Rumors are making the rounds right now about Apple’s upcoming tablet offering a dynamic tactile keyboard, and I can confirm that these rumors are 100% true. What this means is that you’ll be able to feel bumps and ridges on your screen. The Blackberry Storm tried implementing something like this in the past, but this is different, because instead of just letting the user click on a goddamn screen to pretend it’s a button, Apple’s screen actually does something, and since it’s being made by Apple, it’ll be awesome anyway.

The main use for this will be with keyboards; some damn communists are complaining about the fact that with a touch screen you can’t feel where the keys end intuitively, which makes typing a little harder. To that I’d say stop trying to type when you’re driving, idiots, but baby wants a bottle, and so Apple’s selling baby a bottle that baby will line up for for seventeen hours, while mommy’s at home earning diaper money on her knees.

I don’t know who mommy is in that example, but she’s a whore.

Anyway, this new dynamic tactile keyboard — which I’ve totally been using for months — lets you feel keys when they’re onscreen, and not feel them when they’re not. This is both simple, technically complicated, and sexually arousing. It means that developers can assign physical ridges to elements on screen. Think about it, people; you could be playing an air hockey game and feel it when you hit the puck. Or you could feel the boundaries in a maze game.

Also — I don’t want to blow any of Steve’s big content partner announcements when he releases the tablet to the world in January, so you didn’t hear this from me — porn on the Apple Tablet is amazing.

today, i heard a fantastical story about an old man who knew the cure for cancer… my grandfather told it. he said that this old man became rich because of his knowledge of how to cure cancer… this rich man, he was diagnosed with cancer… he naturally feared for his life… thus he went to look for this old man whom he had heard about…who was rumored to know how to cure cancer through a type of herb…he found him…the old man gave him the cure, a spoonful of that herb(name of which my grandpa did not say) and told him to buy a plane and go on as many holidays as he could…live life to the fullest. half a year later, he went back to the old man, amazed. he was cured of cancer!he was eternally grateful to the old man… and thus did something rather dramatic( i wont relate the whole tale because the original was told in Hokkien) then soon the old man bought a piece of land in Malaysia and started to grow the herb in bulk… he did not care whether you’re poor or not, he would cure you nonetheless…he soon grew very rich because many people made generous donation…you may choose to believe this tale or you may choose to regard it as the rambling of a old man…

A passer by invokes a lesson for us all.

.

Recently while busy in the garden our two dogs started barking. This in itself is not unusual because they sit at the front gate waiting for passers by to stop and talk to them. It can be a horse, or cyclist that sometimes causes them to bark, and our children have grown to show the same awareness as the dogs in who is passing.  I didn’t see the cause this time but our young daughter did.

“Don’t worry, Daddy, it’s only an old man!“

Stephanie is only 8 years old, but without meaning any harm had given sufficient information to explain the risk to us and paint a quick picture in a few words as to why the dogs were barking.

Of late for some reason I have been more aware of people who are ageing. This generation do not normally stand around telling stories, this is left to the young who always seem to have something to shout about.

However all older people will have many interesting tales, often almost unbelievable, yet true. They have lived through war, happy, sad, interesting, and hard times. Each has learnt about life through experience that we can not buy.

Recently my ex Mother-in-law passed away. I thought I knew her very well, but it wasn’t until family stories started coming out that we all found out there had been much more in the life of this modest lady.

How it should be.

Christmas is coming and probably there will be family gatherings. This year I am going to try and turn the attention to the older generation, and see if they will open up and give us an insight into their childhood days and memories so that we can give them the respect they deserve, ask them to read stories to the children, ask them to tell their own tales.

Oh and the old man? Yes I did see him again, in church at a Remembrance service, and he had some medals under his coat, so did have a story to tell!

By Bob Derham

He sat in an old rocking chair. The chair was glued together in parts and taped together in others. The tape was thick from being bound over and over again around the parts where the wood had splintered slightly around the joints from overuse.

His parrot perched on a swing chair. Rocking backwards and forwards gently, as he had seen his owner do over time. The parrot did not speak, he did not even have a name.

The man’s beard was not groomed and his hands were covered in sores, but from where, he did not know.

The parrots eyes were bloodshot and his talons were unclipped.

The man had not been outside in close to twenty-four years. The parrot had never seen daylight and it’s once colourful coat had adapted to it’s surroundings over time so that the bright colour was now a deep, dark reddish brown.

