Voilà une dizaine de jours que je rédigeais un article inhérent à une requête simple: la mise à disposition de conteneurs et bacs poubelle.

Le message est visiblement très bien passé puisque depuis hier, c’est chose faite à proximité de mon immeuble d’habitation.

Et pour l’occasion, ils n’y sont pas allés de main morte, pas moins de 4 gros conteneurs poubelle qui arrivent d’un coup d’un seul, à point nommé. Les riverains ne sont pas habitués à cela, car évidemment ils n’en ont jamais eu à disposition! Ils n’auront que l’embarras du choix, quel conteneur pourront-ils bien choisir pour déposer leurs déchets n’est-ce-pas?

Mais en tout cas, je m’en réjouis pleinement et c’était là tout le sens de ma requête, c’est plus de propreté dans les rues de notre ville et plus de responsabilisation des habitants, les invitant à non plus déposer leurs sacs poubelle sur les trottoirs mais dans les conteneurs prévus à cet effet.

Serge Pugeault se vante constamment de la rapidité de la majorité municipale à entamer la réfection de la Halle du Boulingrin, alors que par le passé ce dossier paraissait au ralenti.

C’est clairement de la mauvaise foi car si Adeline Hazan et son équipe ont eu la possibilité de lancer aussi vite ce dossier, c’est grâce aux travaux d’études réalisés par l’équipe précédente. Il serait bon qu’ils ne l’omettent pas!

M. Pugeault met en cause la lenteur du déblocage de l’aide de l’Etat à la réfection qui était bloquée depuis 1996…C’est aussi objectivement l’une des causes du non avancement du dossier par le passé !

Surtout, c’est la preuve que gouvernements de gauche comme de droite n’avaient pas rempli cet engagement, alors même que Serge Pugeault se répand partout en affirmant que l’enveloppe accordée dans le cadre du plan de relance n’est que le rattrappage de cette promesse non tenue.

Enfin et c’est important de le souligner, c’est Jack Lang qui a classé ce bâtiment pour des raisons politiciennes en 1985, alors que sa qualité architecturale est très largement décriée.

M. Pugeault a la mémoire bien courte et une lecture partiale et partielle de ce dossier, il n’a même pas le souci de la cohérence dans les propos qu’il tient, trop occupé à politiser à outrance et à vouloir discréditer l’Etat et l’Exécutif…

Goodbye to Jeanne-Claude, artist, muse and partner of the artist Christo.  I was lucky enough to work at The Gates Project when they created their fabulous site-specific work of art in 2005. The artists installed 7,503 vinyl “gates” along 23 miles of pathways in Central Park. From each gate hung a panel of deep saffron-colored nylon fabric. The exhibit ran from February 12, 2005 through February 27, 2005.  Even though the exhibit officially ran for two weeks the installation and deinstallation of the project stretched out this work for almost two months.  I believe this community work of art, was the beginning of the recovery of our wounded City from the devastation of 9/11.

As a Gate Watcher, I held a long pole with a tennis ball on the end of it so that I could unfurl the saffron curtains if the wind wrapped them around their stanchions.  I had the good fortune of speaking to thousands upon thousands of visitors from all around the world about the project, about New York City, about life, art and politics for two weeks. It was an experience I will never forget.  Most of you on this list came to visit me at my post to share the experience.

The knitted orange Gates scarf you see in my photo was created by a friend – Jennifer – who was inspired by the work of Jean-Claude and Christo.

Every morning that we worked we would meet Jeanne-Claude and Christo at the Boat House for breakfast where they would talk to us, both individually and as a group. They also were generous enough to take the time to sign our souvenir posters, books or whatever – every Friday afternoon – with their signature orange crayons.  I have my signed posters proudly hanging in my living room.  Rest in peace, dear Jeanne -Claude.

Találtam a céges gépemen hülye, vicces képeket. Kénytelen vagyok elhelyezni viszonylag biztonságos helyre ezeket a képeket. Tudom, hogy orrvérzésig lehetne találni olyan oldalakat, ahol fárasztóbbnál fárasztóbb szórakoztató képeket, videókat, animációkat, írásokat lehet találni de nekem ezek kellenek. Valószínűleg bővíteni fogom a listát. Ha valamelyik kép nem ‘mozog’ klikkelj rá, utána láthatod az összes képkockát.

star wars soldier

parallel universes

ryan közlegény megmentése

shake your ass baby

matrix paródia

f.ck yeah

pickaboo

push the button

hello michael

cutie

team america

jean claude van damme

La sua biografia è scritta sul suo corpo. Le cicatrici e le ustioni che ha riportato negli scontri con le creature sovrannaturali testimoniano una vita vissuta in prima linea.

A otto anni le muore la madre. Il padre, un veterinario, si risposa con Judith, una donna con la quale Anita non riuscirà mai ad andare d’accordo. Dal nuovo matrimonio del padre, Anita, “eredita” anche un fratellastro, Josh, e una sorellastra Andria. Fin da piccola riesce a vedere i fantasmi, ma solo a 11 anni scopre il suo potere. Lei è in grado di risvegliare i morti. A tredici anni involontariamente rianima il cadavere del suo cane: Jenny.

L’unica persona in grado di capire Anita e il suo potere è sua nonna Flores, sacerdotessa vudù, che gli insegna a gestire il suo potere anche se poi la mette in guardia scoraggiandola a venire a contatto con i riti vudù che potrebbero compromettere l’integrità della sua anima.

Pur essendo molto cattolica ha deciso di diventare episcopale dopo che il Papa ha scomunicato tutti i Risveglianti.

Il primo fidanzato Anita lo ha al college. Il rapporto finisce quando la famiglia di lui scopre che la madre di Anita era messicana. Ferita da questa esperienza, per anni, Anita rifiuta di impegnarsi in qualsiasi altra relazione. Così finiti gli studi ed essendosi laureata in biologia soprannaturale viene assunta, come risvegliante, da Bert Voughn, presidente della Animators Inc.

Qui conosce Manny Rodriguez, un altro dipendente della Animators Inc. che l’inizierà nella pratica del risveglio degli zombie e nella caccia ai vampiri.

Anche squadra investigativa per i crimini sovrannaturali della polizia locale la contatta e le offre un posto come consulente. Qui conosce il Sergente Rudolph Storr e il Detective Zerbrowski.

Proprio durante una di queste indagini Anita incontra Jean Claude un vampiro destinato a diventare il Master di Saint Louis. Jean-Claude non è l’unico amante di Anita. Libro dopo libro la storia sentimentale della protagonista si complica tessendo una storia parallela a quella dell’investigazione e della lotta contro gli esseri sovrannaturali che via via incontra nel corso della saga. Tra i suoi amanti più importanti troviamo Richard Zeeman, professore di scienze alla scuola media Seekman e licantropo, lo spogliarellista Nathaniel Graison, il vampiro Asher, amico e componente del clan di Jean-Claude.

Inizialmente abita in un appartamento, poi è costretta a trasferirsi per paura che qualcuno dei suoi vicini possa restare coinvolto in “qualche incidente sovrannaturale”. Decide così di trasferirsi in una villetta isolata.

Anita ha un carattere forte e mascolino, gira per la città sempre armata e quando è costretta a lasciare le sue armi si sente debole e insicura. Si allena tutti i giorni insieme alla sua amica Ronnie Sims per essere sempre in grado di fuggire dai nemici. Ha un fisico snello e allenato anche se è alta meno di 1,60. Per i vampiri lei è la “Sterminatrice” avendo al suo attivo più di 100 esecuzioni. Solo Jean-Claude la chiama “Ma petite”, soprannome che inizialmente

Tra le sue passioni vi è quella di collezionare pinguini, per questo motivo ha la casa invasa dai peluches. Il suo preferito è Sigmund.

Happy Halloween, everyone. Like I’ve said, not a big fan of Halloween. Much bigger fan of the candy.

Speaking of candy… I’ve been getting a lot of questions about a comment on one of my phone-to-blog posts. My daughter, Trina commented and asked who got what at the salon. Everyone wants to know about Jean-Claude and who “Cat Cat” is. First, Jean-Claude and my engagement is back on. We’ve been together again for about a week and a half. “Cat Cat” is what Trina and most of my kids call Catahecassa. We started dating just after Jean-Claude and I did. This December I will be marrying them both.

