. There's a huge phallic counterbalance thing sticking out the front.

     There's also a wrist strap on the bow so you don't drop the thing. And if you think you'll hurt your finger tips yanking the 'string' back, you're in for a treat, because now we have to use something called a release which is this thing you hook to the 'string' and use to pull it back to fire. It has a damn trigger. When you get the bow drawn, and your shot lined up, you just pull the trigger to shoot.

     Well, damn. We're back to what I like to do best, pulling the trigger and shooting stuff. I'm looking at all this gear, nursing a beer, and waiting. I pick up the bow out of its clamshell-like plastic case just to feel its heft. Professor Baldy's no where to be seen so I hold it up and check out the sights. The three of them glow brightly thanks to fiber optics which was how I was gonna get rich with my pre-lit Christmas tree invention that someone else got around to sooner than I did.

     The bow's heavier than my sad little recurve I brought with me. Brian laughed at it. What a dick. Of course his bow's heavier, it's got all this crap on it. I do a half-assed test pull on the 'string' without the release. It feels like I'm pulling on a guy wire to a telephone pole. Damn. Brian steps around the corner.

     -Don't dry fire it, he says, -It'll fuck it up.

     -I wasn't. I was just lookin'.

     He walks over phoneless now, holds his hand out for the bow which of course I hand to him. He takes it and grabs the release off the tailgate and an arrow.

     -How's the ol' lady? I ask.

     -We ain't married.

     -Not yet.

     -We ain't gonna get married either, he says nocking an arrow and attaching the release to the 'string'.

     -You might as well be, I say, watching him point the arrow skyward then rotate the bow horizontally while at the same time drawing the string back smoothly, effortlessly. -You hate each other enough.

 He's supposed to laugh and shank the arrow into the ground, but he doesn't. He holds at full draw then 'fires'.

     The arrow takes off with a snap and whacks into the target, just about dead center of the 7 inch Santa Claus paper plate he taped to the target cube. Die, papa, die is all I can think.

     -See there? Nothing to it. He picks up another arrow out of the little stack of identical arrows and nocks it as well. -But you ain't shit until you can shoot a group. He fires and the next one whacks right beside the first, and the third sinks in just under them two. In the rifle business we call that a three shot group and it looks like he's done this before.