The lighting was minimal, electrical but dim, hanging somewhere overhead that the man never looked.

A faint glow of a television screen in front of him was what he only ever stared at.

The news flickered on, for twenty-four hours a day. Every day.

The man and the parrot watched it, constantly.

They slept together, each in their own chair, once their eyes could not any longer sustain the intense flickering.

They watched the daily horror unfold and waited for more.

The man was waiting for the big one, the parrot was waiting for it too.

Opened brown boxes were scattered around the room, relieved of their tape and recycled around the room on other things, fixing them back into use.

The man dreamt of nuclear explosions and atomic warfare. The parrot dreamt of the man and the television.

The man woke early one morning with a shudder and looked around him to see the room shaking. He wondered if he had been right all along. The parrot woke too, looked at the man wide eyed and shaking uncontrollably in his old rocking chair. He did not squark, he did not make a sound.

The man looked up at the parrot.

‘No,’ he thought, ‘Not today.’

The man had reasoning for this. The parrot wasn’t sure why.

The man knew why this was so.

The man knew that this wasn’t the radioactive wave sent to wash them away.

The man knew that because the television was still alight there was no electro magnetic pulse.

The man knew that because the parrot was still alive there was no poisoning in the air. The parrot didn’t know that he would be the first to go.

The man closed his eyes, content with his survival.

The parrot fell from his perch.

October 3, 1871,
Oxford (Continued from previous post)

The cobblestones were wet and the weather warm for October in Oxford, and I was in a singing mood.

The year was 1871, and on this particular night I had just finished up a late rehearsal of The Captain’s Daughter, a musical ditty I was the romantic lead in. (It was my youthful act of defiance to try out acting.) I remember I was walking down a reflective Parks street, twirling my umbrella and singing the first act closer, “Hoist the Jib and Tally Ho, A Sailing We Will Go!”

Generally, by rule I despise a song that rhymes “baby” and “crazy” more then three times, yet on this night I sang with gusto through every verse, my low tenor rebounding off of the dreaming spires. I can’t remember if I added the serving wench’s part or not; it’s highly possible I did. At any rate, it would account for the barking.

My plans were the evening were set: After the service, I would walk Ms. Woodhouse back to her home, Chastings Park, spend some time with her, probably get lost in the hedge maze, and then head straight for The Moon and The Cross public house on the Giler. There, a group of chums and I would laugh about professors and discuss classmates and local beauties, particularly Old Bertha, a strong cider made only at that pub.

I was ambling over the Hythe Street bridge, gazing at the ghostly reflections in the Isis and finishing up the high note at the end of the song, when a voice suddenly interrupted me.

“Sir! You there, sir!” The words sounded half coughed, half spit. I spun around, and looked upon nothing but woods to the left and an empty lane of buildings behind me.

“Sir! Please!” I looked over the bridge, and vaguely made out the silhouette of a light post giving birth to a stooped figure in a top hat.

Now, this was Victorian Oxford. The oil street lamps brushed the streets and houses, but could hardly reach into the ivy-covered passages, many of which lead to dark woods, or under the bridges, overall leaving both poets and cut-throats pleased that they got to work in such an inspiring atmosphere.
Any rational human being would have stayed clear. However, I was not a rational human being; I was at university. When the voice called out a third time, it sounded inconceivable that it would be anything but a ruse by Chester Billingsworth, a rower for St. Judes who was one of those natural Muscular Christians, known for strengthening a first year’s moral character by forcing them to do exercises over horse manure, or marooning them on punting boats in the middle of the river.

“You there, come lend me an arm.” I approached close enough to realize it wasn’t Chester Billingsworth, but simply an old man with a scarf wrapped around his head and ears, leaving his top hat a tight fit. “The stone’s a lot slippier than I expected.”

I didn’t know if “slippier” was a word, but the going rate in Oxford was you let an old man say whatever he damn well pleased, because as luck would have it you’d probably be standing in front of him on exam day.

Hythe Street Bridge, Oxford, present.

“Oh then, right-ho.” I quickly skipped forward. Even though I couldn’t place the man, it’s family custom that when an elder says “hop,” a Thriftwood leaps.
I offered the man my arm and he used it to steady himself as we walked along the bridge. I quickly caught a wiff of beer from his beard and deduced that the reason he was finding it so hard to walk properly. He had surely come from the Oxford Retreat, a pub at the south end of the bridge that was belching its final customers as I had walked by.