For all of you who think that Emmett and I are over… we will all be married on that day. Say about it what you will.

To see larger photos click here.

Emmett

Jean-Claude

Catahecassa

Well today on FilmWipe365 we’re going to do something a little different.  We are going to celebrate the worst that cinema has to offer.  Instead of reeling of bad performances from the archives we will keep it nice and fresh focusing only on the actors who have been awful in the last 10 years.  This list is purely subjective but is backed up by anyone who has watched their horrible films.

Keanu Reeves

Does his name really surprise anyone?  The creepiest man in Hollywood deserves the rating that we have given him.  His performance have been terrible in hundreds of films.   Apart from the original Matrix (he has stolen the character of Neo and played him in every  role since) he has not been good in any film.  The man who makes the word versatility seem like the hardest one in the English language.  It is not hard Keanu.  Happy = Smiley face.  Sad = Unahppy face.  Many directors have seen carefully scripted characters turn into monosyllabic depressives who only wear black and look continually like they are going to kill themselves.    Neo in the Matrix, Donnie Barksdale in The Gift, Bob Arcter in A Scanner Darkly and Alex Wyler The Lake House are examples of how he is the same character in every film.  I had hoped his career would have finished after the Matrix and he would have disappeared without a trace.  However, instead he has reappeared time and again looking more and more depressed.  Think of us Keanu.  We are depressed as well.  Watching you makes sticking rusty nails into my eyes seem like a barrel of laughs.

Sandra Bullock

I won’t say too much about Sandra because she tries, and she is in my guilty pleasure film.  For those two  reasons she deserve to be mentioned but not assassinated.  However, she is another performer who plays the same role time and again.  Apart from Crash, which for all of its excellent reviews I am not a fan of the film or her performance, Bullock plays the same quirky and supposedly adorable female character in every film.  From Miss Congeniality to Two Weeks Notice she is a variation of the same character.  Unfortunately as she ages the character becomes less and less believable as you’re thinking she should be developing now.  Yet she is playing the same role she played 15 years ago.  She is talented but has created the flickchick versions of Van Damme straight to DVD classics.  The only difference being is her’s get released in the cinema.

Kira Kngihtley

She is the worst actor i have ever had the misfortune to watch.  Anyone who has seen Pirates of the Caribbean 3 will remember her infamous fit on the beach.  It is awful.  It is the worst scene in movie history.  Gore Verbinski (the films director) must have been physically restrained from trying to kill himself when he saw that on his monitor.  After he was drugged and the scene edited into the final version he must have been pained to see her performance in The Duchess which surely led to another suicide attempt.  Hollywood studios must be hoping for world wide Harikari as she is rumoured to be in the forthcoming My Fair Lady remake. This is such a grave prospect cinemas will be providing free medical care as well as 3d glasses for anyone who enters the cinema.  Apart from Joe Wrights Atonement (and I think we can thank Mr Wright for getting blood from a stone when he got a decent performance out of her) she has been awful in everything.  Her career is like a box of rotten apples that went out of date 5 years ago.

Orlando Bloom

This is a tricky one.  He can’t act.  But he is likeable.  His performances make pinocchio seem like he was a real boy all along.  Forgetting Pirates of the Caribbean which he is terrible in.  He has been ok in several films.  But he is just a bit dull.  Elizabethtown is case in point.  He tries so hard to make it work.  But you sit there thinking “This is Orlando Bloom pretending to have feelings and be American”.  I can tell you now he fails in both.  Even though this is true I don’t hate him as an actor.  But he isn’t good.  I think he needs to get his teeth stuck into some stage work to really up his skills.  Appearing in such large franchise films has blunted his talent and has left an actor as useful as a wet leaf.

Ben Barnes

Followers of FilmWipe365 will know Ben Barnes’ crimes to acting well by now.    He is the Daily Sport of actors.  Cheap and shallow.  He has no depth.  Emotions are a concept he looked at briefly and then decided he would be better placed brooding through films.  While this might work when your in your 20s it will not in your 40s.  Youth is on his side.  Instead of developing his meagre talents he took cash and went for it.  Hopefully he will be dropped from all future films and then pushed off Brighton Pier never to be seen again.

Are you ready? Yesterday many readers will have felt that their soul had been dirtied by my review of the guilt pleasure classic Forces of Nature.  Well today i am going to go one worst than that and review a Jean Claude Van Damme film.  Admittedly I am reviewing his only socially acceptable film JCVD but I still feel a little dirty in doing so.  Before i begin i would like to clarify a couple of things.  Firstly, even though this film is acceptable, it in no way exhonerates Mr Van Damme for his crimes to cinema. In fact he deserves a whole wing in Guantanamo Bay where he can be tortured repeatedly for 30 years for what he has done.  Secondly, one good film does not = a good actor.  Those who believed that his performance was oscar worthy (such as Time Magazine) are severely exaggerating how good a performance this was.  When compared to his other work the film is like watching Usain Bolt instead of Rick Waller in the 100 meters.  However, one good performance rarely equals an Oscar and certainly does not mean your a great actor. With those points clarified we shall begin.

JCVD follows Mr Van Damme, a washed up out of work former star returning to his home Brussels.  After being adored by every person he meets, Van Damme goes to the post office to temporarily solve his financial problems.  While in the post office he finds himself caught up in a hostage situation.  The police believe he is a conspirator; in fact he is actually working to help save the hostages.

The description makes the film sound like a watered down typical piece of Van Damme rubbish.  However the film is very different from anything he has made before.  The film has all the qualities of a high value European art film.  The production values are very high (a rarity in Van Damme’s career).  When the film is in French it does not look as though they are speaking some highly developed alien language where your mouth moves and then words come out 20 seconds later.  The characters actually have a depth and are not just superficial dolls repeating lines when a string with cash at the end is pulled.

Rightfully the plaudits have focus on Mr Van Damme. He adds depth to a character you would never have believed he could do.  Inevitably the character is a reflection of himself.  You can’t help but believe that he is heavily drawing on the lows of his own career and the frustration and emotion associated with that.  You also get the indications that his mental health problems allowed him to flesh out the confusion exhibited periodically.  There is little to fault with his performance.  It is delightfully different, exciting exhilarating but a little surreal.  There is a real sense that he is searching for legitimacy and respect.  Understandable emotions to feel.  But the film does descend into moments where you sense this is purely to exhibit the actor he could have been rather than the character he is in the film.

Director Mabrouk El Mechri is the man who deserves greater adulation than the film’s star.  His expert direction is what makes Van Damme look as good as he does.  The cinematography is exquisite giving a film a real and yet strangely modern feel.  Excellent directorial touches such as the way the film cuts into the story from different angles adds something different and innovative.  Possibly his finest achievement is the fact that he makes you believe that this is perfectly real.  You leave the cinema questioning which Hollywood actor could become embroiled in a similar drama because of the choices they have made in the career.

Overall this is delightful film and is one of the most unusual films you are likely to see on DVD.  Van Damme is good but he is playing himself at his worst.  He is not creating a character.  He is the character. Director Mabrouk El Mechri is a huge talent.  His career deserves to fly after this.  My only word of warning is be prepared for the odd moment of show boating.  The film is about and stars a man whose career has been horrible.  This is his redemption and he certainly makes sure you know it.

Overall – 7/10 Slick

Kentucky is a land with two faces. It seems one faces West, and the other East. In the West, I’ve found Violet: a pastor’s wife, a mother, smiling and in love with God. Her face is gracious, happy, generous. In the East, I’ve found bulldogs, rottweilers, and German shepherds. Violet bares food. The dogs bare teeth. I’ve experienced the depths of Southern Hospitality, and been chased down the street by dogs eager to chew my ankles. What a strange contradiction. What an odd pair.

What an exceptional place.

Kentucky is a gem. There is no other way of describing this land. It is so green. So green. The colors easily rival the forests of Washington. From the slow, winding rivers, carving a wet path through the hills, to the quiet forests spilling over with life: I can’t count the deer I’ve seen, the birds I wake to every morning, the white noise of crickets as the sun dies.