     -Not bad.
     -Not bad? It ain't as easy as it looks. You'll see.
     Untold, I set off down the line to retrieve the arrows from the block. Santa's smiling face has three holes in it grouped fairly close together. The arrows are sunk in pretty good so I flip the target on its back and step on it to yank them out. The bow can fling 'em.
     I saunter back to the tailgate and plunk them down in the pick up sticks stack. Brian takes off the release and hands it to me. -Your turn, he says.
     I wrap the velcro strap around my wrist and let it dangle there while I pick up his bow. I'm leaning against the tailgate and slowly choose an arrow and nock it right where the little tab is on the 'string' for the release. Brian starts coaching. -All right, we're twenty yards, so use the top dot. Once you get the peep sight, get it lined up on the top one.
     -the yellow one?
     -I don't know what damn colour it is. It's on top.
     -Gotcha.
     -Now hook the release on--right there--and draw it on back.
     I raise the bow and start my draw. -Whatever you do, don't pull that trigger until you're full draw and ready to shoot, Brian says.
     I pull back on the string and it fucking doesn't budge. I push with my left arm as hard as I can, and pull with my right arm as hard as humanly possible, and I can feel the red-hot start to climb up my neck soon to be wrapping around my entire face. The only thing happening is a whole lot of shaking.
     -Jesus, dude. Brain's not looking down range for my arrow to hit, he's looking square at me now.
     -Hang on, dammit. I rest up a second and then go again. With the grunt and yank, I get the thing, the damn 'string' about halfway back before I give out. -Fuck! What's this thing set at?
     -Sixty pounds or so.
     -Jesus H. Christ, man.
     -Here, look. Do what I did. Point the thing straight up in the air and then just rotate it down. Kinda lock and push away with your left, and kinda pull with your right.
     I shake my head but try it again. I point the thing skyward and say a prayer to the puny arm god. I start the roll down and can hear the grunt and feel the strain from the center of my clenched ass to my locked jaw and all points in between. Now, I feel the cams rotating at the ends of the spars, and I feel the arrow move closer and closer to my chin.
     I see the peep sight twisting its way to my eye and then my elbow cracks! Speaks for the first time with an audible snap. The shock of hearing my elbow's voice and the painful jolt--somehow I touch the trigger off and send a half drawn arrow up and out of sight with a weak twang. My arm's falling to my side and I'm trying to untrundle my arm from this thing, just to set it down.
     -Dude! You're gonna kill one of the Mexicans!
     It's true, the neighbor's across the hay field and pond may not be from around here. I just hope they weren't out in their yard!
     -Holy shit! I laugh. -Did you see where it went?
     -No, Idgit.
     -Fuck that bow, I say smiling, placing the heavy ass thing back on top of its open case.
     -Dude, you better stick with a rifle.Or eat a hamburger.
     I roll my eyes. -You can't shoot a rifle in city limits.
     -Shit, no one'll care around here.
     I start to say, but I don't. -Maybe, I say shrugging.
     I walk around to the passenger side door and pull out my recurve and take my place by Brian on the tailgate again.
     -No, says Brian.
     -Yes. I grab another ten dollar arrow off the stack and nock it in my bow where it looks like it's square to the fuzzy rest. I wrap my three fingertips around a real, honest-to-god bow string and pull the thing back all the way until the string is on my cheek and I can see where the arrow'll go when I let it loose.
    Which I do, and it burrows into and under the fricking sod and grass five yards from the cube.  -Dammit! I say, and grab another arrow.
     This time I walk up a few steps, not quite halving the distance, draw, shoot, and hit Santa's fat, smiling face. -There! Goddamn it!
     -Yeah. Here, Brain says as he tosses me another arrow. I chunk that one just off the paper plate. -Let's get another target. Something bigger!
     -Good idea, I say, playing the straight man.
     -I don't have anymore Santa Clauses.
     -I don't care, all I need is something white.
     -That's good. I got plenty of paper plates. He disappears into house and quickly pops back out with a plate and some duct tape. He pulls the arrows out and pulls Santa off and attaches a bigger, pizza stained paper plate to the cube. -There. Now shoot three.
     I'm already ready with three more arrows. Brian skips past in front of me and, frankly, cowers behind me before I get another arrow nocked up. I ignore the burning in my elbow and slowly shoot one ten-dollar arrow after another into the white plate from about the fifty foot mark where I'd walked up to.
     -What the fuck? It's in your blood.
     -Racist!
     -Don't hate.
     -I have shot this thing before...a basketball here, mailbox there.
     -It's legal. It'll kill a deer.
     -Not bad, eh?
     -Not too shabby. If you can get the deer to stand that close.
     I smile. -Not a problem. All's I need is a good stand.