“Damned street sweepers, never have seen one on this bloody bridge. A sign of rebellion against the gowns, no less. I was there in thirteen-whenever-it-was, you know. St. Scholastica day. Back when people spent most of their time putting spikes on things.”

Though many of us joked that our professors looked and acted like they were from the dark ages, I had never heard one admit to it. I took it as a sign of how far he was gone, and was surprised he was able to stand as well as he did. “Let me tell you something, young sir. Back then, people were actually, well, people. They laughed at farts. Good, honest church-going men. You made a fart at an appropriate time, you were considered quite the wit.”

As if to illustrate his point, a long squeal came from behind his back and he began laughing. I seem to recall I was too amazed to laugh, and probably just politely smiled. “And all these professors, and my elders, have somehow induced themselves that they aren’t merely just farting as an occupation. Releasing philosophies and sermons like hot gas, with relieved smiles, not noticing them vanish in minutes, leaving only a trace of a memory.”

“Do you need any further assistance, sir?” I asked, attempting to pull his arm from mine, but he almost slipped and held on tighter.

“Young,, what is your name, boy?”

“Er, Thriftwood.” I said. “Jack Thriftwood.”

“Is it?” he said. “Interesting name. Sounds like ‘Driftwood.’ ”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Now then, young Driftwood, if you would lead me over to the side of the water, here, I will rest a bit.”

Before we reached the pillar, his weight suddenly fell fully into me, and he twisted around before hitting the ground. Helping him back to his feet and seeing his face now, I saw that between his scarf and his neck was a white banded collar. Upon this revelation, I noticed he was staring at me with look I can only describe as ancient, and the folds of crow’s feet at his eyes only aided in this feeling.

“Now remember what I say, Driftwood,” he said, his hot breath twisting my nose. “A fart is human, and human is divine. If you can’t find delight in flatus, you mock a God-given gift. And then you, my dear boy, will never be a gentleman.”

For my part, if my mother ever heard of her only born taking delight in a fart, I would have felt it before I saw it. And my mother herself was a famous prankster. I thanked him for his advice and began to walk away, when I heard a still splash of water behind me and turned around. In the night, I could make out a shore lined with a couple of punts swaying in ripples, a bank, a bridge pillar, and the alarming absence of a drunken old preacher.

CONTINUED IN NEXT POST

*DEAD*

LMAO. I cant even front though, Old dude has some spit. But he seems to be confused as to his gang affiliation.

“is he blood, is he crip? is he that, is he this? did he do it? you know…it.”

He was just randomly singing Christmas songs in the middle of the store…He had a good voice, too! Not sure he really appreciated me taking pictures though.  He asked me what I was doing, and then said I was going to break my lens…

Joe L. left his seat; he started to speak
about his health care amendment.
He talked and he blabbed till his time had elapsed
then asked for an additional minute.
But A. Franken cried, “Extension denied!
I’m in charge and you’ve talked much too long!”
McCain rose, looking hurt, said, “I’ve been here since dirt.
I’m not sure what went down but it’s wrong.”

[Dedicated to @kaijuisme who wanted to spend all day rewatching the video of The Showdown but couldn't.]

“Back for more pie, eh?” Curtis whistled through his teeth.

“No,” Judy said, holding her fresh-baked pie. “I thought I’d bring a pie as thanks for last time.”

“What is it?”

“It’s cherry pie.”

“Mmmm,” Curtis lewdly licked his lips. “I’d take a taste of your cherry any day, little girl! HAAaaa~!” His laugh turned into a wheeze and then a cough. Judy had a lovely grandfather who was always a gentleman in the presence of women. She had thought that it was just the era, but this man was dispelling all her illusions.

“Are you all right?” she finally asked.

“Fine,” he coughed. “Fine. Just get me some water with that pie.”

Judy looked for some bottles of water around the kitchen. She eventually decided that there was none and decided to use the tap. “Here, ” she said, offering the drink to him. “I’ll go cut up the pie.”

Judy was proud of her pie. The crust had turned out gold and flaky and the cherries were just oozing out of the inside. Curtis’s pumpkin pie was good, but Judy’s pie could win awards! She gave him the second slice that hadn’t fallen apart.

Curtis’s hand shook as he blew on the forkful of pastry. He chewed, slowly, swallowed, then put his fork down on the plate. Judy waited eagerly for a reaction.

“You know, my wife was a terrible cook.”

This was not the response Judy was hoping for. She reminded herself that he didn’t have long to live and strangling him wouldn’t be worth it.