But I should pick up the story in Marion, Kentucky, at the library.

I was typing away, my fingers buzzing over the keyboard, when Morgan Lynn walked up to me. She stands out. For one, she is young, and for another, she is beautiful. In a library filled with children and older adults, I felt lucky. Of course, I looked like an oddball in my cycling clothes.

“Do you have a place to stay?”

That’s music to a cyclist’s ear.

But I had a dilemma. I’d only been on the bike for twelve miles. I need to make more miles! Lately, I’ve felt an itch to see the Atlantic, and be off the saddle. My fingers are numb from holding the handlebars. It’s a crazy itch, and only making miles can scratch it.

I could push on another sixty miles. Or, I could stop here, twelve miles into my day, and get to know Marion, and get to know a new friend.

I stayed. Surprised?

I finished writing. I made myself a peanut butter honey sandwich. Morgan had lunch with her godmother. I met up with her, filled out some postcards, and we talked about Morocco, Peace Corps and Nest. Turns out, Morgan knows a woman finishing up a tour in Morocco. Her friend’s work has focused on empowering women and boosting the economy through micro loans. She is also personal friends with the British Ambassador to Morocco.

Yes, I’m in Marion, Kentucky, and I just met a woman who knows the British Ambassador to Morocco.

I was blown away.

Morgan wants to do an internship in the American Embassy in Morocco this spring. So I may have a friend in the embassy.

We went and met her Dad, who owns Lynn Auto Sales. His shop is the local hangout. The guys go down, sit around the office and shoot the shit. Morgan said that Lynn Auto Sales is where the big names go when they visit town. When Senator Mitch McConnell came to Marion, they held the meeting at Lynn Auto Sales. Alan, her father, has a barbecue grill out back that’s as big as an SUV. He claims to make the best barbecue, ever. I didn’t have a chance to eat a rack of ribs while I was in town, so I’ll have to come back to Marion and give it a try.

So, I stayed the night.

Morgan and I spent the afternoon talking at her house, which is on the highest point in Western Kentucky. From her porch, you can survey the land below: the small city, the farms stretching out toward the horizon, the rolling hills and swaths of forest.

I met Winston, Morgan’s big chubby bull dog. He doesn’t move fast, or much, but he’s got wrinkles like no dog I’ve ever met. And to Morgan, those wrinkles are just adorable. I am not a fan of wrinky dogs, but even I had to admit he had a charm. Something about how he snorted with each breath. I don’t know.

We talked about our dreams, what we want to do with our lives, how we want to be of service, how we want to be part of creating a better world. It’d been a while since I’d talked to someone like those dreams. I felt really good.

Alan came home from work. He and I talked. He reminded me of my dad, in some ways: a Southerner with a big heart and a work ethic. He has an interest in politics, so he and I got along really well. We totally disagreed with each other, but there was a deeper connection. We liked each other. We respected each other. It’s silly how easily a disagreement of opinion can be forgotten. I think we both recognized a character in each other: that we care about people.

We drove to her godparent’s house, which, I must say, was stunning. Morgan’s godmother Caroline has had the farm in her family for years and years. When she married Jean Claude, Morgan’s godfather, they did an expansion of the house. It’s a beautiful house, perfect for a big dinner party, guests galore and live music. We sat down to a roast beef dinner, which was an incredible feast! It felt like Thanksgiving, and tasted just as good.

People in Kentucky love gravy. Biscuits and gravy. Gravy on meat and spuds. I like it.

We talked round and round about my trip, about politics, and family. We all ended up stuffed pigs, and there was plenty of food left on the table. Jean Claude, Alan and I went to sit outside. Jean Claude smoked a cigar. We watched the dogs, and conversation spun off into the warm night air. All of us were a few drinks into the evening. Alan was falling asleep in his chair. So, we said our goodbyes and we went home. I slept like a rock.

I woke to what I thought was an empty house. Alan, the early riser, was gone. I realized Morgan, who claimed to be an early riser, was snoozing late. I sat on the porch and watched wild turkeys waddle through the yard. Winston helped keep an eye on them.

When Morgan got up, we talked some more. Then I decided to hit the road, and make some miles.

My destination: Sebree, Kentucky.

The sky was cast in heavy clouds, and the air was thick and warm. I was happy to be riding. Grinning in fact. The hills were usually somewhere between steep and insane, which made for a fun ride mashing my granny gears.

I got caught in a downpour in the late afternoon. I booked it under a big maple tree, and gave the parents a call. We talked for a good hour. Toward the tail end, my dad said, “It must have stopped raining. When you called, the rain was a background roar. I can’t hear it anymore.”

He was right. The rain here in Kentucky is different from Washington. Instead of hanging overhead all day, spitting a drizzle, the rain comes and goes. When it comes, it’s hard to do much else but sit it out. When its gone, the land smells fresh, clean and alive.

Sebree is a little town with a big heart, and a love for cyclists. It’s all Violet’s fault.

At the edge of town, a truck stopped and rolled the window down. The man inside said, “Do you have a place to stay?” I said, “Not yet.”

“Well, go up the hill, around the corner and look for the First Baptist Church. Pull in and go see Violet. She’ll get you a shower, a dry place to sleep and a big meal to fill you up.”

So off I went, up the hill, around the corner and into the Church, which is, to say the least, large. In Kentucky, Church is the center of many people’s lives. You can tell in the size of the buildings. The biggest buildings in town are always Churches, and they are beautiful brick monuments, with stained glass, pillars and giant wood doors. To say they are a dime a dozen is an exagerration, but even the smallest of small towns has two churches, or three or four. Sebree, a town of twelve hundred people, has twelve Churches. It’s really cool to see. I think my hometown of Bainbridge Island had about that many Churches for twenty thousand people.

I walked up to Violet’s open kitchen door and knocked on the screen. She came and immediately invited me inside. “Do you want something to drink, a coke maybe?” I said yes. We sat down at her kitchen table, where she told me her story, and I told her mine. She’s fed over 200 cyclists at that table this summer, and a countless number over the thirty years she and her husband Bob have been at the Church. She gets a thrill out of it, in part because it’s a chance to minister, and just to hear the stories and share the cyclist’s crazy energy.

She showed me the Church, and the hostle, which is also the youth room. There are pool tables, ping pong and some little foosball tables. And showers. And couches and a giant kitchen fit to feed an army. I bee-lined it into the shower and then, refreshed, went back up to Violet’s for dinner.

She said dinner was leftovers. It tasted so good, I had my doubts. Her husband Bob wasn’t home yet. And a storm was threatening. He had been out on a fourwheeler, and I could tell she was worried. But she kept it to herself. He came in eventually, just as Violet was serving some lemon pie and ice cream. We introduced and he sat down to join the conversation. We talked a while. I downed the pie with lightening speed.

Then it was off to an early snooze.

I ended up staying an extra day in Sebree. For a couple reasons. The next morning was Sunday, and I’d never been to a Baptist mass. So, I stuck around for morning Bible study and Bob’s sermon on being god’s willing worker. Their was a low turnout, because of labor day, but I had plenty of people to chat it up with. Bob took me around to meet everyone, and people were gracious and curious. I felt welcome. I didn’t understand everything, but at one point during Bob’s sermon I whispered to Violet that I could tell we stood on the same rock.

I could tell she wanted me to become a Christian. She was praying for me to. Toward the end of the sermon, Bob made an invitation to anyone who wanted to come up and profess their love for God and become a Christian. He didn’t look at me, but I knew he meant me. I stayed in the pew, watching, curious, taking it in.

Afterward, Violet slipped back to the house. “Come as soon as you can, and we’ll eat.” It took me longer. People wanted to talk, and I love to entertain. I did eventually make it to her table, where I met Michael, and two big guys who had the same name. I’ve forgotten it though. Michael was another cyclist, heading to New Orleans, his home. He’d been gone since February, riding 10,000 miles. The conversation drifted around, as did the piles of delicious tropical chicken salad, cheese, crackers and veggies. We talked a lot about hunting. And my sweet tea kept disappearing. And more desert. The rest of the lemon pie did a disappearing act of its own.