The White Deer 1

1

     I'm still drunk from last night. I finished my coffee and I'm heading through the kitchen. I said my goodbyes and shook the hands and I am almost there.
     -Hang on, he says, I wanna show you something. 
     I turn around and lean on the cold doorknob--cold 'cause the other half of it is outside where I want to be. He, Cary, is digging in his pocket. His pants are so tight that once his hand is in and down to the faded outline of his iPhone, it's as if he's caught in a Burmese monkey trap.
     -What? I smile while warming the knob.
     The phone pops out and goes right to his face, inches from his face, and he peers at it over his glasses as he swipes at what I reckon are pictures. He stops flicking the screen, looks at his find and grins at me.  
     -Look, he says and points the phone at me. He holds it out in front of me and I let go of my knob.
     If he thinks I can see it, he's sadly mistaken. His arm is meandering slightly and I grab his wrist to stop the sway and look at the little picture, a blurry whitish blob in a sea of green. 
     -What is it?
     -What does it look like?
     I raise my eyebrows and reaching back for my steadying knob I shrug.
     -Hang on, check this out. And he goes back to flicking the screen. -Here, he says finally.
     I just take it out of his hand and hold it and see what he's been trying to show me.
     Centered more or less is an albino deer. Buried in all that summer green is an eight point, albino deer still in velvet. The nubby antlers already showing the promise of greatness.
     -Holy shit. Where'd you see him?
     -Right out back.
     -Here? When?
     -Last summer. Cary's smiling now. He's looking at me over his glasses now.
     -That's a hell of a deer. I start jabbing at the screen myself and it all goes away.
     -Is it? he asks taking the phone from me.
     Now I'm smiling. -Season's over now, man. Should've shown me that three weeks ago. Have you seen him lately?
     -Few days ago. He was out--
     -Did he have his full rack? I asked, holding my hands up, thumbs to my skull, fingers spread in the international sign of antlers -I mean, is he worth poaching? Damn, dude, he's worth trying.
     -You can't shoot him, man.
     -Not legally, naw, not now, but we can--
     -No, you can't shoot him. My kids love him.
     -Are you kidding me?
     -No, they love him. Cary starts stuffing the phone back down into his pocket. It slides in and he does a move, a leg thing, to shake it back down to the outline. -I knew I shouldn't have shown you.
     -yeah, you should've shown me when he was still in season. He's the trophy of a lifetime!
     -But you're not a trophy hunter you said.
     Me and Cary look over to the kitchen table at his girlfriend who's sitting behind her laptop, ignoring the last coveted cup of coffee from the pot. 
     -That's right isn't it? she asks.
     I step away from the door. -Well yeah, but this, I say pointing at Cary's crotch -this is the trophy of a lifetime!
     -Well what about, You can't eat antlers? and, It's disrespectful to the spirit of the deer. DEER. she says throwing finger quotes.
     -That's what hunters say to people who don't hunt! People who drive Volvos and went to Chapel Hill. People who ain't got guns. But that bad boy. again with a crotch wag -he's worth a fortune.
      -But he's practically a pet. Cary's kids love him, and I like to see him when I see him.
      -Yeah. Cary says from the kitchen. -I shouldn't have told you.
      I say to them both, -Sure, I get it. He's your little woodland buddy, your pet. But he's gonna get shot, the temptation's too much. Somebody'll--
      -He can't get shot, we live in the city.
      I open my mouth to say something, but I stop myself. -Well, he's got that going for him don't he? I step over to the table and sit down with Cary's girlfriend. -When's the last time you saw him? This winter?
      -Oh, I don't know when. A few weeks ago. It was one morning on my way to my car. Just before--
      -Was he huge? Was he full on, eight shiny white points of sexy mo-fo?
      -Um, how's that?
      -Was he everything that picture of him from last summer promised he'd be?
      She looks up from the screen at me. -I think he was pretty...
      I'm waiting for her to finish, but she already is.
      I get to my feet, and lean over onto the table. -Well, y'all got a hell of a pet I hafta say.
      Cary steps up behind me and very lightly touches my elbow. -Promise you won't shoot him.
      Laughing I say -I can't, man. The season's over! Besides, you live in the city remember? I stand and look him in the eye. -Anyway, I gotta get. Thanks again. I beeline for the door again, and wrap my hand around the knob. Twisting and yanking as hard as it takes for the vintage door to open, I get the rush of cold, dry air that feels like a hangover cure and a slap all at the same time.
      -Well, thanks for the bed, and the party, I say over my shoulder. -Or the party and the bed. Had a good time!
      Cary holds a hand up and waves. His girlfriend looks up again at me as I back down the stairs shutting the door. She smiles?
      The door gets shut and outside, at last, I crunch through the gravel towards my truck. I'm smiling 'cause I'm still drunk. I'm smiling cause I can feel a plan gurgling around.
     

Fatty Catty: The Start of a Good.. or bad thing

Someone else around here started a blog. I hope she sticks with it. I mean, when's the last time you saw one of her movies?


Fatty Catty: The Start of a Good.. or bad thing: Okay, so this is the sweet wittle start of my blog. Yes, it feels quite weird typing to the world BUT-........ well... i don't really know...