“Oh? I didn’t know you had a wife,” she grinned.

“Sixty-two years. Loony as a cuckoo bird, that one. Couldn’t read anything without her glasses and she’s dyslexic to boot. ‘Curtis,’ she’d say to me. ‘Why do we have something called “bear slices” in the pantry?’ An’ I’d tell her, “Nonsense! Those are pear slices, you old bat!’ We’d argue like that for fifteen minutes and then hobble to the bedroom and make love.”

Judy tried to erase that image from her head. She put some cherry pie in her mouth. The cherries were delicious, just a little overripe, but the texture tasted bad today, like loose skin. The thought of old sex was affecting her palate. “What happened to her – your wife?”

“She died,” he took another bite of the pie and made a face. Judy bit her lip, trying to be civil.

“I mean, how did she pass?”

“Pass? Oh. Ovarian cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” bits of crust flew from his mouth. He pointed his fork at her. “Did you give my wife cancer?”

“No. I just… I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Maaah! I didn’t lose nothin’! She’s dead!” He didn’t seem at all worried about his wife dying. All manners and protocol told Judy that she should be horrified by this, but she also felt a bit of admiration for him. Curtis didn’t tip-toe around death. She liked that.

“Gad damn it!” Curtis cried. His pie fell to the ground.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you some more pie.”

“No. Sit down.” She did as she was told but ground her teeth as she did. She probably shouldn’t have or she was going to exacerbate her TMJ. He didn’t notice, anyway. The man just kept talking.

“You know, if my wife heard me say the Lord’s name in vain, she would have flayed my hide. Got in the habit of sayin’ it like that fucking Dan Aykroyd guy.”

“Blues Brothers.”

“Huh?”

“That was the movie. ‘W’ere on a mission from God.’ You know?”

He sat for a minute, smacking his gums and staring into space. Just as Judy was about to say something to break the silence, Curtis opened his mouth. “Gad, I’m miss that crazy bitch.” He sighed, coughed, then closed his eyes. He looked like exhaustion had come and scooped everything out of him in an instant.

“Well, I suppose I’ll be going. I hope you enjoy the rest of your pie.”

“Goodbye. Don’t bring pie anymore. I’ll bake.”

“Bye, Curtis. Have a good evening.”

When Judy got home, she screamed into her pillow.

Crazy Jamaican woman on the 4 train and it’s the end of the day. She sits in the corner facing the passengers encased in an oversized, poofy blue jacket.

“Dirty hands,” she repeats time and time again. “Been putting your hands all over your piece.”

“You talkin’ to me?!” the guy sitting next to me says. I think his reaction is a little too adamant, that perhaps he has been putting his hands all over his piece and he believes he has been found out.

“Naw,” his friend says. “Forget ’bout her. She’s crazy man.”

“I don’t give a fuck what she is. She better shut the hell up,” he says, now furious at the woman clear across on the other side of the train.

This really gets her going and she starts talking about how her, “Withcraft gonna turn your world upside down, you man with the dirty hands.”

An older man dressed in a khaki jacket and loose-fitting khaki pants then runs into the car and we are still at a standstill at Crown Heights/Utica. Already I feel like I am in a crazy house and I can’t escape. I need to take this train. At the top of his lungs, he starts explaining that he needs money for Jesus. “And don’t you know, any money you give to Jesus, I take 10%. 10% and the rest to Jesus,” he says, a sly grin on his face. Apparently, he meets up with Jesus later in the day to turn in his earnings. “Ya’ll need to accept Jesus into your hearts. This much is true. Give your money and support to Jesus and he’ll give it right back. But I’ll take my 10%. If you want to give, I’ll be in the car next door. Just come on over.” As if we will follow, dollars clenched in hands outstretched. And like that, he dashes off, a Jesus nymph of the subway tunnel.

The crazy woman wears a white scarf tied tightly across her head, big dark sunglasses, sits with her left leg crossed over right, remains silent as soon as the train begins to move and other people start getting on through the stop-starts of the train working its way down the tracks. Suddenly, she bursts into song but I can’t understand what she is saying. Her voice is muffled by the repetitive clanging of the train wheels against the crooked, rusty tracks.

Anybody that gets on hears her singing and moves to the other side of the car. People without their headph0nes to drown out her warblings simply look at one another  and laugh. She is quickly marked as just another crazy person and will most likely be forgotten once they leave the train.