As lunch wound down, Michael and I bid our farewells and went back to the youth room. I wanted to get going, so I started packing up. But something held me in place. I just wasn’t amped to ride. I was tired. The sky was a heavy blanket of gray clouds, looming and full of rain. And the air was thick and hot. The air conditioned Church felt so nice, and Michael was my excuse for staying. He’s a character, to say the least.

Alcohol was at the front of his mind, like God was at the front of Violets. It seemed every other sentence was about this cheap beer or that fine bourbon or how this county was dry as a bone but the county after that was wet, but the stores were all closed. He was thirsty. I didn’t envy him in the least. It’s hard to find liqiour in Kentucky, even though they make a crazy amount of bourbon. I just never looked for any. It’s hard to cycle with a hangover, and it certainly robs it of some of the fun. While Michael cycles, he drinks, smokes cigarettes, “and if I could figure out how to rig a bong to my bike, I’d be sucking on that too!”

How? I have no clue, and I don’t want to find out.

I’ve never met a cyclist like Michael before. He’s well educated, by his own admition. He’s built more cars than I can shake a stick at, worked as an illustrator for magazines, and is preparing to write a book about his adventures riding 10,000 miles around the US.

To say the least, I was curious about the guy. We went and had thick milk shakes at the Dari-Bar, which was the only place in town open on a Sunday, besides the pizza place. I cooked pasta and threw some slices of cheese on top. We called it dinner, but really it was just a fill up. The kitchen was big, but we found the pantry pretty bare of ingredients. But, so it goes!

The next morning, I got an early start in the wrong direction. About five miles outside of town, I realized I was heading north instead of east. I turned around, and called it my morning stretch session. When I pulled onto the right road, I started making some good miles.

In Utica, a little town thirty miles east of Sebree, I stopped and had one of the best bbq sandwiches of my life. The price? $2.00. And I bought it in a country store that had been continueously operating for generations. The building was ancient. No indoor plumbing, except a sink.

I stopped at a fire station ten miles outside of Uitca to use the bathroom, where I met Chief Mark Luckett. He was having lunch, and we ended up talking for twenty minutes about my ride, and about his station. He warned me about the drivers, as any good fireman would do, and told me about how he built the original fire truck by hand with three other men in the 1970’s. He was standing in front of his new fire truck, which he got for free because of a grant. He wished me well in my travels, and I was off into the afternoon sun.

The end of the day brought me to Falls of Rough, a state park created after the damming of the Rough River created a giant reservoir. I didn’t end up having to pay the fee for the site, because no one was at the booth when I arrived in the evening, and no one was there when I left in the morning. I slept hard.

The next morning, I got a very late start. I peeked outside my tent, but couldn’t see a thing through the thick, gray fog. It was too heavy to ride, so I slept long.

After eating breakfast at a greasy spoon not five hundred yards up the road, I got on my way. An hour into my ride, I met Leo Fraser, a fellow cyclist riding a silver Nishiki, pulling a trailer. He is headed West, to Portland, Oregon. And he is late. But he didn’t seem deterred. He told me of his travels, and how it’d taken him a month to go 900 miles. His first bike had totally broken down, and this was his second. A kind bike shop owner had sold it to him. The bike had already seen the TransAm trail once before, he said, and now it would see it again.

I warned him he was late, as almost everyone else probably has. He said he would go South, or hitch a ride over the Rockies. I hope he does okay. It can get aweful cold in the mountains in August. I wished him all the best.

Just outside of Sonora, Kentucky, I stumbled into fresh bell peppers, a huge loaf of homemade bread, and wild blackberry jam. My first hint was a sign: “Fresh Vegetables” outside a down to earth farm. I’d just waved to a man in a collared shirt plowing his field with horses. I was curious, to say the least, and hungry. Of course, I’m always hungry.

I pulled into the farm house yard, and parked the bike. I heard someone behind me and turned around to see a woman in a bonnet and full length skirt. Her little daughter, who couldn’t have been more than four, wore the same clothes, in the same style. My guess is the clothes were homemade, so I knew the veggies would be homegrown. My best guess is that a congregation of Menonites call this part of Central Kentucky home.

She took me to the porch, where piles of green beans, peppers, onions and potatoes greeted my feasting eyes. I took a huge pile of beans and three peppers. I’d never bought green beans before, and I thought I could eat them raw. My mistake. I discovered later that to make them edible, they have to be boiled for two hours. Not an option. So I gave them away. The peppers were delicious, covered in peanut butter and honey.

I asked where I could find some bread. She pointed to the house I’d just passed. I rode up the dirt drive and parked in front of the house. An old couple came out on the porch. The man introduced himself as Joe Yoeder. I asked about bread, and he called a young woman who was working in the yard. She went inside and got me a loaf the size of a watermelon. Then Joe said he had homemade perserves. Homegrown strawberry or wild blackberry. I chose my favorite.

My day made, I pushed on into Sonora, where I stopped to rest and get more groceries. From Sonora, I turned South toward Mammoth Cave National Park. I got turned around not five miles out of Sonora. I’d missed a turn and took a few back roads to get on route. Along the way, I passed three horse drawn carriages.

I didn’t make it to Mammoth Cave. I stumbled into a little slice of heaven, that held me up: Round Stone Native Seed. It’s the Seymore family farm. John took over from his father. For years, they grew tabacco and corn, just like every other farmer in Kentucky. Then, John’s father-in-law turned him onto a new market: harvesting native seed. The father-in-law was on the board of the Kentucky Nature Conservancy. They needed native seed for their work. The demand was there, the supply was nonexistant.

So John jumped at the chance to do something new.

“I spent five years just saving seed, and I didn’t make a dime. That was ten years ago. In the last three years, we’ve quadrupled in size. I’ve got thirteen men working for me, and business is growing.”

“And I feel good about what I’m doing. When you grow tabacco, you know in your heart you’re hurting people. Now, I know I’m doing good.”

The farm is tucked back into a little valley. They grow trees, grasses and flowers. They mill their own wood, but their main business is harvesting seed.

The place is ripe with life. Each turn of the head brings another vista, another grove of trees, another scratch of life. A red beetle marching across the porch, the hum of crickets, the darting flight of grey bats feeding as the sun sinks, and the sky grows heavy with black. The dog asleep on the porch.

The Seymores live at the top of a hill, overlooking the farm. I pedaled to the top, only to find an empty house. I turned around to leave, but luck was with me: an SUV pulled into the drive. A woman rolled her window down. I asked to camp in her yard. She sent me up to a flat patch of grass, further up the hill. A few minutes later, she came out with her two children to invite me to share dinner and take a shower. I was plowing through an apple, relishing the incredible scene: the sun was plowing into the trees on the far ridge, crickets were buzzing up a storm, and the colors all around me were green, orange and brown.

Before we got in the house, I introduced myself. “I’m Leslie Seymore, and this is Carlie and Carson. My husband’s name is John. He’ll be home in a few minutes, he’s just finishing up down the hill.”

When John got home, we sat down to grilled chicken, rice and pasta. The food disappeared quick. The counter clear, John asked, “Do you want to go see the grey bats?”

“The bats?”

“Yeah, we’ve got over a mile of cave here on the farm, and the grey bats come every late summer to have their babies and feed. They’re leaving now, to start eating.”

We hop in his truck, and we blast down the hill to the farm. John pulls off into the grass. He points up into the orange colored sky. “See the bats?”

I stick my head out the window. We park beneath a tree, and John climbs in the back. We sit on his pickup, watching bats stream out of the trees in wave after wave.

“We’ve got about 30,000 bats living here, and each one eats 3,000 insects a night.” For a bat smaller than my palm, that’s a feast.

The bats twist in the air, darting after bugs. They dive and soar, a few coming within feet of our heads. John doesn’t flintch, so I try nt to either. He trusts the bats to carve a path around him.

For a split moment, I cath the sharp outline of a bat, the curve of skin stretched over bone, then gone in a burst of wingbeats, out into the night.

“Lets go to the cave.” We hop back in the truck, and minutes later get out. He hands me a flashlight. “Keep it pointed to the ground, or off.” We walk into the trees, down into a little rift. Then a blast of cool air hits my face. The cave. We pause and watch the bats stream out. It’s hard to see them in the dim light. We move in, kneeling our heads. Thirty feet in, we pause and kneel.

“Listen, you can hear them.”

I can hear water making music with limestone. Then, faint, I hear the little blasts, the voices of bats, little shrieks that map the room. Bats flow in a stream around us. I turn back toward the entrance. Pale blue light shines into the black cave. We’re in the black. And it’s uttery gorgeous.

On the way back to the truck, he points to a little tree. “That’s my redwood. When we visited California, I got the seedling and planted it here.” Some of the needles were brown. The seedling was out of place, but struggling none the less for a chance at life.

We pushed onto the backroads. We toured the grass, windows down. “Smell the honey? It’s the grass.”

Pulling into one of his far fields, he asks, “Have you heard of switchgrass? We let the grass die, then we harvest and sell it to the power companies. They burn it instead of coal, and get carbon credits. It burns much cleaner, and we harvest every year.”

No mine. Less pollution. Locally grown. I like this recipe, and so does he.

“I want to show you the barn.”

“I don’t buy new machines. I buy old and used and rebuild them, fix them up. Then I know how they work. It’s better that way. The barn is filled with old machines, made to do the work of today. “They work just great. They’ve taken some new parts, but mostly these are the originals.

His is a factory of grass, wood and recycled steel. You can tell he loves it — it’s painted in the depth of thought put into every detail. He has machines to sort seed, to cut out the weeds, and clean the seeds. At the end, a river of soft, milled seed is sorted by weight to determine quality.

Then there is the grass gone wild, and left wild in front of his parent’s house. “Makes a great place for deer to bed in.”

“My dad bought this land for the wildlife, to be close to the deer, rabbits and bats.”

“You should be proud,” I said.

“No, I’m just thankful. The Lord put the grass there, I’m just the man who harvests.”

. . .

I slept on the porch. I wanted to hear the crickets, and the bats. I slept well. In the morning, I caught John before he left for work. Then Leslie followed soon after, with the kids in tow. Off to school. I was last to leave. I gave the dog an ear rub and was off, flying down the hill, then climbing, slowly, up the next.

Later that morning, I found Mammoth Cave. I took the two hour historical tour, which was the longest one I could find. It was funny listening to the Park Rangers repeat, again and again, that “This is a hike, not a stroll, not a walk but a hike! We do not want to carry you out of the cave! If something happens, that’s the only way out! So mind your feet.”

My tour was big, to say the least: over a hundred people, and nearly a third of them were from India. All of them were women, too, and they giggled up a storm as we desecended the stairs.

The caves are mind blowing. Just utterly mind blowing. The land around the entrance doesn’t look out of the ordinary. Vibrant, lush green. Trees. Sunlight. Then, the land sinks. Stairs lead into the earth, into the black.

The first few miles of caves were used in the War of 1812 to mine for a critical ingriedient in gunpowder. Slaves brought the cave dirt to these giant boxes, where they ran water through the boxes. Then they pumped the water out of the cave, where they boiled it off to collect the crystals left behind. The boxes and wooden pipes are still in the caves.

Later, the caves were used for tourism. Graffiti is everywhere during the first few miles. People have scrawled their names on the rocks, using knives and smoke from lamps.

Fat Man’s Misery was the experience of a lifetime. It’s the tightest spot in the tour. I had to bend down and squeeze through a tiny little tunnel in the rock, that stretched out for a good fifty yards. And I had to be quick about it, because a crowd of people was behind me, wanting to get through.

Some of the pits in the cave are too deep to see to the bottom. Grate bridges span the pits. Looking down is sure to spin your stomach.

It’s cold in the caves. I liked it, because the humidity was low and the cool air reminded me of home. It was a blessing in comparison to the heavy heat topside. I didn’t want to leave the cave. I wanted to keep poking around on my own, with a lantern. My mind drifted to Bilbo Baggins and Gollum.

I spent the night in Munfordville, at a Motel 8. I hadn’t connected with anyone, the light was dying and I was desperate for a shower. I caved and paid. And it was good I did, because I found out that Peace Corps needed some more paperwork. So I spent the next morning entertaining the folks at the Health Clinic. They don’t see many cyclists, and I think they liked the change of pace.

I didn’t make it too far after I got done cycling. I had fajitas at this delicious Mexican place and made it up to Hodgenville. On the way I met two cyclists, Kevin and Mike, doing a short sprint to Sebree, where they were going to have a weekend men’s group from their Baptist Church.

Hodgenville loves Abe Lincoln. They have a statue in their town squircle, which is both the town square, and the town roundabout. I had a chocolate pie and sweet tea at Honest Abe’s Diner. Then I made it to the city park, where I found a hot game of softball. The score: 2 to 20. And it only got worse from there. It was a church league. I talked it up with the people sitting around, and ended up meeting Devon Norton.

Devon claims to have been one of the best shortstops to have ever walked the halls of Hodgenville High School. He said he hit 26 homeruns in one game, which I was a bit skeptical of. He blew his chances of playing college ball when he got in a fight and ended up in jail for two months. Now he works making railroad pins. But he dreams of playing for the Texas Rangers, and getting on a team is his start. Either way, he’s aching to play. Whether it’s in a Church League or the Majors. I was aching to play too, just talking to him.

I slept like a rock next to the baseball fields. In the morning, I hit a grocery store for breakfast and then made miles. It turned into Abraham Lincoln Day. I visited his Birthplace, his childhood home and the Lincoln Homestead. I ended the day in Harrodsburg, at the Kentucky Fudge Company. They run a little restaurant out of the town’s original drug store. They’ve polished up all the original wood, and have medical bottles from the old days in the cases. And they make fruit smoothies. The owner was behind the big wood counter, and he connected me up with a minister in town who let me snooze in his church yard.

The next morning, I climbed out of my tent into a free breakfast at the Church. A few guys were having a Saturday morning fellowship breakfast. They’d finished by the time I got up, but one of the guys invited me to have the leftovers. He made me a huge waffle and I plowed through the rest of their sausage.

I booked it out of town after breakfast, and made it down to Danville, where I had a date with Danville Bike and Footwear. Ernst, the owner, has done the Tans Am on a silver Nishiki, which he sold to Leo Fraser, the cyclist I’d met at Falls of Rough. He showed me Leo’s original bike, which was an old, well loved and slightly abused 10 speed. I was surprised he’d made it over the Appalachians on the thing. When I saw the old leather saddle he’d used, I busted up laughing. It was so worn in, it looked fit for the garbage. I wheeled out my bike with tightened brakes, ready for the Appalachians. On my way, I met Taka, and his mother Masumi. We went across the street to check out two farmer’s stands. I had my first fried apple pie, which was so delicious I bought a second one.

Then we went to have lunch at a greasy spoon down the street. We ended up talking until 4 pm, about building community and world peace, traveling, cycling, the US and Japan. Taka has lived in the US for several stints, the first when he was in high school, the second when he came to college in the US, and he is currently living in Danville for a Japanese manufacturing company. He’s 27, and seems hungry for adventure and community. He’s had a hard time finding both in Kentucky. His family has hosted exchange students for years and years, and his mother volunteers with an student exchange nonprofit, connecting students with host families. I told them I want to come live in Japan someday, and really learn the language. I’m serious about it. I’m not happy that I put three years of my life into learning Japanese, only to have it leak out my ears. I’ve never been to Japan, and I’ve always been curious. I want to see Mt. Fuji, and meditate in a mountain monestary. Now I’ve got friends in Japan. The dream is one step closer to realization.

I got on the bike at 4 pm and booked it for Berea. On the way, I missed a turn. I ended up tacking on an extra 8 miles worth of pedaling, which was just fine. I ended up entertaining some motorbikers at a gas station, and searching for sunscreen at a Wal-Mart supercenter. They didn’t have any. I stumped Wal-Mart, which put a smile on my face. Thankfully, Rite-Aid was next door.