“I know somebody rich and famous too. I don’t blame you. I feel your aches and pains,” she says. I think to myself, if only for an instant, that she is speaking to me and it is my twisted ankle she speaks about. “I would do the same thing too. I feel your aches and pains.” She says this over and over again until the train drowns her out as we approach Bowling Green. With the overwhelming numbers of new people, she silences herself, sits quietly with her black sneakers, grooved white socks, messy and unkempt legs, long fingernails.

An older man in a London Fog walks in surrounded by four young men, short haircuts, business suits, extended cuffs and cheap but shiny shoes. The older man wears dark brown loafers well-polished, gray slacks that rest perfectly on the tops of his shoes. He wears a beige, red and white checkered golf hat, has white bushy eyebrows, kind gray-blue eyes, a shortly-cut white goatee beard, a brown cashew-shaped hearing aid under his left ear. Vericose veins on his rosy cheeks–perhaps he drinks heavily, perhaps it runs in his family. Red silken scarf adorns his neck, blue and white flowers very small, perfectly puffed out of the V of his jacket. He leans forward to talk to his boys, his followers, perhaps his students, perhaps his workers. They listen intently, lean in, crowd around him to protect him from the surging crowds, perhaps own him in a way but he smiles. He owns them right back.

The train continues, the characters are many. They are the normalities of the subway train in NYC.

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Hosted by: Grant Brunner & Marty Keefe

Grant’s Topics

• Kids these days!
• Late to the party: TeeVee 

Marty’s Topics

• Cable Cable Cable….
• How about that snow?

Podcast of the Week

• Parenting with Lynette, Teresa, and Dr. Bruce 

Wikipedia Article of the Week

• Benjamin Franklin
• Joseph Smith, Jr.

Plugs

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Old Man,
     sto
           oped [as if Time was resting
                           Her heavy head
                           on your shoulders

where have you been?
    (for your feet have surely taken you

                        farther                                                 than that mailbox)

A part of me wonders….

did you love her passionately? until the very End?

            were you daring && reckless??
                               [charming] handsome maybe….

                                    how much do you regret?

                        how many Moments do you wish you could live again?

are you Who you “thought” you’d be? Who you “want” to be??

i can only create my own pictures (for i do wonder so)
             Time has had Her way with you
   && you, you gave up the fight…

   now
all that stands
            before
              my
              eyes
is a p at h etic! attempt
            at living (What Happened, Old Man?)

She kicked you to the ground
                                                && you just laid there. . .

At first I watched this video and I was all “Oh wow, that kid is making an interesting statement about technology, and its impact on education” Then my inner old man took over and the waistline on my pants rose by 4″ while a cardigan sweater magically appeared on my torso. With that transformation in place my view changed: “That kid is just a little punk, with no respect for his education or the professor of the class. His parents are spending a bunch of money for him to learn and he is making web videos with his friends.” Then I ate a bunch of prunes and went out to dinner at 4:30.

Last night, I decided to walk another 6km (on top of the 2km I usually do), 4 elevated push-ups and 30 sit-ups.  I have come to realize a few things:

• I have wet noodle girl arms.
• The only way I can run is if a pack of wild dogs are chasing me because someone has soaked my pants in meat.
• I have callouses in the shape of Florida and Italy respectively.  Odd.
• I am afraid to take off my boots/socks after the walk in to work.
• It is way easier to lay on the couch watching reruns of The Golden Girls than it is to get into shape.
• I don’t think it’s normal to turn purple and see spots.  Nor is it normal for my heart to match the beat of an American High School drum line.
• I get the distinct impression that Basic Training will require a lot of crying, swearing and praying to any deity that will listen.
• I am possibly the only person in existence that got tennis elbow from lifting weights.
• Office Mom is right…if I die, no one will notice for a week.  By the time they find me it’ll be like Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Black Cat”.  Depressing.
• Is this what Kirstie Alley goes through every time she lifts her own gigantic arm and feeds herself instead of letting the motorized fork do the work?

In all seriousness, this is going to be the hardest thing I have ever done.  If you’d asked me that 9 months ago, you would have most definitely received a different answer.