I pulled through the town of Paint Lick, which in a car is just a bump in the road, but on a bike is something to enjoy. A short string of old buildings, that look their age but look well loved. How can a town end up with the name Paint Lick? There must be a good story, about a kid drinking a bucket of paint, mistaking it for tomato juice, or something loony like that. Over the next few days, I would pass through several towns called Lick: Red Lick, and Elk Lick. People in Kentucky must have curious tongues. Lets end that stream of thought right there!

I got to Berea around 8 pm. Berea is an incredible place. If you ever get the chance, and find yourself in Kentucky, Berea is a destination location. Here’s why: Berea College. It is a no tuition college that’s been running since the 1850’s. They allowed Black students to join the college in the 1850’s, just a few years before the onslaught of the Civil War. With Jim Crow, the college was forced to exclude Blacks and many other people, until the law was changed in the 1950’s. Put simply, Berea was ahead of its time, and it remains at the cusp of educational change. They charge no tuition. 90% of their students come from the Mountain region of Kentucky, which has a long history of poverty. The other 10% come from other countries around the world. The college stresses traditional crafts, keeping the cultural legacy of Kentucky alive. If Berea is anything, it is a thriving product of the folk culture of the Appalachians. Imagine a craft, and it’s on display: everything from folk musical instruments to printing to sewing and fabric making and traditional cooking. Berea is a mindblowing place. I’ll have to come back and spent a few months here to get a taste of the place, and deepen my understanding of the magic of these mountains. Yes, there is poverty. But there is so much more to Eastern Kentucky than the struggles these people endure. They are proud. And they have much to be proud of.

I wandered into the Main Street Cafe. It was dark, and the cafe was bright, filled with people, and a man was singing. I’d found home for an hour, and a delicious sandwich with garden tomatoes, mushrooms and mozzarella. I was reminded of Bellingham, and I felt both homesick and happy to find this charm growing on the other side of the country. I also had a citrus cream brownie, which blew me away.

After a while, the cafe started closing up. I ordered a cup of tea, and the owner came over to chat. He introduced himself as Sune, and his accent clued me in. He’s not a Kentucky native.

“Where are you going to be staying tonight?” He asked.

“Well, I was hoping you could connect the dots for me.” I said.

“I would invite you to come home with me, but my grandson is staying with us. I can offer you a place to sleep in a movie theatre I own. I’m remodeling it, but it’s warm, dry and there’s a bathroom you can use.”

So, I spent the night in an old movie theater, that had been converted into a doctor’s office and was being transformed into an art gallery. I poked around, because I couldn’t not poke around an old empty movie theatre. It was both beautiful and slightly creepy. I thought of this old show I watched as a kid called Are You Afraid of the Dark?. One episode, called “The Tale of the Midnight Madness,” was about an failing movie theater. The owner plays a vampire movie to save the business, which draws a huge crowd. But then the vampire comes to life.

That night, I had a dream: I was sitting in an orchestra. I wasn’t playing, just watching. All my friends were there: Rose, Kelsi, Freddy, Mitchell, Andrew and all the people from spring block. Mitchell, Andrew and Freddy were all trying to play along. Mitchell had a trombone. Andrew a trumpet. Freddy was mashing away on drums. But Mitchell couldn’t keep from laughing. It spilled out of him, and then some of the people next to him started giggling. And Andrew had to stop. They couldn’t play worth a damn, but all the while the orchestra kept beating out this soaring music. The three of them all stood up, and set their instruments down. We stood around and talked. They were doing some sort of magazine on the band. Suddenly, a cake appeared. The cake was made out of cans, cut into ribbons. Inside each was a huge candle, burning a long flame. The music built up and up, roaring into a finale. Mitchell blew out the candles. And I woke.

The next morning, I rode out to Sune’s house. “Come out and have breakfast in the morning, and you can do your writing.”

I arrived aroudn 8:30 and sat down to write, and drink tea. I met Sune’s wife Barbara, their son Scottie and their grandson Lucas. They made a delicious french toast breakfast, and Sune offered to make some eggs for me too. I couldn’t refuse, and was glad I didn’t. He brought out this incredible, thick bread full of nuts and hearty grains.

“That’ll stick with you,” said Barbara. It did, but I burned it right quick that afternoon.

I didn’t finish my post, and all of the libraries were closed in observance of Sunday. So, I hopped on the bike around noon and started pedaling up into the Appalachians.

These are real mountains. They are small, but damn steep. At times, pedaling up feels like climbing a staircase. I didn’t hit the mountains until the late afternoon, because I was delayed in Red Lick.

Red Lick is a bump in the road, even for a cyclist. It’s only a collection of homes, and a few churchs. Nature was calling, so I pulled into the first church I saw. It was Sunday, so I knew someone would be around. And I was right: the pastor, Charles Collier.

Some people I hit it off with. Charles was one of them, and man does he have a curious story. Charles is in his late thirties. He has a wife he’s known since the second grade, and three brilliant children. For years, he smoked pot. He describes himself as a former adict. Then he found meth, and pain pills. His life spiraled out of control, until a make-or-break moment when he tried to commit suicide by overdosing. He didn’t want his children to turn out like him, and he figured the best way was to end his life. He woke up half an hour before his kids got home on the bus. Then he found God, and his calling as a pastor. Charles is very humble, owing to his experience, and the reality of his family: his wife is the breadwinner.

We talked until 4 pm about spirituality, and he was incredibly open to what I had to say. I was glad for it. He didn’t judge me, or condem. He said, “I hate throwing bricks in a glass house. We need to be open minded, accepting, and loving of one another.” Wow! For someone of a completely different religious background, Charles was talking my language. Be loving, honest, kind, generous and forgiving. It was a wonderful, uplifting conversation. “I don’t preach hellfire. You don’t win people with talk of the devil. You win them talking about love.” He didn’t save my soul. He did convince me that we are all, fundamentally, looking for the same thing. That we are all struggling to live as best we can.

The sun was starting to fade, and I wanted to make it to Boonville before dark. So I bid him farewell.

Then I took another wrong turn. I didn’t know it, until I got to the top of the mountain. Instead of a left, I took a right, and I found myself at 6 pm at Ada’s Mountain Market, at the summit of the steepest mountain I’ve ever climbed. It’s gorgeous: vibrant, green and so damn alive. Everything’s breathing. There I met James and Sherry Woolery. They just opened the market three months ago, and offered to let me camp in the yard. They shared their dinner with me, and opened their home, letting me shower in their bathroom and enjoy the cool air of their sharply slating yard. I did find a flat patch of ground to pitch my tent, but the slope, like every slope in Appalachia, is steep, or crazy steep.

I had my first Ale-Eight-1, which is Kentucky’s muck water. Jerry Brown, a friend of the Woolery’s, bought it for me. I learned once again the strength of American generousity and kindness. You only find Ale-Eight-1 in Kentucky. It’s bottled in glass, and delicious after a long climb. I met the rest of the Woolery family: their son Joseph, his wife Kimberly, and their granddaughter Rachel, who is cute as can be. I even got to play hide-and-seek with her, before she had to go to bed.

In the morning, I booked it down the mountain I’d climbed the night before. The morning had been foggy, but by the time I hit the bottomland, the sun was high and the fog was clearing. I had maybe ten cars pass me the whole day. I passed through one tiny town after another, just a few houses and a church. I stopped for lunch at a little church on a hill, near a creek trickling over a bedrock of slate. The trees outnumber the people in this part of Kentucky by at least a thousand to one. And I like it.

When I got to Boonville, it was well into the afternoon. I sat down at the Library at 2 pm, and wrote until they closed at 5 pm. I had a lousy dinner at a dive of a diner, which made me queezy afterward. Then I went to the Presbyterian Church, which has a free camping area for cyclists, a shower and a little outhouse. The shower was cold and wonderful.

I talked to Jess on the phone. It’d been way too long. I need to do better about keeping in tune with people. I felt a wee bit lonely, in the site by myself. I wanted to be with people. I was aching to see people I love. So, if we haven’t talked in a w hile, lets make a point of it.

I’m at the Boonville Library finishing this up. I have around 800 miles left to push, and a few mountains to climb. I’m planning to log 70 some miles today. Which means I’d best get going.

Looks like you made it all the way to the bottom. I love you for it! I really do. You’re the reason I write. You.

Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston share an uncanny similarity in the same taste in…. leather dresses. Funny that. Here’s the top 10 posts on Horiwood.Com today here in Hollywood, LA, California.

1. V MAGAZINE OUT TAKE: LADY GAGA PIC

2. VANESSA HUDGENS GROWS UP IN HER FILM ROLE CHOICES

3. FARRAH FAWCETT COVERS PEOPLE MAGAZINE

4. TWILIGHT’S KELAN LUTZ FLAUNTS HIS SEXY

5. ZOE KRAVITZ- BOHEMIAN ROCK CHIC – NEW YORK FASHIN WEEK

6. THE VAMPIRE LIST: THE 20 TOP VAMPIRES OF ENTERTAINMENT HISTORY

7. BRITNEY SPEARS LOSES 20 POUNDS IN 4 WEEKS

8. ZAC EFRON: WALKS THE LINE IN HOLLYWOOD

9. SMASHPROOF – IT’S FRIDAY IN HOLLYWOOD

10. TOP RANKING CELEBRITIES LIST FOR 2009

horiwood’slatest tweet on twitter is: “dale k has become a redhead in wellington, new zealand. woah! somebody’s gotta bottle that degree of hotness asap. less than 5 seconds ago from web

With the whole talk about the Twilight series because of New Moon coming out in November, that made me think of the series of the books. Then I realized that a lot of the popular vampire book series were written by women. Take the Twilight series, it was written by Stephanie Meyer. Then there’s the novels written by Laurell K. Hamilton. And last but not least, you have The Vampire Chronicles, written by Anne Rice. Why is it that the popular vampire series were written by women? I mean, it is because the fan base is predominantly female and the female writers know what their readers want to read? Anyway, I find it to be interesting.

Disney’s Ashley Tisdale and Twilight Saga’s Ashley Green both enjoyed their downtime this weekend on both US coasts.

Horiwood’s Top 10 today in Hollywood as voted by you the people worldwide are:

1. TWILIGHT ECLIPSE’S SHOCKING CASTING NEWS: JULIA JONES III VS Q’ORIANKA KILCHER FOR LEAH CLEARWATER

2. KRISTEN STEWART & ROBERT PATTINSON HAVE CRAZY LOVE

3. KATY PERRY TELLS MILEY CYRUS, “NO MORE EMO TWEETS”

4. SUSAN BOYLE SHOULD RECORD A DUET WITH THE POPE

5. OMER BATTI IS MICHAEL JACKSON’S SON SAYS JOE JACKSON

6. HAYDEN PANETTIERE HAS A DATE WITH BOB…

7. NEW TAYLOR LAUTNER, NEW MOON: JACOB BLACK SMOULDERS

8. THE VAMPIRE LIST: THE 20 TOP VAMPIRES OF ENTERTAINMENT HISTORY

9. OH DEAR… DRAKE IS NO CHRIS BROWN!

10. JON GOSSELIN GETS A NANNY HAWAIIAN STYLE

BONUS POSTS: 11. AMERICA’S FIRST LADY OF FASHION DESIGN, MISS ELLIETTE, HAS THE BEST HEIRLOOM TOMATOES IN THE WORLD

12. DALE’S TRIP TO LA

horiwood’s last twitter pick was from dale who is back in NZ Here it is: “@horiwood Definitely home – nothin like singing the Lord’s Prayer in Maori this am at Te Ataakura’s christening & crying over the AB’s loss.”9:50 PM Aug 1st from web in reply to horiwood

Saved By The Bell’s cast reunion brings back happier, more  simpler times. Smiles all round. Here’s how you ranked  your celeb and entertainment news at the top of the class today in Hollywood here on Horiwood.Com. Enjoy!

1. THE VAMPIRE LIST: THE 20 TOP VAMPIRES OF ENTERTAINMENT HISTORY

2. TED HARBERT & CHELSEA HANDLER PIC

3. OMER BATTI IS MICHAEL JACKSON’S SON SAYS JOE JACKSON

4. TAYLOR MADE VALENTINES: TAYLOR LAUTNER & TAYLOR SWIFT’S NEW MOVIE

5. TWILIGHT’S BRAND EXPANDS INTO VAMPIRE COSMETICS

6. SOME JENNIFER ANISTON…

7. iGAGA GIVES iTUNES DOWNLOADS ITS BOOST. CIARA SHINES

8. SUSAN BOYLE HAS RECORDED HER FIRST TRACK

9. CSI COMIC STRIP TRIBUTE TO MICHAEL JACKSON

10. NESIAN MYSTIK – POLYNESIA’S GREATEST BOY

As we know, vampires are all the rage. Horiwood’s theory is that vampires are so hot right now, because of the recession.

The last eight years of American politics, has vampired the next generation, who are growing up having to bear the consequences of repaying the debt of a mismanaged America. That’s over $1 trillion worth of debt. Meaning, that politicians in office did drink the future dreams and lifeblood of today’s tweens. Yes! It sucks!

But the good news is, that in this cultural climate of pop culture, vampires entertain us with their personal battles to be virtuous and good as they coexist in a world of humans that both frustrate and fascinate them.

Anyway… Entertainment Weekly, has listed their Top 20 Vampires. Here they are:

1. Lestat, Interview With the Vampire
2. Christopher Lee’s Dracula
3. Bela Lugosi’s Dracula
4. Edward Cullen, Twilight
5. Bill and Eric, True Blood
6. Asa Vajda, 1960’s Black Sunday
7. Angel
8. Mr. Barlow, Salem’s Lot
9. Schuyler Van Alen, Melissa de la Cruz’s Blue Bloods series
10. Gary Oldman’s Dracula
11. Klaus Kinski’s Dracula
12. Zoey Redbird, P.C. and Kristin Cast’s House of Night series
13. Jean-Claude, Laurel K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter series
14. David, 1987’s The Lost Boys
15. Miriam Blaylock and Sarah Roberts, 1983’s The Hunger
16. Blade, the Blade trilogy
17. Eli, 2008’s Let the Right One In
18. Countess Bathory, 1971’s Daughters of Darkness
19. Selene, the Underworld trilogy
20. Caleb and Mae, 1987’s Near Dark

Robert Pattinson came in at #4, proving that there is nothing new under the sun. Vampires have been done hotly before in books, film and entertainment. True Blood’s vampires came in at #5. Not a bad list at all! Thanks EW!

Props to both Alan Ball and Stephenie Meyer: this generation’s entertainers of the vampy loving masses.

I caught this article on a twitter account I  follow that let me know of Mr. Bruce Campbell’s knowledge of the new Warcraft movie being directed by Sam Raimi. This film is something I will be looking forward to until it is released and beyond! Past talk of Uwe Boll directing this film scared the hell out of me as soon as I found out that he directed House of the Dead. Enough about that bum though.. I want to now take you to a couple of links regarding the Warcraft movie. I have yet to do an extensive search about this film to try and find out the behind the curtains stuff. It’s no Cloverfield (that movie sucked).

Here are the links:

1)Blizzard unveils Raimi as director

2)Talking with Bruce about the movie

At the end of my blogs I want to try and leave you with a related YouTube video or just something I thought was funny.
Your in luck on this first one. I have two!
Jean Claude’s WoW Promo-
BoxxyBabee Trollin-

Jean Claude (Jean Christophe really, but Clint insisted on The Muscles from Brussels, and I followed suit) had his 0.5th birthday on October 19, and my sister had a small party for him.

Mec and Fielmor

With Eper. *Wink*

Later, I went to Mando’s house to hang out and play poker. Totz was there. He had left us for Davao but was back for a few days.

The next day, I had to buy clothing suitable for places much farther from the Equator than I was used to. I passed by this woman sweeping litter off EDSA. She was kind enough to let me take pictures.

It may look like EDSA was deserted then, but it wasn’t. It never is, except maybe at 2 AM, when the vegetable delivery guy is the substitute king of the road, ruling in the absence of that perennial hard worker, the jeepney driver.

Then I bought my clothes from these guys

and went home.

Two days later, I met with some friends from high school.