I have caved this morning and had a cup of coffee.  The teapot didn’t auto-shut off and boiled up my water.  As I was standing there with an air of disappointment, Smelly Man tempted me with a cup of mocha java.  I know I said I wasn’t going to drink coffee at work anymore, and that I was cutting way-way-way back…and I have.  But it was just to enticing.  I’m still riding the soda-pony as well.  Dutchess said to me a while back, “I thought you were giving up coffee and pop.” to which my reply was, “I can’t.  I just can’t do it.  I can give up coffee, but I can’t give up pop.  I haven’t had sex in forever, frankly I think the Pepsi Max is what is keeping me sane an anchored.”  I’m only human!  This morning I had this terrifying thought, “What if sex falls into that whole, ‘If you don’t use it you lose it’ category.”  Oh God.

On a semi-related note, the Cougar who’s been stalking me for months is insane.  She messaged me the other night while I was watching “Zombieland” (awesome!) and asked if I was busy.  I wasn’t.  She didn’t reply right away and I noticed the kitchen light flickering, so I went and changed the bulb.  I was gone 2 minutes, tops.  She freaks out.  “I guess you’re not interested have a nice life.  I hope you find what you’re looking for.”  Jesus H. Christ.  I was gone 2 minutes.  Then, she throws in there as some kind of a barb that she hates how I repeat the time.  That Aaron used do to that and when someone pointed out how annoying it was, he stopped.  First off, yes Aaron was a big market hot shot.  Aaron also got fired and no longer works in radio.  Second, why do women feel the need to be real See-You-Next-Tuesday’s when things don’t go their way with relationships (or in this case a potential one).  I mean, honestly, are we still in elementary school?  I was waiting for a follow up, “stupid head!” but alas never got it.

I found a new blog this morning we are going to make mention of on the show.  I’ve added it to my blogroll, it’s called “The Problem with Young People Is…” and I gotta say, I agree with this crotchety old man.  Maybe I am an old soul.  I love his Wish List the most…I’d love to see young people wearing uniforms.  An end to things like exposed tramp stamps, thongs/boxers, anything that says “Thug Life” and hats with the unbent brims/stickers on em (cause apparently the cool thing is to look like you stole the hat).

Sometimes the best part of my workday is that my chair swivels.

Might be in the City today.  Leh is looking for a reason to take a trip up to the city.  I think I’ll go along for the ride.  Maybe I can do some shopping while she’s in her meeting.

Once an old man stopped in the middle of Times Square, New York – to rescue a little green grasshopper who had jumped onto the road. All round him cars honked and people screamed obsenities but the old man was undeterred. He bent over and cupped his hands round the grasshopper and placed him gently in the torn pocket of his dirty jacket. The grasshopper snuggled down low next to the mans heart. He could hear the heart pumping – thump, thump, thump -  and he knew that he had found the right soul. The old man carried the grasshopper to the top of the Empire State Building. He held him out on his open hand and slowly turned full circle, so that the grasshopper could see the entire world. And then the old man flicked up his hands and the grasshopper was flying.The old man walked away with a glow in his heart. He slowly descended the stairs and as he did so he said prayers for all the creatures he had ever known. The old man walked home to his cardboard box and quickly fell asleep to the sounds of sirens and children laughing.

In the morning, he awoke at first light. He looked out from the misty windows of his eyes and there on the edge of his jacket pocket was a little green grasshopper. The old man smiled and the grasshopper flexed his wings.

There isn’t a free table in this buttoned-up courtyard tonight

and few open chairs.

Somehow, I am drawn to this old man

smoking pipe, wearing a scarf and hat of the old Soviet bloc.

I stand nearby, looking blankly

as the waiters

and the lovers

and the homosexuals

and the wannabes

and the plump couples

and the white collars

and the beggars

and all the ghosts of the square

continue bustling,

moving through things and people,

being invisible and nervous.

It is an anxious night

one that speaks loud without thinking,

each voice raising over the other, adding to the din,

all of us terrified of solitude.

The empty chair moves.

Its his foot,

so I sit.

He pushes the ashtray my way.

I put my hands up, declining subtly.

Some cappuccino comes.

He’s having coffee.

I button up because of the breeze,

open a book, but do not read it.

He smokes his pipe,

has a little notepad and pen, takes little notes,

and we don’t make much eye contact.

Time is changing faster than the people he says

And we are all trying to catch up I say

Hmm.

Moments pass.

Do you have any kids he asks

No. You?

I had a son, but he died.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be. It was he who decided to see the world. Go to war. Find God. I wanted him to go. He had too.

Did he find Him?

Find who?

Find God?

I don’t know. I hope so.

We did not say much after that.

He smoked his pipe.

I had another cappuccino.

And another.