Vivian

Teret

Arys

Daj

Shells@The Old Spaghetti House (taken by Glenn)

Glenn

The day after that, I went to Yon’s place to get some videos he’d been editing

Cauchy

Yon and Kaela

and later met with Ditsi and Aison.

That night we were off to Baguio, ostensibly for the Samahang Pisika ng Pilipinas conference, but my only contribution in that regard was the single-minded consumption of large numbers of pineapple slices, which I did not pay for.

Tuks
“Make no mistake, gentlemen. We are in the fight of our lives, against one of the greatest battalion commanders of the Vietnam War, I 5h1T you not.”

Gio

Tin and Yana

Rainier

Alex

Alipio

Ian

Before I got robbed.

Jonz

The next day I left for Glasgow.

Dress? Ordered.

Cake? Ordered.

Florist? Have one. Ordering this next week probably, yay!

Dress will be here mid July. The person doing my cake is going to play with my ideas a bit. The florist was in a rush to get things out for a funeral so we’ll meet with her and discuss ideas.

I’m not sure about the header I made for this, I like it, but then… I’m not too sure. But I have all the time to photoshop my heart out, but not now… maybe after things calm down. I’ve been so busy with the shop and the plans and family and moving its insane. However, I’m quite happy now. I’m at a peaceful place. I’ve made a strong decision and I’m sticking to it. I’m not too sure if I’ll make this blog more than what it is now, my place to just rant and rave. I’m not sure if I want to go ahead and go for that Bachelors degree in Early Childhood Education like I should of done in the first place… I hate web design, but I was talked into this degree in Visual Communications because of all the signs and menus and crap I make for the shop, it’s more like a nice hobby than something I’d want to do full-time. I like to play with Photo shop for myself, and I hate HTML. I’m finished with my associates in December, and I’m pretty damned proud of myself that I’ve worked so hard to finish high school AND get a degree with my child. I have no regrets in my life, and I view it as me being a stronger, better person in life because I’m doing whatever I can to ensure my child has a good future and is proud of both his parents for going to school, working hard, working hard together and getting married. I have no insane ideas that marriage will be easy. John and I have basically been “married” the last three years just without the paper. No relationship is easy, especially with a child but I think there are these moments that John and I can look at each other and say, “Yeah, I really do love you and I’m happy we’ve come this far together without ripping each others eyes out.”

Now, I must get ready for work & re-do a small menu for our window because I might of made it a little too small before. Oopsie.

Oh, quick edit. I got a small raise at work, which makes me happy as can be. Now all the managers make the same. I just feel like everything is falling into place perfectly… my wedding plans are coming together pretty well, Mom & I have been on a roll. Dean is growing so much. Work this year is just a bit better for some reason so far. I think some of that Post-Partum I mildly felt for awhile is gone… I’m almost wanting to be nicer to John more often. I seem to like him more often lately, which is good and all since we’re finally taking that final step in commitment to eachother. I love my life. I love my family, my friends, my brother & sister… John, Dean… even that darn cat that drives me up the wall. Sometimes I think I might want another cat… but not yet. I just… am pretty happy. I do however, wish I could talk to my bestfriend more, then I’d feel complete.

Good company, nice food & nice booze - Jean-Claude, NYC

Yes, he actually managed to overcome his fear of the swine flu. Good for him (and for us of course). Sadly we haven’t been able to visit all the places we wanted to take him to (yet). Typical, you will say: you have everything all planned out, and bim, Florent and Fabrice find more important stuff to do on their own. I actually  hardly saw them yesterday – apparently they had a video conference to attend to in the media room. When I tried to sneak into the room they had their headphones on and the Play Station was on. Weird. Also it was pretty noisy – sounded like a kung-fu battle with a metallic voice saying “YOU LOSE” once in a while. They told me not to worry. But I still worried a little.

That said, we did go out a little bit: I was disappointed by our Get Fresh brunch on Saturday, sadly: I could swear they did not serve as many pancakes as before. My scrambled eggs with heirloom beans and potatoes were not runny enough for me*. A bit dry.

Fabrice’s first reflex upon arrival was to drink a beer. Weird, I know. But the guy lives in Brussels after all. So we went to the Gate. Where else? And, since the weather was pretty nice last Friday we craved for Latin American flavors. So we went to Playa. Not much to say: the kind of restaurant where the food tastes AMAZING when you’ve had a lot of margharitas and beer before. But not so good when you go back there sober.

A nice discovery was Jean-Claude, in the city. I know, I know, a bit tacky to bring your French friend to a French restaurant in NYC (when the guy is only craving for burgers and various iterations of New American cuisine; whatever that means). But I must say I was really impressed by the quality of the meat there, both the lamb loin AND hanger steack: cooked to perfection, and nice gratin dauphinois. Good friends, good meat, and good service (for a French restaurant).

All in all, a nice start. We still have a lot of grounds to cover. It might prove even more difficult with the new swine flu surge. I had to convince Fabrice to get out of the apartment this morning. And that a mask with a pig groin is not (yet) trendy in NYC. We did manage to go to Root Hill for lunch though. And had a nice grilled cheese with bacon and tomato. I think Fabrice would agree that this could qualify as comfort food. Croque-Monsieur a l’americaine, quoi.

*Soon, I’ll write a post about scrambled eggs. And eggs in general actually. For there is one thing I don’t understand here, and it is the fear of eating runny eggs. Let me be clear, to me, scrambled eggs, soft boiled eggs, fried eggs are only good IF they are runny. The best being of course the oeufs a la coque. More on this later.

Bloggning med gæstinlægg av Anthon;

Till Jean-Claud,

Jag minns førsta gången jag såg dig, sittandes under en stol i køket på Kyrkogatan åtta. Øgonen var stora som tallrikarna på Clarion Hotel men inheållet lika liteet som en bit V6 med mintsmak. Det var, troligtvis før oss båda, en skræmmande och traumatisk upplevelse. En upplevelse ingen skulle førvænta sig skulle utvecklas till någon form av luddig hat-kærlek. Skadeglædjen nær din kropp blev rakad och du såg ut som en siamesisk mops. Samtidig medømkan nær den sista skivan av Mor Matildas kokta skinka hamnade på Lorentz mellanmål. Anthons ængslan øver bristen på kattens hjærnceller då han de få gångerna han springer luras av sina håriga føtter och åker med huvudet føre in i væggen. Minnen och kænslor andas så tjockt i luften runt hans pæls att man næstan kan ta på dem – om man nu vågar sig næra.

En gång før ett par årsedan vaknade jag bakfull som en gnu i Anthons soffa av att Jean-Claude satt på ryggstødet och glodde ned på mig. Nær han mærkte att jag vaknat verkade han av farten næstan uppløsas i ett svart røkmoln nær han flydde scenen. Jag såg honom inte på resten av dagen. Spekulationer kring dessa mordiska aspekter har førbryllat oss, både mig och Anthon, eftersom han inte kan læmnas sjælv i ett dygn utan att få kattångest och børja tugga på de antika møblerna. Antingen har hans naturliga øverlevnadsinstinkt blivit bortdaddad av matte, eller så ær han helt enkelt en skenbar liten sak.

Kolesterolhalten ær en annan aspekt som bidrar till våra misstankar angående skenbarheten. Hade en kvalificerad veterinær undersøkt honom och funnit blod i de små ådrorna istællet før majonæs, skulle djurlækarførbundet bli førbryllade. Katten æter bara två saker førutom ovannæmnda Mor Matildas; Någon sorts specialiserat Perserfoder och Chefś Menue burkmat smaksatt med oxe. Dock æter han bara gelén. Øvervikten ær dærfør oførklarad. 5 odeklarerade kilon før mycket, då han væger 13 istællet før åtta. Kokt skinka ær lågt på kalorier så det hektot om dagen han æter borde inte bidra. Særskilt inte heller nær hans toalettbesøk ligger øver tusenbeloppet då ‘Persian Indoor’ kattsand kostar 200 SEK/Kg och lådan rymmer 5.

Jean-Claude, du ær før oss ett hårigt mysterium.

Med vænliga hælsningar,

Anthon & Jonny

]]>