Before he left, he said something like they will never catch up,

threw some money on the table,

and punctuated it with ever.

He disappeared through the ghosts, with the courtyard pulsating on.

I love her. That is all that matters.
It wasn’t anything big and it wasn’t all that Hollywood shit you see these days. No, this was a little different. For one, it was my life and so it was fucking real; as real as spreading butter on bread. Secondly, my girl was out of this world.
Actually she could be like a thousand girls out there in the world. Maybe as much alike as a thousand girls in our state… but she was mine and she was something else I tell you.

Pull up a char. No not that one. The cat puked there last night. Now before I embrace you in the wonders of her, let’s just sit here and listen to Miss Etta Jones. That woman, Etta… she was something else.

Well. She and I met back in high school. I guess you could say we were sweethearts. Just not the kind that were dating from freshman year, and I was not the captain of the football team and she was not the head cheerleader. That was definitely not us. I was going to the all boy high school in the city, and she was going to the more expensive and well… more educated all girls school in the city. Our schools were viewed as two of the best, we had the great football team, and her school has an oddly fantastic rugby team.
As cool and wise as you may think of me now, I was perhaps a little different back then. I did play sports, rugby and I did run cross-country (JV for life), but I was needless to say a little nerdy. I was on the Robotics ream and I enjoyed going to Latin Convention.

We were best friends. Or so we claimed, even though our friendship came out of nowhere and was short. One day we just started talking, and we seemed to have known each other for quite sometime. After our church’s had their joint retreat together, we began to hang out. Getting pizza. Going for a drive or going to the Coffee Shop. Although I had a girlfriend at the time, she was never really… into me I suppose. Our relationship was not transforming and it was not growing, even after two months. When she broke it off-to be friends, I was okay with that. Ellie, yes. Ellie was the kind of best friend who said, “Want to go get hot chocolate? My treat.”

I absolutely adore this photograph! I wish I could take credit for it. It was taken by Christoph Rehage whilst he walked around China. For three years! His entertaining and inspiring blog is linked.

The young boy looks so serious and beyond his years, standoffish and unsure. Whilst the old man so playful and cheery with a toothy grin that I love.

Beautiful! With gorgeous depth of field.

Got in email from Renee:

TETANUS SHOT

An old man in his mid-eighties struggles to get up
from the couch then starts putting on his coat.
His wife, seeing the unexpected behavior, asks, ‘Where are
you going?’
He replies, ‘I’m going to the doctor.’
She says, ‘Why, are you sick?’
He says, ‘Nope, I’m going to get me some of that
Viagra stuff.’
Immediately the wife starts working and positioning herself
to get out of her rocker and begins to put on her coat.
He says, ‘Where the heck are you going’?
She answers, ‘I’m going to the doctor, too.’
He says, ‘Why, what do you need?’
She says, ‘If you’re going to start using that rusty old
thing, I’m getting a Tetanus shot.’

My little boy kills me.  He makes the funniest faces… until you meet him, you will not understand the faces that he makes.  We all laugh and gush over them… he’s pretty perfect.

Here’s a picture of him, looking a little like a shocked old man during his bath (he really does love bath time, I promise):

And to make up for his silly picture, here are some pretty darn cute ones:

I think he kinda looks like a baby elf in this last picture, ha ha.

Gosh, I love him.

I think these two make a lovely pair.

Source: superbomba

AARP Man Totally Looks Like The Carl Fredrickson From Up

» Think you can do better? Make your own!

Pictures by: dunno source Look-alike by: awesomenesselmo via Totally Looks Like Builder

An older, white haired man walked into a jewelry store one Friday evening with a beautiful young gal at his side. He told the jeweler he was looking for a special ring for his girlfriend.

The jeweler looked through his stock and brought out a $5,000 ring and showed it to him.

The old man said, “I don’t think you understand, I want something very special.”

At that statement, the jeweler went to his special stock and brought another ring over. “Here’s a stunning ring at only $40,000″, the jeweler said.

The young lady’s eyes sparkled and her whole body trembled with excitement.

The old man seeing this said, “We’ll take it.”

The jeweler asked how payment would be made and the old man stated, by check. “I know you need to make sure my check is good, so I’ll write it now and you can call the bank Monday to verify the funds and I’ll pick the ring up Monday afternoon,” he said.

Monday morning, a very teed-off jeweler phoned the old man. “There’s no money in that account.”

“I know”, said the old man, “but can you imagine the weekend I had?”